Chapter 52 Zara #2
The air cracks, and the words spill softer now, more like confession than defense.
“I’ve done it for years. Even when I wasn’t with anyone.
Even when I knew there was no chance.” My throat tightens, but I keep going.
“It’s the fantasy. The rush of it. Waiting for the lines to appear, imagining what it would mean if they did.
Sometimes it’s the closest I’ve ever felt to… possibility.”
His jaw flexes, his gaze dragging down to the test across my lap before lifting back to me, sharper now. “And when it’s after us—after I’ve been the one inside you—it hits differently.”
A shiver rolls through me. “Yes,” I whisper. “It feels real. Like I’m not just pretending anymore.”
He kneels then, right in front of me, lowering his broad frame until his knees brush the tile and he’s looking up at me. His hand finds my thigh, warm and anchoring. “You think I wouldn’t understand this, Angel? That I wouldn’t want every piece of what drives you?”
I swallow hard, my chest aching at the truth in his eyes. “I don’t want you to think it was…too much.”
“Too much?” His mouth curves, dark and reverent.
“Zara, you think I don’t lie awake at night picturing you pregnant with my child?
That I don’t get hard just thinking about it?
” His thumb strokes the inside of my knee.
“This doesn’t scare me. It wrecks me in the best way.
Because it means you want exactly what I do. ”
Something in me loosens. The breath I’ve been holding slips free, shaky, wrecked.
“You want this,” he says, not a question but a truth he lays bare between us. “A family born from us. A future no one else could ever touch.”
Tears sting, unbidden. “I do,” I whisper, the words more prayer than confession. “I want as many as you’ll give me.”
And when he leans forward, kissing the crown of my head like a vow, his voice drops to a promise that curls around my heart. “Then we’ll make it reality, Angel. All of it.”
I stare down at him, nerves wound so tight they threaten to snap. My chest feels too small for the breath I drag in. “You don’t think it’s…weird?”
His hand moves higher, the rough pad of his thumb brushing the edge of my shorts. Warm. Steady. Possessive in that way only he can be.
“No,” he says simply, no hesitation. “I think it’s fucking hot.”
I blink, thrown by the ease of it. “You—what?”
“I think it’s sexy and beautiful. And the thought of you, filled with me, marked in a way no one else will ever be able to. It’s my dream too, Zara.”
My breath stutters, head spinning at the sheer honesty in his voice. It’s not just acceptance—it’s hunger.
His gaze flicks down to the test still resting across my lap, then back up to me, sharp and unrelenting. “This?” he says, nodding toward it. “This tells me exactly how fucked we are. Because I imagine all of the same things.”
The confession punches the air from my lungs. “You’re really okay with this?” I whisper, fragile as glass.
“Angel.” His eyes burn, molten and sure. “You could’ve taken every test in that box, and the only thing I would be upset with is that I wasn’t there to watch you.”
My whole body trembles. Oh, fuck.
Words spill out of me before I can stop them, raw and unvarnished.
“I’ve had to be careful my whole life. Always protecting myself.
Always guarding. But with you…” My gaze falls to his hand still gripping me, the place where his heat brands mine.
“I don’t have to anymore. You make me feel like anything is a possibility.
Like it’s okay to be myself, that I’m enough. ”
His smile curves. “It’s because you are, Zara. And I want to be the one to make every one of your dreams come true.”
My eyes flick down to the test, the bold single line leaving no doubt of its answer. Still, my chest swells, my voice trembling as I whisper, “I want everything with you, Enzo. I want messy, I want a family, I want the risk.”
His thumb strokes across my cheekbone, reverent. “Then it’s yours,” he says, voice low but unshakable. “All of it. All of me.” He leans closer, his forehead pressing to mine, and I hear the breath catch in his throat before the words tumble out, rough but certain. “I love you.”
The world tilts. Warmth floods me so fast my eyes sting. I cradle his face between my palms, my heart bursting at the seams. “I love you too,” I whisper, fierce and sure, like it’s the truest thing I’ve ever spoken.
His mouth claims mine in the softest kiss, not to take but to seal a promise. And when he pulls back, his eyes are burning, wrecked, like hearing it nearly undid him.
