Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
KENNEDY
I swear, this man is a goddamn nightmare.
Sure, he’s a beautiful nightmare, all power and control with golden eyes that pierce you like daggers and a body chiseled from stone, but a nightmare nonetheless.
And I’m the idiot who kisses him. Slid my ass right onto that colossal cock of his and imagines he’s...what? A knight in shining armor? A guy plucked from the pages of a romance novel ready to rescue me?
Ha! Prince Charming my ass. More like Duke of the Dick’s.
Frustrated, I start packing. It doesn’t matter that I’m in a foreign country and have no idea where I’ll go or what I’ll do. I’m not staying here another second. Not when he’s treating me like a book borrowed from Andre D’Angelo’s sleazy porn library.
Ugh!
I snatch my duffel and hastily cram it with clothes. Mostly brand new clothes with very expensive price tags on them, but who knows where my own clothes are in this fashionista closet. And since I’m fleeing with little more than a thimble of dignity, I need something to wear.
When I spot my vibrator, you bet I’m taking it. One, it’s mine. And two, I need something to cool down all this pent-up heat melting off my panties. Because when an Italian God makes his moves, my traitorous body responds, damnit.
Snatching my old denim jacket from the hanger, a card flutters out of the pocket—Agent Caleb Knox’s card. As much as I’m tempted to dial him up now, it’s past midnight, and I doubt the man’s sitting around, waiting for confidential informants to blow up his phone.
But wait. That’s local time. What time is it in Chicago?
Out of nowhere, a booming voice echoes from the hall. “Let. Me. In.”
I clutch the card in my hand, bolstered by the courage from that and the bottle of wine I downed, and retort boldly, loudly, “No!”
What does Enzo expect me to say? When I pressed him about returning me to Andre after this trip, all he bothered to say was, “Debts will be honored.”
What a total fucking asshole.
I tuck the card in my bag and refocus on packing. I’ll spend one final day with Riley and strategize my next steps afterward. But one thing is absolutely certain: I won’t be sacrificed to his uncle for the greater D’Angelo good.
Just as my false sense of confidence is making me feel all zen in my decision, I hear three gorilla knocks and his stupid voice sounding through. “Open. The. Door.”
I swear, this man makes me thermonuclear. I shout back, “The only way you’re getting through that door is if you break it down.” Which, considering it looks like it’s from the 17th century and made of solid oak, I doubt he will.
Though, and I hate to admit this, that does sound hot.
The mere thought of Enzo Ares D’Angelo, the living, breathing God of War, smashing through that ancient door, pinning me up against the nearest wall, and ravaging my body mercilessly sound so insanely hot, in fact, I actually give my vibrator a second glance.
I shake my head. What’s wrong with me?
In an instant, the door flies open with a violent slam. I jolt—there’s Enzo, demolishing the massive door as if it’s cardboard.
He strides in, his expression brutal and dark, his overpowering presence instantly filling the space.
I stagger back—dizzy and transfixed. The room tilts, spinning in a heady mix of fine wine and raw Alpha male dominance.
My heart hammers against my ribs as he glides through the room, each movement a deliberate, predatory prowl of a panther zeroing in on his prey.
It’s at this point I realize I’m too intoxicated to fully grasp the situation. Enzo is dangerous. Ruthless. And right now, all that formidable wrath is laser-focused on me.
If I had a shred of common sense, I’d be scared. Terrified, even. In any sane scenario, I’d turn and run. But that’s the problem. The closer he gets, the more my brain cells dissolve into dust.
With his next step, I’m pressed against the wall. A solid wall of muscles and tension, impossibly hot against mine.
And as a raging river of alcohol surges through my veins, too swiftly to stop, I blurt out, “What do you think you’re doing?”
“What am I doing?” Without warning, he grabs both my wrists. Hard. “I’m doing as you wished, Bella . You demanded I kick the door down to get in, and so I did.” In one swift move, he yanks both arms over my head, pinning me in place. “Be careful what you wish for.”
A sudden knot of panic tightens within me. My body recoils, twisting and writhing against his. Desperately wrenching to break free. “Enzo.”
“ Shh ,” he breathes, his sturdy arms lifting me higher until I’m on my toes, barely touching the ground.
