"Christ," he breathes against the hollow of my neck, his voice a rough vibration that rattles my bones. "You're so fucking responsive."
I’ve lost the ability to form a sentence. My vocabulary has been reduced to the rhythm of his breathing and the scent of his skin.
I am a live wire, sparking and dangerous, reacting to every graze of his teeth, every shift of his weight.
And I wouldn’t want it any other way.
When his mouth finds the nerve endings below my ear, a whimper breaks out of me, not of fear, but of a devastating, soul-deep relief.
He pulls back just enough, his hands still anchored to my waist, his eyes dark with a focused, predatory intensity that pins me in place.
"Tell me what you want," he commands, his voice a low rumble.
"You." It’s the only truth I have left. "I want you."
"Be specific."
The flush in my cheeks feels like a physical burn, but I don't look away. I can't. If I look away, I might wake up. "I want your hands on me," I say, the words tumbling out in a rush of heat. "I want your mouth on me. I want—" I swallow hard, my throat tight with the sheer scale of my need. "I want everything. I want the years I lost wanting you. I want every inch of you until there’s nothing left of me but you."
His jaw tightens and he reaches down and pulls my shirt over my head in one smooth movement and then his hands are on my bare skin and I lose the ability to think about anything except the way he's touching me.
He cups my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples, and I arch into his palms with a soft cry that makes him curse under his breath.
"So perfect," he murmurs, and then his mouth is on me, hot and wet, and I thread my fingers through his hair and hold on because my legs have stopped working entirely.
He takes his time, learning what makes me gasp, what makes me moan, what makes my fingers tighten in his hair, and I'm falling apart under his mouth and we haven't even gotten to the bed yet.
"Enzo, please?—"
"I've got you." He stands and lifts me with him like I weigh nothing, and then I'm on my back on the bed and he's above me, braced on his forearms, looking down at me with an expression that makes my breath catch.
"You're so beautiful it actually hurts to look at you," he says quietly.
"Then stop looking and touch me."
He laughs, low and dark, and then his hands are on the waistband of my underwear and he's sliding them down my legs and I'm completely bare beneath him and he goes very still.
"Fuck," he breathes.
I reach for his shirt. "Your turn."
He helps me, pulling it over his head, and then his chest is bare and I can see all of him, the scars, the muscle, the evidence of everything he is written across his skin, and I run my hands over it slowly, feeling him shudder under my touch.
"Fucking hell, Isabella." My name comes out strained. "If you keep touching me like that I'm not going to last."
"Then don't last." I pull him down and kiss him hard. "I don't care."
He groans against my mouth and his hand slides between my legs and I break the kiss on a sharp gasp because nothing has ever felt like this, nothing has ever been this good.
"Look at me," he says.
I open my eyes. "There?" His voice is a low, jagged rasp that vibrates through the very mattress beneath me. "Right there, Princess?"
"Yes," the word is a fractured thing, a sob of relief caught in my throat. "Yes, right there—please, Enzo, don't stop?—"
He doesn't. He anchors me with one hand heavy on my thigh, his thumb digging into the soft skin of my inner leg, while his fingers work with a lethal, patient precision. It’s not just a touch; it’s an interrogation. He’s reading the arch of my spine, the way my hips stutter against his palm, the frantic, ruined gasps I’m drawing into my lungs.
I want to pull him into my chest until our ribs crack; I want to swallow his very breath.
