But he wasn't done. Enzo eased his fingers out, only to replace them with his mouth again, softer now but no less determined. He lapped at me gently, cleaning up the mess he'd made, each stroke sending little jolts through my oversensitive flesh. I twitched, trying to pull away, but his hold kept me in place. "Too much," I gasped, voice weak. He ignored me, slowing his pace to long, lazy drags of his tongue that rebuilt the fire from embers. My exhaustion warred with the renewed spark, body heavy but still responding to him.
He shifted, one hand trailing up to massage my breast through my shirt, pinching the nipple just hard enough to make me arch again. His tongue delved back in, exploring every fold, sucking lightly on my lips before returning to my clit with feather-light circles. It was torturous, this drawn-out pleasure, making my limbs feel like lead while the heat pooled low again. I moaned softly, eyelids fluttering, the fight draining out of me as fatigue crept in. Enzo sensed it, his movements turning almost soothing—still insistent, but designed to wear me down rather than overwhelm.
Another climax built slowly, less explosive but deeper, rolling through me like a tide. I came with a shuddering sigh, body going limp as waves of bliss washed away the last of my energy. He kept going for a bit, gentle laps that coaxed out every afterglow tremor, until my breaths evened out and my eyes grew heavy. Finally, he pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, those dark eyes gleaming with satisfaction. I was spent, utterly drained, my mind fuzzy and body boneless on the rug.
He scooped me up effortlessly, carrying me upstairs without a word. I barely registered being tucked into bed, sleep claiming me before my head hit the pillow. The bastard had won again, using my own pleasure to force the rest he demanded.
The next morning,I woke to an empty spot beside me. Enzo had probably left at dawn to handle his shady family business.
I sat up, rubbing my still-weak legs, cursing that cheating control-freak bastard under my breath for last night's madness.
But in this massive, echoing villa, once he was gone, the long days dragged. I needed something to do, or the suffocating cage feeling would drive me nuts.
So I turned the empty upstairs room into my project. I pored over the baby catalogs Anna had gotten, agonizing over wallpaper colors—pale yellow or mint green—and spent a whole afternoon comparing solid wood cribs to foldable ones.
Anna helped, suggesting neutral tones so it'd work for a boy or girl.
"You think boy or girl?" I asked her.
She tilted her head. "Girl, I bet. Pretty like you."
"Then she's screwed," I muttered.
Pretty had never done me any favors.
Anna didn't catch it. She flipped to a page on nursery safety tips, pointing out what we needed upfront. I scanned it, grabbed a pen, and marked up the catalog, circling everything I wanted.
In the past, I'd never seen the future as something to hope for. Kid me just survived the day; adult me, the month. But now, picking crib colors for an unborn baby, I pictured life three months out, six, a year.
Enzo said he'd marry me. I'd get a diamond I liked, a kid. This house would turn into a real home.
It felt too good—good enough to scare me sometimes.
I flopped on the rug, buried my face in the catalog, and breathed deep, telling myself not to be that person who waited for the shoe to drop.
Around three that afternoon, the doorbell rang.
I sat up from the rug, watching Anna set down her rag and head to the door. I figured it was a delivery—Anna had ordered stuff for me. But when she opened it, I heard heels clicking on the porch.
Anna's voice came from the doorway, tight in a way I'd never heard. "Come in."
Then a woman stepped into the living room.
Golden hair pinned back, polished like a magazine cutout. Cream cashmere coat, a slim platinum necklace peeking out. Sharp features—high cheekbones, thin lips, eyes a pale, almost see-through blue.
I'd never seen anyone like her. Cold, haughty, commanding.
She planted herself in the middle of the room, eyes sweeping left to right, frowning. Then they landed on me.
"You're Chloe Bennett." Her voice matched her—cool elegance.
I stood. I had on a baggy tee and lounge pants, hair in a messy ponytail, no makeup. I rarely felt insecure about looks; this was an exception.
"Who are you?" Her tone wasn't friendly, so neither was mine.
"Valentina Lombardi." She lifted her chin, lips curving in something that wasn't a smile. "Enzo's fiancée."
Fiancée?