Not much of a challenge for me, given my years of dance, yet I gasp. It’s not pain or fear that grips me. Is it...a thrill? Am I twisted enough to actually enjoy this?
“You were a bad girl, Bella ,” he murmurs, his teeth nipping at the heart-shaped freckle on my neck just hard enough for tears to prick my eyes. “And you will be punished.”
I suck in a sharp breath, releasing a single, trembling word. “Punished?”
“Consequences.” This time, his lips nip my shoulder, and his thick thigh wedges between the two of mine. “Ride my leg, dirty girl.”
I freeze. “What?”
“I’m not releasing you until I feel every last ounce of your dripping hot honey soaking through my slacks.”
He wants me to dry hump his legs. Because, what? I haven’t earned his dick?
“Fuck yourself,” he murmurs, his heated breath a hypnotic caress against my skin .
It’s degrading. And definitely breaches the barrier between naughty and down right filthy. What’s worse is that I can feel the pool of wetness forming at my sex, but I’m not telling him that.
When his thigh presses up against my clit, my body moves involuntarily, thrusting slow. Desperate not to give in, I force through a series of rough, mechanical moves along a thigh. It’s enough to quell the ache of desire throbbing between my legs, but it’s not enough to come.
His golden eyes darken, smoldering with heat. “Still being bad, Bella ?”
What is he, a mind reader? It’s like he knows I’m deliberately saving off my gratification. And my angry fuck god is having none of it.
Ladies, meet Enzo D’Angelo—the living lie detector. He can spot a fake orgasm from ten paces, no mercy, no mistakes.
He swiftly lowers my hands, guiding them to rest on his broad shoulders as he rips open the front of my dress. Both his hands land on my bra, massaging my breasts so perfectly, I have to bite back a moan.
“Faster,” he coaxes.
I try to fight my body’s desperate need to obey. “No.”
The sharp smack on the side of my ass is instant. The pain morphs to pleasure as he caresses the sting with the heat of his hand. “Has your pussy ached for me all day?”
And then some. “No,” I pant. My defiance comes out more like a whimper than a roar.
His chuckle rumbles low, thick with amusement candy-coated in a threat. “The things I will do to that mouth for your lies. ”
One hand on my hip, he begins to control my movements. His free hand dives into his pocket—smooth, quick. My blood chills as he pulls out a switchblade, and flicks open the knife.
My gaze is locked, unblinking. My rhythm slows only for a beat before my body takes over. She has a mind of her own now. As if she knows everything he wants.
Or, knows everything I want.
With steady precision, the cool tip of the knife barely presses against my chin. The distant pinprick of sensation forces my eyes to his deep gold ones.
A steady stream of tears spill over, barely registering as simmering heat builds beneath my skin, spreading like wildfire.
Will he cut me?
Hurt me?
Kill me?
“That’s it.” He growls. His voice is so satisfied. So pleased. It kind of pisses me off. “Only good girls get my cock.”
Girls? Plural? “Go to hell.”
“Without your breathtaking body fucking mine, every day is hell.”
The knife slips beneath one strap of the bra. Snip. Then the other. I watch, breath held, as he slices it off. My heavy breasts fall free. My nipples, embarrassingly hard and tight.
By this point, I’m flooded with enough arousal, I’m a damn water slide on the man’s lap. Soft kisses land along my neck, shoulders, and chest as he teases my nipples with his tongue. “Beg me to let you come, Bella . Or, I stop.”
I want to resist. I do. But I can’t. It’s like every fantasy I’ve ever had about a professor walking in on me fucking my pillow. His wrath? Ten punishing smacks on the ass before making me beg to let my pussy come.
So close.
The sharp bite of pain on my nipple makes my eyes squeeze shut. My stride ratchets up, “Please...” escapes my lips before I can help myself.
His deep voice plucks the tightest chord. “Come,” he says, the knife at my throat as a million stars explode behind my eyes.
The supernova orgasm hits me in waves. “Enzo!” I scream, over and over, my voice cracking like a desperate plea. A prayer.
Because even as his soft kisses feather my lips and cheeks, and his thumbs wipe every tear from my face, all I can think is, how can he do this to me?
Use me.
Seduce me.
Shatter me.
Fuck me.
Only to let me go.