Enzo takes the test from my lap, stands in one smooth motion, placing it on the counter and pulls me gently to my feet.
“You want messy?” he asks, tilting my chin up with two fingers. “You want reckless?”
I nod.
“I’ll give you reckless, Angel. I’ll love you harder every day. I’ll take your pretty little obsession and make it mine.”
I gasp, knees going weak. I don’t answer. I can’t. I’m already melting for him. And I’m not sure I ever want to cool down.
His voice drops, lower now, rougher. That gravelly, dangerous rasp that hits me in the spine and shoots straight to my clit.
“You wanna test after every time I fuck you?” he asks, eyes burning into mine. “Do it. I’ll keep a stash in every damn room of this house. Hell, I’ll mark the fucking calendar with your ovulation days—put a star on the dates I need to fill you twice.”
A laugh slips out of me—half delirious with lust, half undone by the way this man sees every unhinged piece of me and doesn’t look away. He holds it. Worships it. Feeds it like it’s sacred.
Enzo leans in and presses a kiss to my temple. “Now get your ass back in bed, because the next time you take that test, I want my cum still dripping out of you while you do it.”
God help me.
I move on autopilot, legs shaky, body thrumming as I slip back into the bed. The sheets are still warm from our bodies, still smell like him. Like us. Like sex and sweat and sin.
I’m barely down before I feel his eyes on me. Watching. Memorizing. There’s less fire in them now, more reverence. The kind of gaze that strips me bare in the softest, most terrifying way.
He peels off his shirt and my breath catches at the sight of him—shoulders broad, chest sculpted and inked, forearms roped with muscle. Everything about him is built for power, for violence. And yet, the way he looks at me now...it's not to devour, but to honor.
I don’t even realize I’m staring until I speak. “Why do you always look at me like that?”
My voice is quiet. A little teasing. But under it, something more fragile.
His mouth curves faintly as he undoes the button on his slacks. “Because I’m in love with you, Mrs. Marchetti,” he says, simple and certain.
And just like that, my heart stutters.
He steps out of his pants and climbs onto the bed, fully bare, one hand braced beside my head as the other drifts over my collarbone, then lower, mapping me like he’s relearning every line.
“Spread your legs for me, baby,” he commands. “I want to go slow this time. I want to feel you open for me.”
I do. Without hesitation. Because I trust him. Because every inch of me aches for this. For him.
He settles between my thighs, eyes locked on mine, dragging the thick length of his cock through my slick folds. Not pressing in. Just teasing. Letting the anticipation build, letting my body beg without words.
“You okay?” he asks, voice reverent now. Gentle.
“More than okay.” I reach up, thread my arms around his neck, and pull him down until our noses touch. “I want this. I want you.
He kisses me—tender in a way that makes me ache—and then he begins to slide in, inch by devastating inch, stretching me, filling me, like he’s claiming every part of me all over again.
His forehead presses to mine when he bottoms out, his breath shaky as he stills.
I can feel every inch of him—thick and steady, the subtle nudge of his piercings sending pulses of heat through my core. Each movement is controlled. Like he’s savoring the way my body gives beneath his, the way it opens for him, welcomes him back in.
My legs wrap around his waist, instinctive and possessive.
I don’t want space. I want to feel him pressed as deep as he can go.
He begins to move, hips rolling with reverence, like we have all day and nothing else exists.
And every deep thrust makes me feel like more than just his wife. Like I’m sacred. His favorite thing.
His lips brush my ear, his voice raw. “Let me be the one who holds you together while I break you apart.”
The pressure coils tighter, unbearable, exquisite. “God,” I whisper, trembling. “You’re ruining me in the best way.”
His lips find my breast, tongue circling the sensitive peak before he suckles gently, then trails higher, along the column of my neck. Every kiss feels reverent, like he’s carving me into his memory piece by piece.
“You don’t know what it does to me,” he says against my skin. “Knowing you’re mine, letting me worship you like this. I want to hear every sound you make when you’re adored the way you deserve.”
My fingers slide into his hair, clutching tight, voice breaking. “Then don’t stop. Please, Enzo. Don’t ever stop.”
Pleasure seizes me in waves, rolling sharp and deep, my body breaking open around him as I cry his name into the kiss.
