Something flickers across his face when I say the word love but he doesn't comment on it, just takes another step toward me until we're very close.
"Last chance," he says quietly. "Walk out that door right now and we pretend this conversation never happened. Stay and I'm going to make you regret every word you just said."
I don't walk out.
His hand comes up and grips my jaw, firm and possessive, tilting my face exactly where he wants it.
"You're making a mistake," he says against my mouth.
"Probably."
He kisses me hard and angry, his teeth catching my bottom lip, his other hand fisting in my hair, and I kiss him back with everything I have because this might be all we get and I'm going to take every second of it.
He walks me backward until my legs hit the bed and I sit and then he's on his knees between my legs, his hands already working at the button of my jeans.
"Enzo—"
"Don't talk." His voice is rough and commanding. "You've said enough tonight."
He pulls my jeans and underwear down in one movement and pushes my legs apart and his hand slides between them with no preamble, no gentleness, just immediate devastating precision.
I gasp and my hands fly to his shoulders.
"You think you can marry him?" His fingers move inside me, curling hard. "You think you can let him touch you like this?"
"Enzo, please?—"
"Answer me."
"No." The word comes out broken. "No, I don't think I can."
"Then why are you doing it?"
"Because I have to—oh god?—"
His thumb finds my clit and the pressure is just shy of too much, edging right up against the line between pleasure and pain.
"You don't have to do anything." His other hand grips my thigh, holding me open. "You're choosing this. Own it."
I'm already close, already spiraling up faster than should be possible, and he knows it because he slows down immediately, pulling me back from the edge.
"Enzo—"
"Not yet." His fingers keep moving but slower now, deliberate, keeping me right on the edge without letting me fall over. "You want to come, you're going to have to admit this is a mistake."
"It's not?—"
He stops completely.
I make a sound of frustration and his mouth curves into something that's not quite a smile.
"Try again."
"I hate you."
"I know." He starts moving again, building me back up. "Say it anyway."
He works me higher and higher, bringing me to the edge over and over and pulling back at the last second, and I'm shaking with it, crying with it, begging incoherently.
