Page 48 of His Little Angel

I grab her wrist, pulling her deeper into the house, through the living room with its massive windows overlooking the dark yard. We head for the bedroom—the one where I’ve spent countless nights imagining this exact moment.

Her phone pings, slicing through the tension.

She pulls it from her pocket, glances at the screen, and her expression shifts into panic.

“Who the fuck is that?” I snarl, snatching the phone from her hand.

The name makes my blood boil.

Luke.

That prick she went on a date with. The one who touched what’s mine—even if it was only once.

“Luke?” I repeat.

She stammers something, but I don’t hear it. All I see is red.

“He’s nothing,” I say coldly. “A ghost from your past that I’m erasing right now.”

I back her against the bedroom door. It’s locked—always is. No one gets in here but me.

And now, her.

“Enzo, wait—”

“No waiting.”

I shove the door open and push her inside. “I’ve wanted this for so long. Needed it. Even before I let myself admit it—I was yours. Obsessed. I watched you from across the office.”

Her back hits the edge of the bed. She stumbles, sitting down hard.

I loom over her, unbuttoning my shirt, my hands shaking with the hunger clawing through me.

“I’d go home and jerk off to you,” I continue. “Stroke my cock raw, picturing your mouth around it. One time—fuck—one time I couldn’t stop myself.”

I lean closer.

“I stole your glasses from your desk. Wore them while I came. Imagined your eyes staring up at me. Begging.”

Her eyes widen—but she doesn’t pull away.

That’s my girl.

I yank her blouse open, exposing her tits.

“You’re terrified, aren’t you?” I whisper, biting her earlobe hard enough to draw a gasp. “Good. You should be. Because I’m not letting you go. Ever.”

I shove her back onto the bed, climbing over her, pinning her wrists above her head with one hand. My other hand hikes up her skirt, tearing her panties aside.

“Look at you,” I sneer. “Soaking for the man who’s going to own every inch of you.”

I free my cock from my pants.

No condom. No mercy.

“Say it,” I demand. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m… yours…”