Page 17

17

KENDRA

I 'm running late, and it pisses me off. Not because I care about Enzo's schedule, but because it feels like a concession—another inch of control I'm surrendering to him. The evening traffic crawls through downtown Chicago as my GPS directs me toward his penthouse, a place I'm growing far too accustomed to.

"Take a left in five hundred feet," my phone chirps, and I grip the steering wheel tighter, remembering how I got into this mess. Griffin's gambling debts. My misplaced loyalty. A deal with the devil in an expensive suit.

I park in front of Enzo's building, take a deep breath, and stare at myself in the rearview mirror. My curls are behaving today, bouncing just past my shoulders, and my makeup is still intact despite the ten-hour workday I just powered through.

"You're Kendra fucking Washington," I tell my reflection. "You don't take shit from anyone, especially not beautiful, dangerous men who think they own the world."

The elevator ride up to his penthouse feels like ascending to some modern Olympus. When the doors slide open, I'm hit with the scent of something delicious cooking and the faint notes of jazz playing from hidden speakers. I hate that his taste is impeccable.

Enzo opens the door before I can knock, leaning against the frame with casual dominance that makes something in my stomach flip. Steel-gray eyes assess me from head to toe, his face a masterpiece of sharp angles and perfect symmetry. He's wearing dark jeans and a charcoal henley pushed up to his elbows, revealing the intricate tattoos that map his forearms.

"You're late," he says, voice low and smooth.

I brush past him, my shoulder intentionally bumping his. "I had actual work today. You know, the kind that doesn't involve threatening people or whatever it is you do."

The space is exactly as I remember—modern luxury with unexpected warmth. Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Chicago skyline, the city lights twinkling against the darkening sky. I find myself looking around, and he chuckles behind me.

"What?" I drop my purse on his obscenely expensive-looking couch. My heels click against the hardwood as I turn to face him, arms crossed.

"I took them for a long walk. They're both asleep in my room."

I try to ignore how my heart sinks a little, not even realizing I was looking forward to seeing the dogs. His features soften a little as he takes me in, clearly touched by how much I've come to adore his dogs.

I straighten up, shrugging. "I don't see why you need me here."

Enzo barely acknowledges my words as he hands me a glass of red wine, lounging comfortably against his kitchen counter. The casual way he moves through his space, like a predator completely at ease in his territory, is infuriating.

"Didn't ask for your opinion, just your presence." He takes a sip from his own glass, eyes never leaving mine.

The tension between us is suffocating, thick with unspoken things. I take the wine and move to the windows, needing distance. The liquid coats my throat, rich and velvety. Of course he'd serve perfect wine.

"So what exactly am I doing here? Supporting your fragile ego? Being your arm candy for some mob thing?" I pace along the window, the energy building under my skin too much to contain.

"Why do you insist on fighting me at every turn?" His voice remains level, which only irritates me more.

"Because I have self-respect? Because normal people don't just summon others like you're a king and I'm your subject?" I gesture with my free hand. "Some of us need more than cryptic texts saying ' Be at my place at 8 .'"

"And yet here you are." The corner of his mouth lifts in that infuriating half-smile. "Right on cue."

I take another sip of wine to stop myself from throwing the glass at his perfect face. "Because we have a deal. But the deal was to help you, not be your pet."

"You think I treat you like a pet?" He sets his glass down, moving closer. "If that were true, you'd be much better behaved. My girls are downright spoiled."

"Then what do you want, Enzo?" The words fly out before I can stop them. "I'm not one of your soldiers who jumps when you say how high."

"No," he says, voice dropping dangerously. "You're much more interesting than that."

I roll my eyes. "Spare me the charm. It doesn't work on me."

"Evidence suggests otherwise." His eyes flick over me, and I hate how my skin heats under his gaze.

"I don't belong in your world," I say, setting down my glass harder than necessary. "And you don't control me."

"Don't I?" He moves closer, closing the distance between us. "The way I see it, Kendra, you gave me control the moment you signed our deal."

I grind my teeth. "You have no control over me."

My stomach flips when he grins. "I'd love to show you how wrong you are."

I open my mouth to argue, but he's already prowling toward me, guiding me backward until my legs hit the couch. In one swift movement, he pulls me down, positioning me so I'm sitting on the edge. His large hands grip my thighs, spreading them apart as he drops to his knees between them.

"What are you doing?" I manage to ask, my voice embarrassingly breathless. But God, every time I've seen him the tension has only grown more unbearable.

Enzo looks up at me, and the intensity in his gaze only has me growing more eager for him. "Proving a point."

His hands slide up my thighs, pushing my dress higher. My skin burns everywhere he touches. I should stop this. I should stand up and walk out. Instead, I watch, mesmerized, as he hooks his fingers into my panties and slides them down my legs with agonizing slowness.

"Are you going to tell me to stop, Kendra?" he asks, his eyes never leaving mine.

The challenge in his voice ignites something in me. "Would you, if I did?"

"Immediately." His answer is instant, serious. "But you won't."

He's right, and we both know it. The power he has over me isn't from our deal—it's from whatever this electric tension is between us. It's been building since the first moment we locked eyes across Skye's boutique.

When he lowers his mouth, nipping at the insides of my thighs, my head drops back. Heat pools low in my stomach, tension building until finally— finally— his mouth closes around my clit and my back arches involuntarily. His hands grip my thighs firmly, keeping them spread wide as his tongue explores with devastating precision. Every stroke is deliberate, like he's memorizing what makes me gasp and shudder.

I bite my lip to hold back sounds, but when he finds a particularly sensitive spot, a moan escapes. "Enzo..."

He looks up, maintaining eye contact as his mouth continues its relentless assault on my senses. The sight of him between my legs, those dangerous eyes watching my every reaction, is almost too much to bear. My hands find their way into his dark hair, gripping tightly, and a growl of approval vibrates against me.

The pressure builds quickly, embarrassingly so. His skilled tongue pushes me higher and higher until I'm balancing on the edge of something monumental. When he sucks gently on my clit, the world shatters around me. My thighs tremble as waves of pleasure crash through my body, his name falling from my lips like a prayer.

As I come down from the high, trying to remember how to breathe, Enzo sits back on his heels. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"You can go now," he says with that infuriating smirk.

Humiliation and rage wash over me, dousing the lingering embers of pleasure. I stand on shaky legs, yanking my dress down while searching for my underwear.

"You're an asshole," I spit, spotting my panties near his knee.

"Never claimed otherwise." He holds them out, dangling them from one finger.

I snatch them away, stuffing them into my purse rather than giving him the satisfaction of watching me put them back on.

"This meant nothing," I say, grabbing my bag. "And it won't happen again."

His expression shifts almost imperceptibly—a flash of something that might be disappointment before the mask of smug satisfaction returns. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."

I turn on my heel and storm toward the door, refusing to look back, refusing to acknowledge how my body still tingles from his touch. Refusing to admit, even to myself, how much I want to stay.

How much I want him.