Page 13 of The Enforcer (Damn! #2)

LILY’S HAIR was a golden snarl on the pillow beside him, the strands tangled from sleep and sex.

One bare leg lay heavy over his thigh, her skin warm, her breath shallow and steady against his chest. The scent of her, salt, skin, and something sweet, clung to the sheets, to his hands, to the hollow of his throat.

She was everywhere, and he liked it entirely too much.

Zane stared at the ceiling, body aching in places he hadn’t even known could ache, from the way she’d broken apart under his hands, her voice a ragged whisper in his ear, her nails biting into his back like a brand.

She was out cold now, her breath soft and even, curled into him in the kind of sleep that only followed total, unguarded concession.

She trusted him with that kind of vulnerability.

With her body. Her safety. Her surrender. Him.

He didn’t want to move. Didn’t want to disturb the rare peace curling in his chest like a lazy animal, something quiet and territorial that didn’t know what to do with comfort but wanted more of it anyway.

But then her stomach gave a soft, pitiful growl against his side, a delicate betrayal, and he figured he should feed her before she tried to live off caffeine, adrenaline, and sheer, reckless defiance again.

He reached for the phone on the nightstand without looking, fingers closing around it with the ease of instinct. One swipe, one button, and the line connected before the first ring ended.

“We need food.”

He ended the call without waiting for a reply. Whoever picked up would already be moving. No names. No questions. That was the rule.

He turned back to Lily, taking in the way her mouth was slightly parted, one hand curled beneath her cheek.

She looked younger like this. Softer. Not the sharp-tongued black-hat who breached federal firewalls for fun, but a girl who’d wrapped herself around him like he was safe.

He nudged her gently, fingers skimming her temple.

Her lashes fluttered, then stilled, then fluttered again as she blinked herself halfway to consciousness.

“Come on, little hacker,” he murmured, brushing hair from her face with the kind of gentleness that didn’t fit a man like him. “Let’s get you in the shower before I decide I need you again right here.”

She mumbled something unintelligible, a sleepy breath against his throat, but didn’t protest when he pulled her into his arms. She came willingly, warm and boneless and naked, her body molding to his like it remembered the shape of him.

Her face tucked into the crook of his neck, lips brushing skin, and he felt it again, that flicker of something dangerous and consuming.

Like she belonged there. Like he wanted her to.

He pushed open the door to the bathroom with one shoulder and turned on the shower.

The warmth hit them both like a wall. He didn’t set her down, not yet.

The tile was cool against his feet, but Lily was soft and half-asleep in his arms, her breath ghosting over his neck.

He carried her into the shower, one arm around her back, the other under her thighs, cradling her tight.

The water hit them in a rush, hot and unrelenting, turning the air between them thick with steam.

It soaked his hair instantly, carving tracks down the hard lines of his back and shoulders, clinging to the curve of muscle and scar.

The gauze over his side darkened instantly, the heat and pressure soaking through to the wound beneath, but he barely registered it, filed it away. They’d fix it later. Much later.

Lily’s golden strands turned molten against her skin, plastered to her spine and collarbone.

She stirred against him, slow and instinctive, arms curling tighter as her body began to truly wake.

A stretch rippled through her like silk drawn taut, each movement lazy and fluid and deeply feminine.

Her lips brushed his collarbone in a soft, aimless graze.

Then, as he set her down, they drifted lower, with purpose.

Her mouth found his neck, lips dragging across wet skin, slow and deliberate.

She pressed a kiss to the hollow of his throat, then traced a line downward with the flat of her tongue, tasting salt and heat and skin.

Lower still, over the dip between his collarbones, down the center of his chest. He felt every inch she claimed like a brand, like a promise she hadn’t made out loud. Then lower.

He hissed as her knees hit the wet tile, the sound sharp in the steam-heavy air. Her hands found his hips with the kind of confidence that made his pulse spike, her fingers curling into his skin.

“Lily.”

She didn’t stop. She didn’t speak. Her eyes locked on his as she slowly lowered her head, her lips parting.

