Chapter 43 Zara
I should turn around. Walk back to the guest room. Pretend I’m not standing here fully aware of the way he’s looking at me.
But I don’t move.
Because Enzo’s eyes are on me like he’s already got me unwrapped in his mind, and I like the way that feels.
“Take it off?” I echo, tilting my head. “You get off on giving orders now?”
His mouth tips up, lazy and unhurried. “Only when I know they’ll be followed.”
I take a step closer, the hem of the red silk brushing my thighs. “And what makes you so sure I’m feeling cooperative tonight?”
“Because you’re standing here,” he says, “looking at me like you want to be the reason I lose control.”
He’s not wrong.
And the worst part? He knows he’s not wrong.
I drag a glance down his body, taking my time. The open collar. The rolled sleeves. That damn confident smirk knowing he’s already tasted me and plans to do it again.
“Maybe I’m just deciding how much trouble I want to cause,” I tease, reaching for the knot of his tie. My fingers toy with the fabric, not pulling—yet.
He leans in, close enough that his breath skims my cheek. “You’ve never been good at staying out of trouble.”
“No,” I admit, tugging him a fraction closer, “but I’ve always been good at making it worth your while.”
Our mouths hover in the space between dare and surrender. Then he kisses me, all heat and hunger and unspoken promise.
And just like that, my plan to walk away goes up in smoke.
He groans into my mouth, the sound rough, vibrating straight through me as his hands lock around my hips and drag me where he wants me.
My calves hit the couch and I fall back, pulling him with me, greedy for the weight of him pressing me down.
Our mouths crash again, not tender, not polite—just teeth and tongue and a hunger that borders on violent.
His thigh forces between mine, grinding up until my legs part without a fight.
My dress rides high, his palms shoving beneath the fabric like he owns the right to every inch of me.
I nip his lip, sharp, and the growl he answers with is pure menace.
His hips slam forward, heavy, unrelenting, his cock straining against me in a promise I know he’ll deliver.
“You trying to provoke me, Zara?” he rasps, his breath hot against my cheek. “Think I won’t fuck you into this couch until you can’t walk?”
I let out a shaky laugh, taunting. “I figured you’d be too tired to keep up.”
His answering snarl is dangerous. He shifts, pinning my wrist to the cushion above my head with one brutal hand while the other skims down my body like he’s mapping out everywhere he’s about to destroy.
His mouth drags down my throat, teeth scraping in threat before he bites, hard enough to sting.
“Tired?” His voice is dark silk against my skin.
“You walk in looking like sin and think I’ll sleep instead of tearing you apart? ”
“I dress for me,” I gasp as his hand slides higher, fingers pressing against the damp lace clinging to me. “You just get the benefit.”
His gaze lifts, catching mine—feral, burning, all sharp edges and hunger. The smirk he gives me is lethal. “Then explain why your pussy’s already dripping for me, Angel.”
I arch into his hand, breath catching when his fingers slide beneath the lace and brush exactly where I’m already throbbing. A shiver rips through me. “Keep talking,” I whisper, voice daring, “and I’ll start thinking you’re all mouth.”
His laugh is wicked, vibrating against my chest. “You already know better.” With one hand he yanks his tie loose, letting it fall between us.
I grab it and tug him closer until our foreheads touch, breath mingling, tension sparking hot and sharp in the space between us.
His other hand cups my breast, thumb dragging over the stiff peak through silk like he’s punishing me for mouthing off.
“Say please,” he whispers against my lips.
I grind up against his hand, biting back a moan. “Not a fucking chance.”
His eyes flash, dark with amusement. “Didn’t think so.”
Then it unravels. Fabric pulls. Buckles give.
My dress shoved high, his belt unfastened, both of us tearing at barriers like they’re insults we refuse to tolerate.
Our mouths can’t decide between devouring or worshiping, finding every inch of exposed skin like we’re starving for it.
It’s chaos and chemistry, violent and vital, the kind of hunger that makes sanity irrelevant.
My nails rake down his shoulders, and he groans like pain only fuels him.
And I realize—this isn’t him taking. It’s him consuming and letting himself be consumed in turn. Because when Enzo Marchetti kisses me like this—touches me like the one thing he’s willing to burn for— there’s only surrender. And God help me, I’m already begging to lose.
He carries me through the house without breaking contact, our mouths fused, his body tight with tension beneath my hands. I can feel the hard press of his cock against the seam of my panties. Every step he takes stokes the ache between my legs.
“I missed you today,” Enzo whispers against my mouth, kicking open the bedroom door without breaking stride.
His grip is firm, and when he lays me down, it’s with a reverence that only makes the heat between us burn hotter.
He doesn’t toss me—he places me, like I’m something precious even as he plans to wreck me.
His shirt is halfway open, exposing inked skin and the tension carved into his chest with every ragged breath he takes. The loosened tie around his neck swings with each step, and when his eyes drop to the straps of my dress, his jaw clenches like restraint is no longer part of the game.
