It's hard to get enough air, it seems.
The guest suite is on the other side of the brownstone's floor that holds Enzo's suite.
I hate that I'm sneaking in here to nap or spend time or shower when Enzo isn't down in his basement or away somewhere doing his job.
CEO. Mafia man. Criminal hacker.
I'm not sure if one of those, or all, is his real job, but that's not really the point.
I know he's not a real CEO in the sense that it's not his dream. I know he took that job on to watch over me, to the point of buying the business from Louie.
I shiver and go into the bedroom, looking around for signs of cameras—not that I'd see them, but it's a new habit ingrained fast that I can't break free from.
"Breathe."
I discard the towel and pull on my clothes.
As much as I can, I try to sleep here. Over the past few days since the dinner, however many it has been, a handful of days now blend together without real structure because, as I dress in the secretary outfit I've chosen for the day, those are the only clothes of mine still in here.
I'm finding it hard to know what day is what.
Even if I don't see him, I do the hours and whatever work he's set out.
I do this for me.
I need the sweet thrill of anticipation, the heat of the game. Even if he doesn't show up. Even if it is just the wait. The act of dressing the part.
There's deprivation. Excitement. Thrill. And all of that somehow puts a barrier between the nights when we have slow, hot sex without games or pretense—just us, lust, and beating, wild hearts.
I sit on the bed, hands folded, shining shoes in candy pink, and the black skirt and white sweetheart necklined cashmere top with pink flowers on it.
He still buys flowers, chocolates, and sweet trinkets like a pretty silver hair comb to pin my hair up that probably cost a fortune. He gets me cake. And when Enzo's here, if we're not playing our kinky sex games, his attention and focus are so intent on me that it drains me.
Oh, the man is hot and sexy, he's funny and sweet, and he's great to his sister.
But it's overwhelming to the point that I'm drowning.
Am I even in love? I think I could be falling because, even with all that attention that swamps me, and even though I ran from him, I accept him and welcome him back.
I honestly don't know if I'm in love. I have no idea if he is.
In my heart, in his heart, belonging...those are things bornof familiarity from an old history that is venturing into something new.
Something new that got chewed up before it really established itself, and now it's hard to work out which end is up.
I want him with a desperation that claws at my veins, but that isn't the same thing as love, right? And it's not everything being magically good once more.
It just is.
I want to find a way through it. I do.
I just don't know where that will take me.
Because even if I love him, that doesn't give me a free pass to a happy ending. Love dies. Love changes.
I close my eyes for a moment.
And sometimes, someone, in order to survive, in order to keep their sanity, has to turn their back on love.
