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He lifts me. I yelp and grab his shoulders. “Enzo!”

“What?”

“I have legs.”

“Beautiful legs.”

“I can walk.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you carrying me?”

“Because I can.”

“That is an obnoxiously masculine answer.”

He puts me down on the mattress. I bounce once. Before he can straighten, I hook my leg around his hip and pull him down with me. His laugh dies somewhere against my mouth. Much better. I kiss him harder, and when his hand slides down my side, I don’t tense or wonder whether he’s noticing softness where I wish there were muscle.

I just want him touching me. That feels like progress. His mouth leaves mine and moves down my neck.

“Enzo.”

“Yeah?”

“Less gentleman.”

He stills. Then lifts his head. “Careful.”

That one word lands differently. Lower. Darker. My stomach tightens.

I smile. “Was that a warning?”

“It can be.”

“Good.”

Something flashes in his eyes. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“What?”

“You really shouldn’t look pleased about that.”

“Maybe you shouldn’t sound so pleased when you say it.”

His hand slides into my hair, fingers tightening just enough to tilt my head back. Then the tug sends heat racing through me. Well. That’s new. His gaze sharpens.

“Interesting.”

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Get that look.”

“What look?”

“The one where you discover something and immediately decide to conduct research.”