“Off,” he rasps. “All of it. Now.”
I rise, standing in front of him, pulse thudding in my throat as I reach for the silk.
I want to tease him, make him wait, but there’s nothing patient about the way he’s watching me.
The intensity in his gaze is a match to my every nerve.
I let the dress slip down my body in one smooth motion, the cool air teasing my skin as it pools at my feet.
Then I peel away the last strip of lace and step out, unashamed, bare beneath the weight of his stare.
He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move.
He just watches.
The silence coils around us, thick with tension, until he finally speaks—voice hungry. “Back on the bed.”
The air stills in my lungs. I know that tone.
That command. I move, climbing onto the bed, spine arching as I shift onto all fours, presenting myself without hesitation.
I hear the rustle of his slacks being pushed down, the dull clink of his belt hitting the floor, and the sharp inhale that follows when he sees me.
The mattress dips behind me, his weight a steady pressure that makes my skin tingle.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You’re perfect. Every inch of you.”
His hand glides up my spine, fingers spreading wide until his palm rests between my shoulders, pressing me down just enough to claim the position for himself. “Hands flat on the bed,” he commands. “I want to see my ring on your finger while I fuck you, Mrs. Marchetti.”
I shudder when his hand slips between my thighs, fingers sliding through the mess he’s already made of me.
“Christ,” he mutters, dragging the pads of his fingers up and down, teasing. “You’re dripping for me. Can’t even pretend you weren’t waiting for it. Waiting for me to bend you over and fuck you like the filthy little wife you are.”
A broken sound escapes me, half moan, half plea, and he eats it up like fuel to a fire.
“All that attitude,” he says, voice merciless, “all that sharp tongue—and the second I touch you, you turn soft. Obedient. My perfect little Angel on her knees.”
His fingers work me harder, pressing just shy of where I need him most. My body arches, desperate, chasing more, but he controls the pace. He always does. He leans in, lips grazing the shell of my ear, his breath hot enough to sear.
“Use your words, baby. Tell me what you need.”
“I want you,” I whisper, too breathless to hold steady.
He smacks my ass hard, the crack echoing, the sting sharp enough to make me jolt.
“Not good enough,” he growls, rough satisfaction in every syllable. “Say it like you mean it.”
The burn of his palm fades into heat that coils lower, arousal licking up my spine until I’m trembling, cheeks hot, pride gone.
“I want you to fuck me.” I gasp, the words ripped from me. “Hard.”
He groans, raw and feral. “That’s my girl.”
The blunt head of his cock drags against me, thick and demanding, and then he’s inside—no teasing, no pause. His hands lock around my hips, spreading me wide as he drives in deep.
“Fuck,” he grits out, the sound ragged. “You were made for this cock. Made to take me. Made to be filled by me.”
I cry out, fists knotted in the sheets, the stretch toe-curling, brutal in the best way. I’ve felt him before, every inch, every stroke—but this? This is deeper. Wilder. He stays buried to the hilt, pulsing, making sure I feel every bit of him before he moves.
His palm slides up my spine in a languid stroke. Then he pulls back and slams in, the thrust savage enough to knock the air from my lungs. “Tell me who you belong to,” he growls.
My voice fractures, breathless and undone. “I’m yours.”
Another sharp slap to my ass, the sting ricocheting down my thighs. “Louder.”
“I’m yours!” I cry out, the words raw, broken, true.
His rhythm builds—deep, ruthless strokes that make the bedframe quake, my body straining to keep up. He fists my hair, tugging until my back arches, until he has me bent exactly how he wants.
“That’s it. Show me that perfect ass. Take every inch of me.”
I moan shamelessly, clinging, every thrust a brand burned into my skin. The sound of skin on skin cracks through the room, violent and beautiful.
“Look at you,” he snarls, voice rough with pleasure. “Taking it like you were built to be bred.”
The words detonate inside me, pulling me tighter around him, my body trembling.
“You want it?” he rasps, hips hammering into me. “Want me to fill you so deep you’ll be dripping with me after?”
“Yes,” I gasp, wrecked. “God, yes.”
Another smack lands, hard and perfect. “Not until you come for me, Angel. Come for me and I’ll give you what you want.”
I shatter, my orgasm tearing through me in a violent rush, a scream breaking loose as my body clenches around him. Enzo drives into me one last brutal time and follows, hips jerking as he spills deep, groaning my name like it’s a vow.
For a long beat, the only sound is our breathing—harsh, ragged, desperate. My body trembles, every nerve still lit with aftershocks.
He leans over me, lips dragging down the curve of my spine, his voice a possessive rasp against my skin. “You feel that? The way you’re still gripping me, still milking every drop? That’s your body knowing exactly who it belongs to.”
A whimper escapes me, wrecked and pliant, as he presses a kiss to my shoulder. “I’ll spend my life proving it to you,” he says against my skin. “Every night. Every day. Until there’s no breath left in me.”
And in that moment—claimed, filled, worshipped—I know I’m completely his.