Chapter 22
LUCY
His hand is warm and strong as it takes mine, his eyes fixed on me. He’s staring at me as if I’m the most desirable woman in the universe.
My heart is beating so fast, I wouldn’t be surprised if it escaped the cage of my chest.
Enzo’s here. He stayed because I asked him. He wants me.
I remember most of last night, but the end is blurry.
All I know is that Enzo forced me to eat a PB&J sandwich and then tucked me into bed as if I were a child.
No, that’s not quite true. I remember him lying beside me.
Talking to me. Joking with me. I remember feeling really grateful he was there, and sad that he was going to leave.
Surely, that was just the alcohol though.
And hormones. Lots of hormones. An obscene amount of them are pulsing through me now.
A mild headache is pounding in my temples, but it’s quickly forgotten when Enzo uses our linked hands to pull me toward him, almost as if we’re still dancing the way we did in the candy shop.
I’m mesmerized as he easily lifts me into his arms and stalks toward the bathroom, his head bowing to kiss my cheek, my lips.
The feeling of him against my bare flesh is so overwhelming that I can’t think beyond his hands, his lips, his—
“You’re wearing too many clothes,” I murmur against his mouth. He sets me down just inside the bathroom door, then pulls his shirt off and tosses it to me with the smirk of a man who knows exactly what he looks like shirtless.
I catch the shirt midair and let myself take a long sniff before dropping it.
“Did you just smell my shirt?” he asks, grinning.
“Yes, it smells terrible. You should invest in a new washer and dryer.”
“Liar.” He starts to unfasten his belt, and lust floods my body hard and fast, almost painful.
Oh, God. Is it a bad idea to do this with him?
Sex is different for women than it is for men. I’ve read enough dating books to know there’s a consensus about that. If we do this, it’s possible I’ll continue to soften toward Enzo. I don’t want to start making excuses for his behavior or expecting things he has no intention of giving me.
I remind myself that Enzo doesn’t qualify as Mr. Perfect, the ideal man my mom talked about in her letter.
But he doesn’t have to. I need practice with sex, and he’ll give it to me. Simple as that.
It doesn’t feel simple as I reach down to undo the button of his pants, then lower his zipper. He watches me with an inscrutable glint in his eyes.
“Were you afraid I would catch your dick in the zipper?” I ask.
“You’re terrible at guessing my thoughts.” He pushes his pants and boxer briefs down, and I gasp a little at the sight of him completely naked. Hard for me.
God, he’s gorgeous.
“You like what you see?” he asks, ruining the effect.
Okay, only tarnishing it.
“Your arrogance needs no encouragement,” I say, but I run my hands over his chest, feeling the ridges of muscle, and then stroke my fingers over his proudly jutting dick, tracing it from base to tip before playing with the head. It feels like there couldn’t possibly be room for it inside of me.
Looking up into his hooded eyes, I say, “Uh…I don’t think this is going to work.”
He sucks in a sharp breath before leaning in to kiss my neck.
He whispers into my ear, “By the time I sink into your sweet heat, you’ll be so wet for me, it won’t be a problem.
If it is, I haven’t done my job right, and I always do my job right.
Let’s get you into the shower, Lucia. I have plans for you there. ”
My knees feel weak as I walk into the oversized glass-walled shower stall. The warm water pounds down on my skin, awakening my nerve endings in a new way.
When Enzo follows me in, he fills up the space so utterly I nearly gasp.
This man has such a presence. I’ve been feeling it all week, in the store beside mine.
The knowledge that he’s there has filled me with aggravation and, to be totally honest, desire.
Unwanted, frustrating, smoking hot desire.
I’ve never wanted someone so physically, so viscerally. I want him so much it feels like need.
It’s not rational, but I almost hate him for making me feel so out of control.
He sinks to his knees in the shower, gazing up at me, and something in my chest catches.
“I feel like you’re trying to make a point.”
“It’s not the first time I’ve gotten on my knees for you,” he says, seeming not to notice the hot water pelting down on his thick hair, sticking it to his scalp. His face is dripping as he leans in to kiss my thigh. “Spread your legs for me.”
I do, of course I do. Then, groaning, I bury a hand in his wet hair as he continues to kiss my thighs, his hands reaching up to caress my breasts.
