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Changed.
Why?
Movement outside the door catches my attention. Enzo walks by but stops just before he’s out of my view, looking down at his phone. Ear buds are in his ears, and I don’t think he notices I’m in here.
His body is covered in a sheen of sweat, his tan skin flushed. His work-out shorts are so tight they should be illegal. He’s been in the gym every day this week, though I’m not sure he should be. It’s been only two weeks since the accident. I hope he isn’t in there lifting weights. Though I worry about him pushing himself too far, too soon, I won’t tell him that. I don’t go in there and check on him to see what he’s doing. He’s a grown man. An adult. He makes his own decisions. Besides, I don’t want him to think I care.
Because I shouldn’t.
I shouldn’t, but I can’t help worrying about him every single day he goes out to do whatever it is he does.
As he stands there, doing whatever it is he’s doing on his phone, I give myself the moment to enjoy the view. Enzo is hot as sin. His chest and stomach are heaving. His body is tense, his muscles thoroughly worked out.
I am suddenly very interested in this man.
And possessive, which makes no damn sense.
But it’s why I open my mouth.
“Hey,” I snap. He lifts his head and looks at me, frowning. He pulls an ear bud out, raising a brow. I gesture to the table. “You get massages?”
“Twice a month,” is his answer. Simple. Just a few words to answer my question.
Well, that infuriates me.
It must show.
He smirks, stepping into the room and eyeing me carefully.
“Why?” I ask, tilting my chin up.
“My line of work isn’t easy on the body.”
I look him up and down, noting how much I like his body. How much I want to run my hands along it. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because I haven’t spent any time with him lately, so he hasn’t been able to annoy me. Somehow, the way he makes me feel sexually is burned into my brain, but the way he annoys me? My brain seems to forget all about that. And it’s been a while since Enzo has made me come, and maybe, just maybe, I’m finally at a point where I’m okay admitting I want my husband to please me. He is my husband, after all. And though he isn’t a good one, considering I didn’t get a wedding, a honeymoon, or even get to say I do, he is still my husband. I am still trying to get the man to trust me. I still want out of here.
But Enzo is hot, and he’s opened me up to things I now crave. Like amazing orgasms.
I gesture to the table. “Lie down.”
He raises a brow, but he doesn’t question it. He walks in and puts his things on the table against the wall and lays back.
“On your stomach,” I say.
He turns over.
I move to the shelf on the wall with all the lotion, and as I pretend to figure out which I want to grab, I take another moment to look at him. The sculpted muscles on his back, the curve of his ass, his thick legs. Jesus, he’s so hot. How can one human look so good? Especially one who is such an asshole!
I squirt some lotion into my palm and put the bottle down on the small table near me. I lather my hands together before pressing them to Enzo’s upper back and running them down his spine. His back is tight, especially his upper back, so I focus my attention there, running my fingers along the tense spots around his shoulder blades and up by his neck.
His breathing increases, and I swear I hear a few satisfied groans when I’m working on the left side. Makes sense, considering this was the shoulder that was dislocated. Everything feels okay, and other than the muscles being tense, it seems maybe he has been taking care of it okay.
And because there’s something wrong with me today, I say, “I don’t like the idea of women touching you.”
He doesn’t respond, so I keep working on his back.
“I’ll give you massages from now on,” I add, wondering if I’m pushing limits. Wondering why the hell I’m saying this at all. Has the Stockholm Syndrome finally set in? I’ve finally lost my mind, that much is certain.
“I need professional massages,” he says, though I barely hear him with his face buried in the face hole.