He drives through the storm with me, a raw groan tearing from his chest as he pushes in hard, spilling into me with every tremor of his release, whispering my name like a prayer in the space between our mouths.
We stay there, tangled and gasping, skin damp and hearts hammering in the same uneven rhythm.
When he finally pulls back enough to see me, his fingers trace along my jaw like I might disappear, like he still doesn’t believe I’m real.
“I don’t want something fleeting,” he says hoarsely. “I want forever. With you.”
I smile, dazed and drunk on him, every inch of me full and buzzing. “Then you better keep fucking me like that.”
His laugh is wrapped in love. “Gladly.”
The silence after is warm and golden, not the kind that stretches awkwardly but the kind that wraps around us like a blanket.
His chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, his hand tracing lazy, reverent lines along my spine.
We haven’t moved much—still tangled in each other, limbs heavy, our breaths gradually evening out.
A comfortable silence follows. I can feel the change in his breathing, the way his body tenses just a little, reluctant but restless.
“You’re thinking about leaving,” I say quietly, not accusing—just knowing. It’s a truth I can feel in my bones, the shift in his energy, the distant edge that wasn’t there five minutes ago.
Enzo exhales, then turns his head on the pillow until our eyes meet. His gaze is steady, threaded with apology. “I need to check in. It’s been weeks. My absence starts to look like weakness if I stay away too long.”
He places a lingering kiss against my lips before he brushes another over my temple. Then he shifts away carefully, the sheets cool where his heat had been.
I watch him sit up, the muscles of his back flexing as he drags a hand through his dark hair. When he stands, the fluid stretch of his body makes my throat tighten, the sight of him already pulling away leaving me hollow and hungry for more.
“I know,” I whisper, even though my fingers curl a little tighter around his arm. My chest tugs painfully. “I just don’t like the idea of you walking out that door again.”
His hand covers mine, warm and sure. “I’ll come back through it,” he assures me. “Always.” He runs a hand through his dark hair, then rises to his feet in a fluid stretch that makes my throat tighten.
Naked, powerful, he moves with the kind of confidence that isn’t taught. It’s embedded in his bones. His body is a contradiction of violence and control, all lean muscle and brutal grace.
He disappears into the bathroom, and I hear the hiss of water a moment later.
The shower is quick—efficient. Still, it’s enough time for me to close my eyes and picture him in there, steam curling around those tattoos, water trailing over the sharp lines of his shoulders.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop craving him.
When he returns, he’s toweling his hair, droplets clinging to his chest, still warm and flushed from the heat. He catches me watching and smirks.
“No shame in staring, Angel,” he says, grabbing a clean pair of black boxer briefs and pulling them on.
I prop myself up on one elbow, unabashed. “Can you blame me?”
He grins wider and buttons a crisp black shirt, rolling the sleeves to his forearms. His slacks are already on, his belt slung loosely at his hips as he glances back at me over his shoulder. His tattoos peek through the open collar, bold and familiar. Possessive.
He steps closer, resting a knee on the bed as he leans in, brushing his knuckles down my cheek. “You’ve got a glow to you, Mrs. Marchetti.”
“Stop. I do not.”
“Mmmm.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “You do. That fucked-you-so-good-you’ll-be-floating-‘til-I-get-home glow.”
I roll my eyes and throw a pillow at his chest. He dodges it with a smug laugh.
“Cocky bastard,” I mutter, even as a smile sneaks onto my lips.
He grabs his laptop from the bathroom counter, then collects his watch, wallet, and keys from the dresser. Before leaving, he circles back to me, leaning down to press a kiss to my mouth. His hand finds the back of my neck, holding me there like he’s not quite ready to go.
“I love you,” he says against my lips. “I’ll text when I get there.”
“Bring me something sweet,” I whisper, not ready to let go. “I love you, Mr. Marchetti.”
His eyes darken with affection. “Anything for you, Angel.”
Then he winks, turns, and disappears through the door—leaving behind the faint scent of cologne and the ghost of his mouth on mine.
I sink into the pillows, limbs still aching in the best way, heart stupidly full. He’s only been gone a minute, and I already miss him.
It’s ridiculous how hard he’s wrecked me.