Chapter 25 #2
"Only about things that matter."
The way he says it makes my stomach flip.
I drape the scarf around my neck and turn to face him. "How does it look?"
He's quiet for a moment, just looking at me, and something in his expression shifts.
"It looks good," he says, and his voice has dropped lower. "But I think it would look better somewhere else."
"Where?"
He steps closer and his fingers brush the scarf where it rests against my collarbone. "I think it would look very good tied around your wrists."
The air between us goes electric.
"That's a bold suggestion for the middle of a store," I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"We're alone in this store." His fingers trace the edge of the silk slowly. "We're alone in this entire mall. No one here but us and guards who are stationed at the exits. And I've been watching you walk around in that outfit for thirty minutes thinking about all the things I want to do to you."
My breath catches.
"Like what?"
"Like taking you into one of those dressing rooms back there and finding out if you're as turned on as I am right now."
"And if I am?"
"Then we'd have a problem. Because I don't think I can keep my hands off you much longer."
I hold his gaze and I can feel my pulse everywhere, can feel the want building between us like something with weight.
"The dressing rooms are right there," I say quietly.
His jaw tightens. "Isabella—"
"I'm going to walk back there." I keep my eyes on his. "You can follow me or you can stay here. Your choice."
I turn and walk toward the dressing rooms at the back of the store, and I don't look behind me because I can feel him following, can feel the heat of his attention on my back.
The dressing room is large and private with a full mirror and a bench and a door that locks.
I step inside.
He follows.
The door closes and the lock clicks and we're alone in this small space with the mall empty around us and a few days left before everything changes.
He doesn't wait.
His mouth is on mine immediately, his hands in my hair, walking me backward until my back hits the mirror, and I kiss him back with everything I have, with all the desperation of the last days, with the knowledge that our time is running out.
"This outfit," he says against my mouth, his hands already pulling at the hem of my crop top, "has been making me insane."
"Good."
He pulls the top over my head and then his mouth is on my neck, my collarbone, working lower, and I arch into him and dig my fingers into his shoulders.
He stops suddenly and pulls back.
"I want to try something," he says.
"W-What, now?"
He reaches past me and picks up the scarf I was holding, the green silk we left draped over the bench.
"I want to tie your hands."
Understanding moves through me slowly, along with a flash of memory, of being held down, of being powerless.
He sees it in my face.
"Only if you want," he says immediately. "Only if you trust me completely. If you say no, we stop right now and never talk about it again."
I look at the scarf, then at his face, at the absolute certainty in his eyes that he would stop the second I asked.
"Yes," I say.
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure. I trust you."
He moves slowly, deliberately, taking my wrists gently and bringing them together in front of me, wrapping the silk around them with careful precision, watching my face the entire time.
"Too tight?"
"No."
He ties the knot and tests it, making sure I have enough give, and then he lifts my bound hands above my head and presses them against the mirror behind me.
My breath catches at the vulnerability of it, at the trust required to stay like this.
"Color?" he asks quietly.
"Green."
His free hand slides down my body, over my ribs, my stomach, stopping at the waistband of my jeans.
"Still green?"
"Yes."
He unbuttons my jeans slowly, watching my eyes, and slides them down along with my underwear, and then his hand is between my legs and I gasp against his shoulder.
"So wet already," he murmurs. "Have you been like this the whole time we were shopping?"
"Yes." The word comes out breathless. "Since you said you wanted me in the dressing room."
His fingers move inside me with devastating precision and I try to bring my hands down and can't, the restriction makes everything sharper, more intense.
"Look at you," he says quietly, his thumb finding my clit. "Completely at my mercy. Trusting me with everything."
I can't form words, can only feel, can only take what he's giving me.
He works me higher and higher, his movements patient and controlled, and when I'm right on the edge he stops completely.
I whimper in frustration.
"Not yet," he says. "Not until I say."
His mouth finds my neck and he bites down gently where my pulse is racing, and the sharp pleasure of it makes me cry out.
"Enzo, please—"
"Please what?"
"Please let me come."
"Why should I?"
"Because I need it. Because I'm—" I can barely think. "Please."
He starts moving his fingers again, slow and deliberate, building me back up from nothing.
"You're so beautiful like this," he says against my skin. "Desperate and begging and completely mine."
"Yes." The word comes out broken. "Yes, I'm yours, please—"
He increases the pressure and the speed and this time when I get close, he doesn't stop, just keeps that perfect rhythm until I come with a cry that he muffles with his mouth, my whole body shaking against the mirror.
I'm still trembling when he reaches up and unties the scarf, catching my wrists as they fall and kissing each one tenderly.
"Okay?" he asks softly.
"More than okay."
He lifts me and I wrap my legs around his waist and he braces me against the mirror and I reach between us and guide him inside and we both go completely still.
"Move," I whisper.
He moves.
Hard and fast and desperate, his hands gripping my thighs, his forehead pressed against mine, his breathing ragged.
"You feel perfect," he says roughly. "Every single time. I could do this for the rest of my life and never get enough."
The words hit me harder than they should, cut deeper than I'm ready for.
I pull his mouth to mine and kiss him to stop him from saying anything else, and he kisses me back like he's trying to consume me, like he's trying to make this moment last forever.
When I come again, he follows immediately with a curse and a groan, his hips stuttering, his fingers digging into my skin hard enough to bruise.
We stay like that for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, both trying to remember how breathing works.
Then we hear it.
"Isabella?"
Vittorio's voice, distant but clear, coming from somewhere in the mall.
We both freeze.
"Isabella, are you here?"
Enzo sets me down carefully and we stare at each other, him still mostly undressed, me completely naked from the waist down, both of us thoroughly debauched.
"How is he here?" I whisper, panic creeping into my voice.
"Fuck, I don't know." Enzo's voice is tight and controlled. "Get dressed. Now."
I grab my clothes with shaking hands and start pulling them on while he does the same, and we can hear Vittorio getting closer, his voice calling my name, and there's no way out of this dressing room that doesn't involve walking directly past him.
"Isabella? Matteo told me you were here. I wanted to surprise you."
Enzo's jaw is so tight I think it might crack.
I'm trying to button my jeans with hands that won't cooperate and my hair is a disaster and I look exactly like someone who just had sex in a dressing room.
"We need a story," I whisper frantically.
"Working on it."
"Work faster."
The footsteps are right outside.
The door handle rattles.