Page 51 of His Little Angel

It starts breathing again.

There’s something obscene about having a man like him unravel for you.

The kind of man other women whisper about, build fantasies around, pray notices them.

They dream.

I wake up next to him.

They hope for a glance.

His eyes don’t leave me.

They’d trade years of their lives for an hour of his attention.

I get it without asking.

It’s early morning. The room smells like sex and skin. I’m half-dazed, my body still humming from the way he took me apart and put me back together wrong. Enzo crosses the room naked, hair a mess, and hands me papers.

I blink at them. Then at him.

It’s way too early for this.

“What is this?”

“Sign them.”

I sit up slowly, the sheets pooling around my waist. “Enzo. That’s not an answer.”

“They’re access. Accounts. Holdings.”

I scan a page, my eyes widening when I see he’s giving me access to his bank accounts. “You’re out of your mind.”

“I’m perfectly clear.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re my future. My present. My past.”

He crouches in front of me, forearms braced on the mattress.

And while I don’t doubt that anymore, I know him well enough to hear what he isn’t saying.

“Try again.”

“What’s mine is yours,” he says. “That part is simple.”

I push the papers back toward him. “I don’t want to be bought.”

His expression hardens. “This isn’t buying.”

“Then what is it?”

“Insurance.”

“Against what?”

“Against you running. Against the day you wake up and decide my obsession is too much. Against the moment you look at me and think,I can’t do this.”