15. Enzo
Me?
I’m holding her back?
What in the actual fuck?
In disbelief, I shoot a glance down at the little dog at my feet. Do you believe this shit?
He returns a clueless stare.
My attention shifts back to the insane woman turning down a trip to Italy. “So, let me get this straight. You’re rejecting a trip to Italy because of...me?”
Kennedy’s stance is resolute, hands planted firmly on her hips as she speaks. “We both know that if you take me to Italy, this”—she gestures between us—“isn’t exactly a PG arrangement.”
I don’t bother arguing back. The ringing in my ears has started up, signaling the onset of a jackhammer about to tear through my skull. Still, I hold my ground, silent but present, a lesson deeply ingrained within me by my mother.
Kennedy keeps going. “You’re the kind of guy who gets his way and will want things from me...”
Her words drift as she thinks, nibbling her lip in that alluring way that manages to capture my attention despite the throb along my temples. “Things?” I ask, trying to sound thoughtful when I’m just trying to figure out what the fuck she’s saying. “You mean sex?” I ask flatly.
In silent agreement, she nods, cautiously adding, “And I could get, well, hurt.”
Hmm. I’m not sure if she needs a safe word or a limit list or what, but then it hits me. Eyes narrowed, my head tilts. “Are you a virgin?”
“No.” The blush is so red, I wonder if she’s lying. Not that it matters. I’ll find out soon enough. Yet beyond my control, out of my mouth flies, “You’re not my prisoner, Bella. You’re my guest. You can leave at any time. Now pack.”
Kennedy doesn’t back down. “If I’m going, which is still a big ‘if,’ by the way, then I want something in return.” She folds her arms, a move that would typically captivate me, but right now, the vise grip on my head is strangling my libido.
I rub my temples, trying to push back the pain. “Fine. Name it.”
“No sex.”
“What?” I snap, because the hell that’s happening.
I think real fucking hard because the entire point of whisking Kennedy away to Italy is to bang her senseless. Not frolic around the Italian countryside, hand in hand, lazily reading cozy romances to each other.
Then, almost timidly, she adds, “I mean, no sex...not unless I see Riley.”
“Riley.” I know all about her—the sister. The one I’ve secretly hidden halfway around the world under the guise of a full ride scholarship program. Not that I have an altruistic bone in my body. I just needed her safely out of the way.
I figured Italy was far enough. My mistake.
“For every day I’m your ‘guest’”—she air quotes—“I’ll be taken to and returned from Riley’s place. I will spend a full three hours of uninterrupted time with my sister. Any time, day or night.”
I smirk. Her little request isn’t without risks, but it makes me grin all the same. “Considering I plan to wreck that pretty pussy of yours several times a day, Bella, what do you suggest? Shall I move her in? Perhaps pour her a drink, offer her a chair to make herself comfortable, and let her watch?”
She narrows her eyes. I narrow mine back. The air between us is damned near combustible.
“Three hours a day,” she bargains, braver out of the silence. “Take it or leave it.”
No one speaks to me like this. Ever. Because if they did, I’d end them. For a beat, I study her, intrigued. Someone didn’t get the memo.
A low, satisfied growl emerges from my chest, and I’m not sure who’s more surprised: her or me. Despite the deepening furrow across her brow, and delicate hands that suddenly aren’t sure where to go, she straightens, pouting those gorgeous lips against a defiant chin.
What did it take for her to demand this? Kennedy is telling me exactly what she wants—what she needs—and I fucking relish it.
“Is that it?” I ask.
Her fingers weave through several strands of hair, a feeble attempt at smoothing them over a faded scar near her left brow. She’s done this before. Tried, and failed, to cover her flaws.
Because she’s stupid enough not to know that I see everything. All of her.
From the heart-shaped freckle on her neck to the nine scars lining her skin like a constellation—three on her face, four on her arms, a cigarette burn on her wrist, and another on her leg.
And it’s all I can do not to kiss, lick, and worship every last one of them along with the rest of her body.
