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KENDRA

T he moment Enzo's mouth crashes against mine, I know there's no coming back from this. I think I knew it the second my stomach dropped at the idea of no longer being tied to him. He asked if I wanted out, and I should have said yes. Instead, I chose him.

The tension between us shatters into something raw and consuming, something that's been waiting to explode since the first time I saw him across the room at Skye's boutique. All those loaded glances, careful distances kept, and barbed comments exchanged—just kindling for this fire.

His kiss isn't gentle. It's possessive, demanding, those steel-gray eyes finally revealing what he wants. Me. Without pretense or negotiation. His stubble scrapes against my skin, the slight sting only heightening everything else.

"Fuck," he growls against my mouth, the single word vibrating through me as his hands find my thighs, my hips. His fingers dig in like he's been starving for this, like he's marking territory.

I should stop this. I made a deal to be at his beck and call, not to fall into his bed. This complicates everything—and I don't do complicated. Not with men who carry guns and deal in territories. Not with men who know exactly how dangerous they are.

I fight for control, but it's a losing battle. My body betrays me, responding to his every touch like he's finding switches I didn't know existed. The wall presses cold against my back as he crowds me against it, all solid muscle and controlled strength.

"We shouldn't—" I try, but the protest sounds weak even to my ears.

I push against his chest, feeling the solid wall of muscle beneath his shirt, only for him to catch my wrists, pinning them above my head with one hand. The move is swift, effortless—a reminder of exactly who I'm dealing with. A man who handles threats for a living.

"Tell me to stop," he challenges, his face inches from mine, voice rough with need. "Tell me you don't want this."

His eyes connect with mine and I don’t say a word.

Then, his mouth is back on mine, devouring me as I surrender to him. I give in like I’ve been dying to for weeks—months really. His free hand slides up my side, thumb grazing just beneath my breast, and I'm arching into him instead of resisting, chasing the touch.

"That's what I thought," he murmurs, and I feel his smile against my lips—that infuriating confidence that makes me want to slap him almost as much as I want to tear his clothes off.

"I hate that smug look," I breathe against his mouth, but there's no conviction in it.

"No, you don't." His lips travel to my neck, finding a spot that makes my knees weak. "You love that I know exactly what you want, even when you're too stubborn to admit it."

His grip on my wrists loosens, but I don't move them. The surrender is its own kind of thrill—letting go of the control I cling to everywhere else. With Enzo, I don't have to be the one holding everything together. For once, I can just feel.

And God, do I feel. Every inch of my skin is alive, hypersensitive. The contrast of his rough hands and deliberate touch. The heat of him pressed against me, his expensive cologne mixing with something darker, something purely him.

His grip on me tightens, a possessive claim I should resist but can't. Enzo spins me around in one fluid motion, pressing me against the cool wall. My cheek meets the smooth surface, his chest a wall of heat against my back. The contrast leaves me dizzy, caught between his burning touch and the chill against my skin.

"Tell me what you want," he demands, his voice a rasp in my ear as his hands find the hem of my dress, sliding beneath the fabric. His fingers trail fire up my thighs, mapping territory that's been his since the moment I agreed to his deal.

"You already know," I challenge, refusing to give him the satisfaction of hearing me beg, even as my body arches back against his.

His laugh is dark, knowing. "I want to hear you say it."

I feel his hardness pressing against me through his pants, the evidence of how much he wants this—wants me. His hand slides higher, teasing along the edge of my underwear, and I bite my lip to stop from making a sound that would give me away.

"You're mine," he growls, voice rough with something primal and possessive. His teeth graze my earlobe, sending shivers cascading down my spine. "Say it."

I should argue. Should spin around with some sharp, cutting remark about how I don't belong to anyone, especially not a man whose business is built on violence and control. I'm Kendra Washington—I don't yield, don't submit, don't give men like him the satisfaction of ownership.

But I don't say any of that. Because in this moment, pressed between his body and the wall, his words feel true. I am his. Just as surely as he's become mine in ways neither of us planned.

“I want you,” I gasp out.

Enzo groans as his fingers hook into my underwear, dragging the lace down my thighs. Cool air hits my skin, followed immediately by the heat of his palm as he cups me from behind. I can't stop the moan that escapes my lips, my nails dragging against the wall seeking purchase against the storm of sensation.

"So wet for me already," he murmurs, the smugness in his tone only turning me on more. He knows exactly what he's doing—playing my body like an instrument he's studied for years rather than weeks.