He pushes me back into the wet tiles as he finally presses his mouth where I need it, sucking and licking and keeping up the pressure as pleasure radiates through me.
My limbs are electrified, my nerves crazed, and the effect is only accentuated by the water pattering down on us and the sensation of his hair between my fingers as he continues to pleasure me.
He seems to enjoy it. To revel in having this power to make me feel—oh, of course he does—but I won’t deny him.
Because the feeling of his mouth between my legs is revelatory.
My silicone toys get the job done, but it’s not like this. It’s not like having a beautiful man between my thighs, sucking on me as if I’m the only thing that can bring him life.
Maybe I should tell him to stop. This can’t be as pleasurable for him as it is for me. But I can’t bring myself to care. It feels too good. I’ve been dreaming about it too much…
Then he grazes his teeth over me lightly and sucks in hard, and it feels like my entire body explodes.
When he lifts his gaze, watching me, his expression self-satisfied, I tug on the hair I’m still clutching before releasing it.
He grins and climbs to his feet.
“Are you good and wet for me?” he asks.
“I’m dripping with water,” I say, purposefully ignoring his meaning. Because yes. I can feel my body preparing itself for him, begging me to give it what it wants.
He presses me into the wall, his head bent over mine, and reaches down between my legs, feeling where I’m sopping for him. The smile on his face gets smugger as he lifts his finger up and sucks on it.
“It’s from the shower.”
“Little liar,” he says, lifting my hands over my head and pinning them to the wall.
The water continues to spray us as he lowers his head and kisses me hard.
I kiss him back just as desperately, our tongues and teeth clashing, the energy between us chaotic and euphoric, heightened by his hardness pressed against me.
My hips buck, wanting to get closer, to feel the pressure of his dick against my skin, but I also don’t want to stop kissing him.
I can’t. His hands still have mine pinned to the wet shower wall as his mouth moves over mine.
Finally he pulls away slightly, panting. “Do you have a condom?”
I nod quickly. I bought some online the day I made my wish on the Wishing Bridge. I’ve been carrying them around in my purse as of yesterday.
“You tell me when you’re ready,” he says, tucking an escaped sodden curl behind my ear. His eyes are intense as they peer into mine, his thick eyelashes beaded with water, his hair dripping with it.
“I’m ready,” I say.
He grunts and slams the shower stall door open before backing me out of it and into the room.
“Shouldn’t we dry off?”
“No time,” he says, guiding me onto the bed.
I fall back onto the soft comforter, and he splays my legs wide for him and leans in to kiss me between them, then kisses his way up my abdomen, stopping to suck each of my nipples before he feels between my legs and groans again.
“I told you you’d be ready for me.”
“The condoms are in my purse,” I say, nearly breathless. “In the living room.”
I can tell it’s hard for him to step away. But he gets up, a look of contrition crossing his face. Instead of going straight to the living room, he brings me a fluffy towel from the bathroom and uses it to dry my body, stopping to suck in my nipple and again to kiss the area beside my belly button.
I tear the towel from him, using it to wick some of the water out of my hair. “For the love of God, Enzo. Go get the condom.”
His smile is a bit smug, and very much Enzo. “Your wish is my command,” he says, and I know we’re both thinking of that pink slip of paper I dropped on the Wishing Bridge.
As he leaves the room, my gaze follows him with a thirst for details—the tattoo on his shoulder, the muscular flex of his butt—and I can’t help but think that the bridge really did deliver.
It brought him to me.
His wish was to save his family store so he could leave, and he says that I helped him think of an idea that might accomplish that.
So maybe the bridge delivers on everyone’s wishes.
My mind’s fuzzy with dreams and wishes when he comes back in, holding the strip of condoms.
He breaks one off as he strides toward me, his dick so hard and ready.
I wondered if I’d be panicked at this moment. I know it might hurt. I’ve heard about it from other people, including Charlie, who said she bled so much it soaked through the sheets. But I’m not a teenager. I’ve been using tampons and vibrators for years. I’m more than ready.
“Put it on,” I say, a hint of command in my voice.
He grins at me. “Getting impatient?”
“Yes.”
A need matching mine flashes through his eyes, and he rips the wrapper and then rolls the condom onto his thick, hard length before edging between my legs again.
“Spread them wider.”