18. Kennedy
Heart pounding,I see the fight breaking out between Enzo and a guy who looks so much like him, they have to be related.
Whatever’s happening between them, I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want me meeting anyone in his family.
And certainly not like this.
As his look-alike bolts up the stairs, two at a time, my heart beats so hard, that I feel it in my ears. I spring to my feet and dash past Savannah and Truffles, and bolt through the very last door at the back of the plane.
The one I assume is a bathroom.
The door clicks shut behind me, and my heart sinks as I realize this isn’t the bathroom. Luxuriously furnished with six overstuffed pillows, a plush down comforter, and an obnoxiously oversized king-size bed that practically screams big fucking deal.
Oh, my God. I stare in horror because it’s a bedroom.
It’s his bedroom.
We’re on a plane, right?
In the center of the bed sits a gift basket, practically begging to be investigated. I inch closer, my steps hesitant at first, then way too interested. My father used to say I had the curiosity of a cat.
Um, try a dozen.
The small, pink note attached reads,
To the best boy ever.
xo, S. W.
S. W.?
Savannah Whitaker. I’m not sure why I’m suddenly glaring at the card, but I am.
Is Savannah calling Enzo the best boy? Because that’s just weird.
Nosily, I rummage through the gift basket. What exactly did Ms. Whitaker get her best boy? Because if it’s chocolates, I’m eating them.
I don’t know what I was thinking I’d find, but when I tug out an item that looks like a glittery jock strap, I snort. Out loud. Because...“What the hell?”
Then, I turn it upside down to find it’s not a jock strap at all. It’s a vest. A little sequin vest that’s just big enough for Truffles. I stare at it and shake my head because it’s adorable. A little over-the-top, but hell, the dog is in a private jet with a celebrity trainer. Maybe nothing is over the top.
Next, I find a ridiculously cute fur-lined leather jacket, and I’m starting to feel like next to my dog, I’m the underdressed one. Clearly, he now has a stylist. I scan the tag and gasp.
How is this puppy costume five hundred dollars? All the clothes in my closet combined aren’t five hundred dollars. Is Idris Elba posing with him?
Because I could totally go for that.
I hold up the outfit and imagine Truffles prancing about in it at the dance studio, spreading joy to all who enter.
The little girls would go absolutely insane. Probably fight for who can behave the best for the sheer privilege of walking my little circus dog and picking up his poop.
Win-win.
Voices in the cabin snap me from my daydream. They’re getting louder. I press an ear to the door, though I’m not sure why. They’re loud. And headed this way. “There’s someone else here. I can smell her.”
Um, creepy.
What’s worse than being caught on Enzo’s plane? Being caught in his bedroom.
Panicked, I toss the outfit on the bed—no time to tidy up—and rush through the nearest door. Which seems to be to a closet.
As a matter of fact, it seems to be my closet. Except it’s eight-thousand times bigger and smells fresh like a fancy hotel.
My beat-up duffle bag rests on the floor, surrounded by all my neatly hung clothes. There are three oval windows across the back, and sheesh, you could park a car in here.
Okay, maybe not a car, but at least a Harley.
A loud, “What the fuck?” has me nearly jumping out of my skin.
Enzo and presumably his brother are intense. And fun. So fun. When his brother calls the rest of them—and apparently, there are a lot of D’Angelo brothers—they’re not the big, scary mob bosses from the headlines. They’re playful and sweet, teasing each other and sharing jokes.
Mostly at Enzo’s expense, which I have to cover my mouth not to laugh out loud at. Discovering that big, bad golden eyes will take so much shit from his brothers, it’s endearing. It’s like me with Riley—times five.
I’m hanging onto every word, but not so much that I can’t multitask. I glance around. Hmm. Did they unpack everything? Several drawers catch my eye.
With silent, stealth-like moves, I slide open a drawer. My heart leaps into my throat, and my breath catches.
Three neat rows of my underwear greet me, alongside more neat rows of brand new, lacy ones with tags still intact. And, because Enzo is a guy, most of them appear to be thongs.
Has this man not seen my ass? It eats thongs for lunch.
Carefully, I lift a particularly pretty red pair. They’re exquisite. See-through lace boy shorts in that dangerous combination of illicit and expensive. So expensive, I might need white gloves just to handle them.
I hold them against my body, realizing they’re a perfect fit. Did he pick these out himself?