I hear the sound of his belt, the zipper, clothes being pushed aside rather than removed. There's no patience here, no slow seduction. This is raw need, too urgent for niceties.

His fingers find me first, testing, circling, making sure I'm ready. The gesture holds more consideration than his rough words suggest. That's Enzo—danger wrapped in surprising moments of care.

"Now," I demand, grinding back against him, past the point of pride.

He enters me in one deep thrust, filling me completely, stretching me to the edge of pleasure and pain. I choke on his name, my body yielding completely to his invasion, giving him everything he's claimed as his. My hands flatten against the wall, searching for stability as he withdraws almost completely before driving in again, setting a relentless pace.

One of his hands wraps around my throat—not squeezing, just holding, asserting control—while the other grips my hip hard enough to leave marks. Tomorrow, I'll wear the evidence of this moment beneath my carefully selected work clothes, a secret reminder of what happens when my control slips.

Our sex is fast, hard, desperate—the kind of claiming that leaves no room for second thoughts or regrets. It's not gentle, not sweet. It's fire and ruin, the collapse of every wall I've tried to build between us. My body responds to his every thrust, every touch, like he's unlocked something wild in me that I've kept caged for too long.

"Look at you," he growls, his rhythm never faltering. "Taking me so perfectly."

I lose track of time, of place, of everything except Enzo. His body drives into mine with relentless precision, each thrust hitting deeper than the last. I'm losing myself, fragmenting under his assault, pleasure building in impossible waves until I can barely breathe. This isn't just sex—it's claiming, marking, a battle neither of us can lose.

My legs begin to tremble, muscles tightening as he pushes me toward the edge. His pace becomes punishing, desperate, his grip on my hips almost painful as he pulls me back against him.

"Come for me," he commands, voice hoarse and strained. "Now."

My body obeys before my mind can process the demand. The orgasm crashes through me with devastating force, tearing a cry from my throat. I feel myself clenching around him, waves of pleasure so intense I might black out. My vision blurs, fingernails scraping uselessly against the wall as I try to anchor myself against the storm.

Behind me, Enzo groans, a primal sound that vibrates through his chest into my back. His rhythm falters, hips jerking against mine as he follows me over the edge, emptying himself inside me with several hard, final thrusts. The sensation of him pulsing within me triggers another smaller aftershock, my body milking him for everything he can give.

For several moments after, neither of us speaks. The only sound is our ragged breathing as we try to recover, my forehead pressed against the cool wall, his against my shoulder. We stay locked together, my back against his chest, his arms wrapped around me, hands still gripping my hips like he's afraid I'll disappear if he lets go.

The silence stretches between us, heavy with unspoken questions. What just happened? What does this mean? Where do we go from here? But I don't voice any of them, and neither does he. We just breathe, letting our heartbeats slow together, his warmth seeping into me where our skin touches.

Finally, Enzo shifts, slipping out of me with a gentleness that contradicts everything that came before. I expect him to step back, to recreate the careful distance we've maintained until tonight. Instead, his arms slide under my legs, and he lifts me against his chest in one fluid motion.

I'm too exhausted to protest, my body limp from the intensity of what we just shared. I let my head fall against his shoulder, inhaling the scent of his skin—cologne mixed with sweat and sex.

He carries me through his apartment with sure steps, as if my weight is nothing to him. When we reach his bedroom, Paige and Penny lift their heads from their plush dog beds in the corner, tails immediately thumping against the floor at the sight of me. They look happy, almost expectant, like they've been waiting for me to arrive. It strikes me as odd that these animals have accepted me so easily when their master has fought it at every turn.

Enzo sets me on the edge of his bed, those steel-gray eyes finally meeting mine. Something unreadable passes over his face—vulnerability, maybe, though I'm not sure he's capable of it.

"You can leave," he says, voice rough but quiet. "If you want."

My throat tightens at the unexpected offer. After everything—the deal, the threats, the possessive way he just took me—he's giving me a choice. It's the last thing I expected from him. From the dangerous capo who demands loyalty, who takes what he wants without asking.

I should go. Walk away before this becomes something more than a business arrangement complicated by sex. Before I forget who he is—what he is.

But I don't move. Instead, I shake my head, my decision already made.

"I've made my choice," I say, my voice steadier than I feel.

His eyes darken, that controlled mask slipping just enough for me to see the satisfaction underneath. He doesn't smile—Enzo rarely does—but something in his expression shifts, softens for just a moment before the predator returns.