He's always using his body against me. Using it to intimidate me, to distract me, to get what he wants.
Flip the script, dumbass.
Right. Easier said than done when there might as well be a Minotaur in my face, huffing down at me.
Working to swallow, I force my shoulders to relax, and then slowly, every other muscle in my body follows suit.
I cast my gaze to the floor long enough to gather courage that is entirely fabricated, then lift my eyes back to him, allowing myself to feel the throb radiating between my thighs and the way his proximity makes my nipples tighten painfully.
While my bravery is forced, the way my body reacts to him is anything but. There’s a constant battle of fighting my attraction to him and convincing myself that any man could make my knees weaken with a single look. And ridding myself of that internal war feels like wearing a tight costume for too long and finally taking it off to breathe. There are no pretenses, no denying the way my clit pulses beneath his stare, and the wetness that coats my inner thighs when he gets close enough.
There are no shutters over my eyes, hiding the truth from him as often as I hide it from myself.
Though he wasn’t moving, Enzo’s body seems to still. Like hitting pause on a movie. Except I double-clicked the button, and just as quickly as he stopped, he’s striking, wrapping a hand around my throat, and lifting until only my toes touch the ground. His form is pressing into mine so deeply, our lungs just might entwine.
How am I supposed to breathe if all my oxygen is going to him instead?
“I know what you’re doing,” he snarls. The heat radiating from his body threatens to burn me alive, the outline of my body forever charred into the stone wall behind me.
“I’m not lying to you,” I whisper, whimpering when he squeezes my throat tighter. His eyes dilate when the helpless sound reaches his ears.
Enzo hates me. But he also wants me. And I have no intention of letting him stop when it’s the only thing keeping me alive.
Slowly, I drag my leg up around his hip, inviting him deeper between my thighs. A low growl rumbles deep in his chest, yet he presses the hard ridge of his cock against my pussy, eliciting another cry from my constricted throat. A shudder works through my body from how good it feels, and it takes little effort to roll against his length, seeking something from him that I shouldn’t be.
“No, you’re not,” he agrees before leaning closer, his lips whispering across my jaw. “You know what else you’re not doing?”
“Hmm?” I’m distracted by the way he’s begun to rotate his hips, drawing out a breathless moan. A knot is forming in the trenches of my stomach, tightening each time his cock slides against my clit.
“You’re not begging,bella ladra,” he murmurs.
Then, he pulls away just an inch, enough for me to lose the sweet pressure he was creating between my thighs. In place, there’s a chill forming between us.
I can feel him distancing himself, and I’m latching on harder, desperate and needy. Any coherent thought has long fled from my brain, determined to escape the collapsing tomb of senselessness. Reason and logic don’t belong in there. Not when all it cares about is how to convince him to make me come.
Enzo and I stand in the eye of a hurricane, a perfect storm of lust and hate.
“Please,” I whisper, uncaring of how pathetic I’ve become. Reduced to thoughtlessness and single-mindedness with a simple thrust of his hips.
He makes a dissatisfied noise in the depths of his throat.
“Didn’t I say I wouldn’t fuck you even when you begged me to? Tell me why you think that is.”
His voice is so cold. So, so fucking cold.
I shake my head, feeling the heavy weight of denial soaking through my bones. Not just denial—but shame, too. I didn’t mean to beg for him. Didn’twantto. But the word slipped out as readily as my self-preservation did.
“It’s because it’s not good enough, Sawyer.You’renot good enough.”
There are tears welling in my eyes before I can stop them.
“You know why else?” he bites out through gritted teeth, anger beginning to glow in his eyes.
“Because I fuckinghateyou,” he spits, shaking me to punctuate his words. I claw at his hand, breaking the skin and leaving bloody trails in its wake, but the sting doesn’t faze him.
I hate him, too—God, do I hate him, too. I hate everything he is. His fucking arrogance. His holier-than-thou attitude. Everything. Fuckingeverythingabout him.
So badly, I want to shout these words in his face, but I can hardly draw in a breath, let alone utter a syllable of my wrath. Before I can do anything, there’s a long dragging noise coming from above us.