I set them down and pick up another pair. My mouth falls open as I discover this one—black and leather—also happen to be crotchless. In my pocket they go as I’ll be flushing those down the toilet as soon as I get out of here.
Which brings up a good question: When you flush on a plane, where exactly does it go?
I picture some poor unsuspecting cow in a field, getting a face full of blue liquid and pleather, and decide he or she cannot be victim to Enzo’s depraved porn tastes.
I’ll simply wait until we’re somewhere over the ocean, I guess.
Ocean.
Nerves dance along my neck as I envision the plane ascending into the abyss of dark sky and sea. Refusing to succumb to the fear simmering beneath the surface, I move on to the next drawer.
I chuckle to myself as I sift through the drawer, finding a mishmash of bras, mostly new ones, thank God. Let’s face it, my old bras have seen more wear and tear than a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey—library edition.
I pick one up and mold it against my girls. Another perfect fit.
How the hell does he know my size?
I catch a glance of myself in a full-length mirror, the cream lace trimmed with rose gold thread.
Don’t know, don’t care.
The crotchless panties might be a bust, but I’m definitely keeping these.
Finally, I get to the bottom drawer. As soon as I open it, my eyes snap wide as all the blood in my body rises in a hot flash up my cheeks.
It’s long, it’s pink, and absolutely nothing could mortify me more.
It’s. A. Vibrator.
Correction: it’s my vibrator.
And, yes, I may have thrown it into my bag because it was already in my underwear drawer, and I had to make a split-second decision, not that I would necessarily need it.
I mean who am I kidding? This is Enzo Fucking D’Angelo, the man for whom there’s a website dedicated to that as his middle name, along with the hashtag KingpinSexGod. It’s like a fan page with hundreds of pictures of drop-dead gorgeous women dripping off his arms.
And yes, I checked him out. More like an investigative journalist and less like a stalker.
At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
These nut jobs actually have bets on which he’s had more of: kills or lays.
And I just wasn’t sure if he’d always be a warm a girl up kind of guy, or more rough and impatient and eager to cram every last inch of man meat in to the hilt.
And there’s a whole lot of it to cram in. So much so, that I probably should’ve brought lube and a shoehorn.
I mean, yes, so maybe between those dangerous eyes and sinfully talented tongue, the man is a walking flame-thrower between the thighs. But it’s a week.
A week!
And if the website is accurate, multiple times a day is part of the package, and vanilla isn’t in his vocabulary.
I think of it. Seven whole days. Of him doing whatever the hell he wants, whenever the hell he wants. Nerves dance along my skin as tension wracks across me.
Bzzz.
Without warning, the damned thing goes off in my hand. It buzzes. Loud. Argh! I nearly drop it, twisting the stupid end of it. Shut off, shut off, shut off!
The room outside goes quiet. Too quiet.
The steady thump of dread fills my ears until I hear Enzo shout, “Yes, I have a dog.”
After a tense moment of silence, the conversation continues, and I’m not sure, but it feels like Enzo’s lying through his teeth to distract his brother. But when I hear him say, “Despite keeping my distance from everyone, I have a touchy-feely soft side,” my heart aches.
It takes a minute to process his words.
He’s kept distant from his brothers. And it’s so obvious he loves them—I mean, who would eat this much shit and keep asking for more? So, he’s been keeping distant from his own family, just as I’ve been doing with mine.
Realization hits me square in the chest.
He’s protecting them. He protects them the way I protect Riley. By staying away.
And from the sounds of it, it’s killing him. Just as much as it kills me.
* * *
There’sa long silence before the door opens in a rush.
Enzo looks down at me, his glance moving from me to the vibrator I’m still holding like an idiot. “Bella, if you started without me, there will be consequences,” he rumbles, his tone bubbling over like hot-buttered sex.
There’s so much electricity flowing between us it could light space. When he kisses me, I kiss him back. It’s not timid or gentle. Not some shy wallflower kiss. It’s hungry. Desperate. Like for the first time in my life, I’m not thinking of anything or anyone else.
Or maybe I’m just not thinking.
And with his big, thick erection pressed hard against my belly, who could think?
Bump.
The floor moves from under us. My heart jumps against the wall of my chest. “What was that?”
“Us,” Enzo growls. “About to tip the earth off its fucking axis.”