She licked a deliberate line up the length of him, tasting water and skin and the salt of his arousal.

Her hand wrapped around the base, stroking him once, twice, her grip firm and sure.

Then her mouth closed over the tip, tongue swirling as she took him in inch by inch.

Zane gritted his teeth, one hand finding the back of her head, the other pressed to the wall behind him for balance. She bobbed her head, slow at first, letting him feel every slide of her tongue, every flick against the sensitive underside. Then deeper, faster, her rhythm unrelenting.

His vision blurred. His hips jerked once, twice, as she swallowed him down, her throat working around him with practiced ease.

Her hands never stopped moving, one pumping him in tandem with her mouth, the other braced against his thigh.

He felt the build low and brutal, like something clawing up his spine.

When he came, it was with a curse and a groan, her name caught between his teeth as she took every drop without flinching, swallowing him like she owned him.

He continued to brace a hand against the wall, the other still tangled in her hair as the last tremor worked through him.

For a beat, neither of them moved, just the sound of the water, steady and scalding, masking everything else.

Then slowly, gently, he eased her up into his arms, cradling the back of her head as she blinked at him, flushed and dazed.

“Come here,” he murmured, guiding her into the stream.

His voice was low, almost raw, not from exertion, but from something else clawing at his chest. He didn’t do gentle.

He didn’t do quiet mornings or shared water or the kind of touch that lingered.

But here he was, brushing wet strands from her face like it meant something. Like she meant something.

He should’ve been thinking about the deal waiting for his signature, the calls he hadn’t returned, the men watching his every move.

He should be thinking about this dangerous mess Lily created.

She hadn’t just stirred up trouble, she’d hacked into a Dante shell company, peeled back layers she had no business touching.

And less than twenty minutes later, they’d been met with a hail of bullets.

Zane didn’t believe in coincidences. Someone had responded, fast and brutal. But the question that kept turning over in his head, the one he couldn’t shake, were those bullets meant for him, or for Lily? Because if it was her they wanted, this was worse than he thought.

And yet, here he stood, taking a shower with the woman who’d just made them both targets, pretending like the water could wash any of it away.

It couldn’t. Sooner or later, someone would come knocking, and they wouldn’t be bringing breakfast. But his focus stayed locked on the woman in his arms. A woman who’d just given him one of the best blowjobs he’d ever had.

He told himself their relationship was temporary.

Just chemistry. Just release. A pressure valve in the middle of a storm.

But the lie didn’t settle as easily as it used to, not when she’d threaded herself through his morning like a promise he couldn’t afford.

Not when the heat of her mouth still lingered and the danger outside hadn’t faded.

If she became more than this, more than a body and a distraction, it made her a liability.

Or worse. Someone who’d become a risk simply by mattering.

And that made her more than a liability, it made her a target he couldn’t afford to lose.

They washed each other without speaking.

Her fingers moved through his hair, working shampoo into a lather, massaging his scalp until his eyes closed.

He ran soap over her shoulders, down her arms, across her back with deliberate care, learning the map of her in suds and steam.

When she reached his wound, she paused, fingertips brushing the soaked bandage. He caught her wrist.

“Later,” he said roughly.

She nodded. Then stepped closer and turned her face up to the spray, letting it wash over her like she needed it to clear more than sweat and sex from her skin.

Zane watched her, the curve of her throat, the way her lashes clumped together in the water, the vulnerable tilt of her chin.

She looked like someone trying to breathe again.

He moved behind her, ran his hands gently over her back, rinsing away the last of the soap.

She didn’t speak. Neither did he. But something thick and unspoken hung between them, what they’d done, what it might mean, and what was coming for them now.

It wasn’t about getting clean. It was about being close. And in that moment, neither of them let go.

Afterward, he wrapped a towel around her, drying her with slow, unhurried passes that lingered at the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, the fullness of her breasts.

She didn’t pull away. Just stood there in the center of the steam-heavy room, watching him with that open, unreadable gaze that made something shift in his chest.