Page 8 of Taken By the Enforcer
I can’t. My chest rises and falls too fast.
Instead, I stand. My skirts scrape the stool. The world tilts. I should walk away. Go anywhere but here.
But when his hand cups my elbow—steady, sure, possessive—I don’t flinch. I follow.
The walk from the bar to the hotel blurs, a rush of sunlight, cobblestones, and the faint burn of Amara still coating my tongue. All I know is his hand—warm, firm, threaded through mine as if he’s already claimed me. The front desk clerk dares not look our way as Donatello marches us through the lobby. By the time the suite door shuts behind us with a solid click, the entire world has narrowed to the dark heat in his eyes.
I’m pressed against the door before I can think. His chest cages mine, hard muscle under tailored wool. My veil flutters to the floor again, forgotten. His mouth crashes down on mine—demanding, consuming, dragging me into a kiss that feels like a fall I can’t stop.
My gasp opens me to him. His tongue sweeps in, tangling with mine, relentless and skilled. He tastes of whiskey and sin, a dangerous alchemy that makes my knees buckle. His grip tightens at my waist, holding me up like he already knows my body belongs to him.
“I shouldn’t,” I whisper against his mouth, but the words tremble.
He pulls back just enough to let his obsidian gaze pin me. “You’re mine, Paolina. Say it.”
Heat floods my cheeks. “I… I’m yours.”
A growl rumbles from his chest, vibrating through me. “Good girl.”
His hands slide lower, rough palms gathering the obscene layers of tulle until his fingers skim the tops of my thighs. A whimper escapes me. No one has ever touched me like this. No one has everdared.
“I need to know,” I stammer, breathless. “I’m not?—”
“Not what?” His lips brush my jaw, trailing heat down my throat.
My voice breaks. “Not experienced.”
He freezes for a heartbeat, then curses low and filthy in Italian. His hand cups my jaw again, forcing me to meet the fire in his eyes. “Virgin.” The word is half-growl, half-reverence. “Christo.” He presses his forehead tomine, breath harsh. “I’ll make it good for you. I’ll make it unforgettable. Because after tonight, you’ll never belong to anyone else.”
His mouth claims mine again, slower this time but no less demanding, while his hands explore every forbidden inch. He lifts me effortlessly, my skirts spilling around us as he carries me to the bed. I cling to him, my heart hammering, my body betraying me with heat pooling low and fierce.
The dress is a prison. He tears at the buttons, growling when they resist, until the bodice gives and cool air kisses my flushed skin. His eyes darken when he sees me—lace bra straining over curves I’ve always tried to hide.
“Bellissima,” he rasps, reverent and raw. “Curvy as fuck. Mine to worship.”
The word mine echoes as his mouth descends, teeth grazing my collarbone before sucking hard enough to mark. My gasp turns into a moan when his tongue soothes the sting. His hands cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over lace until my nipples pebble painfully.
“Donatello,” I gasp, arching into him.
“Say my name like that again, bella, and I’ll show you the true beast I am.” His hand slips beneath the lace, fingers circling one peak before pinching lightly. Pleasure shocks through me.
My hips writhe. My body begs. He groans at the sight, as though my desire is the highest offering he’s ever received.
When his mouth closes over my nipple through the lace, sucking until I cry out, I forget everything—Aldo, the church, the betrayal. There is only this man, this suite, this heat.
He strips me slowly, deliberately, until I’m laid bare on the sheets, trembling under his gaze. His suit jacket and shirt hit the floor, muscles rippling in the low light, tattoos licking up his arms like secrets written in ink.
“You’re perfect,” he says roughly, crawling over me, caging me in. “Made for me.”
His hand trails down, over the curve of my stomach, past my trembling thighs. His fingers slip between, teasing slickness I didn’t even know my body could make. “So wet for me, bella. Your body already knows who it belongs to.”
The first press of his finger is slow, careful, stretching me. My back arches, a cry spilling from my throat.
“That’s it. Take me. Take your Donatello.”
He works me open with skill and patience, whispering filth and praise in equal measure. My body melts, hips rolling, chasing every thrust of his fingers until heat coils tight inside me.
When I shatter, it’s with his name tumbling from my lips, a sobbing moan that fills the suite. He doesn’t stop—his mouth claims mine again, swallowing my cries as his body shifts above me.