Chapter 42
Chapter Forty-Two
KENNEDY
He said it with his own two lips. “ I don’t want you.”
It was so, God, I don’t know . . . cute. Heroic.
But the thing is, I know exactly what Enzo is doing. His carefully constructed plans are all so crystal clear.
So, I let him say it.
Just before I undo his pants and tear off the rest of his clothes.
His golden eyes stare up at me, beautiful and blank. “I said I don’t want you.”
“I heard you,” I whisper against his chest, my lips trace down the line of his abs, savoring every ripple until I reach that tantalizing patch of happy trail.
With deliberate slowness, I take a long lick of his gorgeous dick.
He hisses, words strangled in his throat. “Goddamn it, Bella , I don’t want to hurt you.”
But that’s when his actions betray him. He grips both sides of my head, and with raw need, thrusts his cock deep into my throat.
Enzo is right. I know him better than anyone. Even better than himself. And this—all of this—is him.
Unhinged and out of control, he’s like this only with me. Every moan, our melody. Every touch, a match strike on kerosene, white-hot and potent.
He needs me, and I need him just like this. The villain, fucking my mouth, forcing himself deeper, telling me what a filthy, dirty girl I am.
He tears my clothes to shreds, rips off my panties, climbs on top of me and shoves himself deep— thrusting, thrusting, thrusting —until my legs are forced wide and I’m taking him to the hilt. I know I’ll never get enough.
I crave every part of Enzo. The chaos. The fire. The rage. And every inch of him that threatens to tear me apart.
Because Enzo Ares D’Angelo is my husband, and while he may have claimed me, make no mistake—from his beautiful heart to his goddamned gorgeous dick—I’ve claimed every piece of him right back.
The god of war is mine. And no one and nothing will take him from me. Not his manipulative uncle, not four thugs in a cage. Not even himself.
Because I’m a Mullvain.
A Mullvain saved him once—my Da . And a Mullvain is about to save him again.
Enzo finishes reading to the girls, his voice morphing into so many characters I’m convinced he’s been secretly taking acting lessons. “When are you coming home?” Sofia asks, her pouty lips trembling.
Enzo’s face goes ghostly pale, but before he can say a word, I jump in. “Soon. Very, very soon.” We say our goodnights and the girls disconnect. Regret etches itself into every line of his features. I kiss him and say, “I know what you need.”
Then, I grab a stack of photos and hand them to him. His expression hardens instantly. “Burn those,” he orders.
“Look at them,” I insist. “Figure out what’s wrong with them.”
“Other than they’re seriously fucked up?”
“Just do it.”
After twenty minutes, he tosses his hands back and gives up. “I need a clue.”
I show him another picture. Upside down this time to see if that helps. “Better?”
“Perhaps if I were Picasso.”
Reluctantly, he examines another one as we feed each other ice cream. I force him through it, picture after picture. None of these are overly suggestive, but they all have the same glaring error.
When I hand him the next one, he refuses. “Enzo, I promised you that none of these photos can ever hurt me.”
He puffs out a breath. “One hint,” he insists.
I smile and move my lips to his ear, feeling his arms wrap tightly around me. I whisper the hint, the clue that’s been right in front of his face all along. “ Da ’s last words.”
It takes a minute, but when his mouth curves into a slow, knowing smile, I know he gets it. He doesn’t say it. He doesn’t have to.
Da’s words are with us both.
She’s my heart.