Page 58 of Tailored for You

I slid my hands under his shirt, scratching at his stomach. His muscles flexed under my hands. Tugging his shirt up, I got stuck halfway, the fabric catching on his broad shoulders.

He ripped his mouth away.

Grabbing my wrists, he leaned his forehead against mine.

“Sarai la mia morte,” he said and laughed. It wasn’t loud, but his body shook, jostling mine in the process.

I was out of breath, the thrill of kissing him still running through my body.

“Why did you stop?” I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I could take back the words. The last thing I wanted to seem was desperate.

The man whom I had the biggest crush on—the man who saved my daughter—had just kissed me.

“Perché.” He dragged his nose from my temple down to the crook of my neck, shoving his face there. “Look at what you do to me.”

I forgot how to speak. All I wanted was for us to keep kissing and find out how far we would go.

He bit my neck, and I jumped, tightening my leg around him instinctively.

“There are so many things I want to do to you. I don’t even know where to start,” he said, voice muffled.

“Okay,” was all I could manage.

He pulled back, his mouth pulled down in a frown. “We won’t. Not tonight.” His cheek twitched. “We should discuss this before we go any further.”

I didn’t like the frown or the fact that he was putting distance between us. Did he know this was the most alive I had felt in years?

A flash of anger hit me.

“No. I want to know. Not tomorrow. Not later. Right now,” I said, anger spilling over. I was tired of second-guessing myself with him, constantly making sure I wasn’t assuming too much, and it was exhausting.

“We’ll talk more when you’re fully recovered,” he stated. I narrowed my eyes at him, readying for a fight when he pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “I’ll leave you with this: you’re mine. Harper is mine. This house, with me, is where you belong.”

His? I’d never been someone’s. Not when I was a kid or when I was married. Maybe the kiss had altered something in my brain, and I wasn’t thinking about what that term encompassed completely.

It was also unsettling. In my limited experience, which was what I’d seen of Martina’s relationship, men in this world were possessive. Territorial. Would Enzo be like that? Crazier than Flavio, Martina’s husband?

Flavio definitely had a screw loose when it came to Martina and other men being near her. When he came into a room, every man, with the exception of her son Sly, ensured they were at least two arms’ lengths away.

As unsettled as I was at the prospect of Enzo acting like Flavio, I was wholly excited. He said where I belong.

I’d never felt as though I belonged anywhere. It was part of the reason why I left my small town in New Jersey. To find my place.

And maybe I had, in the most unexpected of ways.

He tugged my hand, pulling me out of the room. “I’ll wear the clothes you made. I always do. Sometimes my clothes get ruined because of work, and these are my backups.”

I wanted to ask more questions about how his clothes were getting so ruined that it was easier to throw them away than to take them to the cleaner, but I decided against it. There was some information I’d rather be unaware of than have answers.

When we got to the kitchen, he pushed me to the stool. He pulled open the bottom drawer of the fridge, where a plate sat.

“Here,” he said, pushing the plate and a fork my way. “Drink this.” He placed a sports drink and an aspirin in front of me. “Take this when you’re done eating. I read that this will help.”

I dug into my food, not hungry but knowing if I didn’t eat, the migraine would come back with a vengeance.

“There is a mini fridge in the studio filled with drinks and snacks.” He shook the bottle. “Since you can’t be trusted to take care of yourself and eat, I’ll be forced to do it myself.”

“I can take care of myself,” I said. “I’ve been doing it for a long time.”