His thumb on my nape started moving. Slow circles. Light, almost absent-minded. I swear, I never knew my neck was that sensitive. Every time he pressed, something shot down my spine, heading places it shouldn't.
My face was still buried in his chest. I could smell cologne mixed with body heat—base notes of cedar with a hint of tobacco. That scent was doing inappropriate things to my brain.
Enzo's other hand rested on my lower back. At first just steadying me, nothing special. But my shirt had somehow come untucked from my skirt, and his palm found that exposed strip of skin.
My abs clenched hard.
He must have felt it—because his fingers on my back curledslightly. Barely, but we were pressed too close. Every little movement amplified.
The air seemed to shift. In the darkness, heavy breathing started.
My body had gone through rage and terror in one day, and now it was sliding into a third state. One that made my face flush, my skin hypersensitive.
And Enzo—probably the same. Because his heartbeat was faster now, just a bit—if my ear wasn't pressed right over his heart, I'd never have noticed the change.
Enzo Falcone's heart rate increased.
Because of me.
That realization hit my brain and lit something that shouldn't be lit.
I should push him away.
I should retreat to the other corner of the elevator, wait properly for the repair crew to get us out of this place. I should remember who we were—me, bottom-feeder. Him, top of the pyramid. About seventeen levels and three iron gates between us.
But I didn't want to let go. Maybe fear made my heart vulnerable. I'd never craved a man's embrace this badly. And Enzo Falcone was perfect in every sense—impossible to push away.
I gathered my courage and released my grip on his shirt front. But my hand didn't leave. It traveled up instead, grazing his chest and collarbone, stopping at the button at his collar.
His Adam's apple rolled just half an inch from my fingertips.
In the darkness, only our breathing. Whether to stop became my dilemma.
Screw it. What was I afraid of? How much time did I have left? Do what you want, Chloe.
Twenty-five years old. Never been kissed by a man. Never been loved. What happened when I was thirteen left me with nothing but fear and disgust toward intimacy. But right now, trapped in this pitch-black iron box that could drop any second, death hanging over me, I had one thought.
If I was going to die, at least let me know what it felt like to sleep with a hot guy.
"Want to have some fun?" I forced the words out.
Couldn't see anything in the darkness, but I swear I felt this man watching me. That gaze pressed on my skin, raising every hair on my body.
The silence lasted five seconds. Or ten? Long enough for me to rehearse my apology from start to finish.
I was oxygen-deprived earlier. Not thinking straight. Or maybe just fake passing out—fainting in a pitch-black elevator was foolproof.
Just as I was about to collapse backward, a hand grabbed my chin in the darkness. Enzo tilted my face up toward him. I couldn't see his eyes, but I felt his breath on my lips, close enough that half an inch forward would be a kiss.
"You serious?" he asked, voice rough as gravel.
My heart was about to jump out of my throat. I nodded, then realized he couldn't see.
"Yes." The word fell out.
I fumbled to raise both hands, trembling but certain, climbing onto his shoulders, around his neck. The back of his neck had a thin layer of sweat. His skin burned hot.
Enzo's hand moved from my chin to my nape, gripping. His other hand locked around my waist, pulling me toward him.