The one on her thigh is smudged enough that I know she fought—and that she was probably bound when it happened. It’s faded enough that she had to be young. The one I can’t wait to carve from her mind first.
I also want to know who did this to her—whether it’s one man or more—mostly so I can string them up by their balls as I burn their fucking world to the ground, but that can wait.
“Yes,” she replies, raspy as her big doe eyes meet mine. Fear and pain fade behind a storm cloud of want and need.
I let out a slow, smooth breath. “Fine,” I say.
“Fine?” I see the shadows of doubt cross her expression, and know she still needs some convincing.
I step into her space until our bodies are almost touching, my hands safely tucked away in my pockets as my rock hard dick butts against the plane of her stomach. “I’m not about to force myself on you, Kennedy. And the only way you’re getting any part of my dick is if you beg for it.”
Finally, the tiniest smile emerges from her lips.
The curiosity in her big brown eyes and the blush creeping up her skins tell me she’s in, but I need to hear her say it. “Tell me, here and now, you agree. Anything I want. Any way I want it. For the entire week.”
“Anything?” She swallows loudly, and I imagine myself pumping down her throat.
“Anything,” I demand low, brushing my lips against hers, sending a shiver across her body. Then deliberately, I step back, breaking the closeness between us. “Do we have a deal?”
Her staggered breath eases to a sigh as she nods. “Yes, Mr. D’Angelo. We have a deal.”
Fucking finally. I lift her defiant chin, capturing her lips in a possessive kiss before gripping her hair firmly, eliciting a gasp from her. With deliberate force, I brush my lips against the scar she attempted to conceal. “Pack. Now. You have ten minutes.”
Obediently, she nods, and I release her, watching as she hurries into her closet, away and out of sight. And the minute she does, a surge of pain crashes into my skull, intensifying tenfold from its initial hold.
I stumble back. Fuck. I focus on my breath, trying to steady myself.
Retrieving my flask, I sip. If I were into meds—legitimate ones, not the recreational stuff—I’d be floating on cloud nine. But ever since Trinity’s attack and the issues with Smoke, the thought of swallowing a pill churns my stomach.
I rub the back of my neck, silently pleading with the pain gods for relief, when suddenly, the little dog at my feet goes ballistic.
Ruff!
His barking reaches a piercing pitch, and I entertain the idea of tossing him out the window to quiet him down. But I’m pretty sure my little deal with Bella hinges on me not murdering her precious dog, so that’s out.
Like a lunatic, he begins leaping up my leg. I glare down angrily. “Do not hump my leg.”
Ruff! Ruff-ruff!
To silence his incessant yapping and prevent any jizz on my slacks, I scoop the little bastard up.
Instantly, he settles, which is suspicious. Like the little bastard is plotting a sneak attack behind those innocent black eyes.
And just as I start to let my guard down, the dog springs up, his tongue darting over every inch of my face like it’s drenched in steak sauce.
Ugh.
His freaking aardvark tongue gets me right up my nose holes.
Blech. What the fuck, dog?
The mutt nearly slips from my grasp as I stagger backward, narrowly avoiding a collision with the dilapidated remains of what was once a sofa.
“Everything okay?” Kennedy calls out.
No. Everything’s not okay. Fuzzball here cleared all the boogers from my nose, then decided to test my reflexes with an attempted suicide dive from my arms.
I set him down. “Everything’s fine.”
Fine, except for the pain radiating from the base of my head to the back of my eyes. Scanning my choices—the lumpy bed or the cushionless sofa—I opt for the bed, collapsing onto it with a heavy exhale.
I take a deep swig from my flask, hoping the Macallan will offer an ounce of relief.
A second later, the mutt hops onto the bed and makes his way to my chest, resting his face against it. His presence is oddly comforting. With my eyes firmly shut, I mutter, “Do not piss me off.”
He responds with a sleepy yawn, and surprisingly, the urge to wring his neck never surfaces.
Instead, I find myself absentmindedly stroking his fur. The ball of fluff and his annoying snores settle against me tighter as my mind wanders aimlessly.
Maybe there’s a dog pound between here and the airport.
Or, a taxidermist.