“Cara mia,” he says slowly, his voice silken.
I wish I didn’t feel the full impact of that voice, but it sends heat rushing through me.
“Yes,marito?” I’m still doing the innocent routine, even though I know he sees right through it.
“I’m going to give you to the count of three to run. If I catch you, it’s not going to be pretty.”
A shiver goes down my spine. Maybe I pushed him too far. I don’t know what he’s capable of.
“You told me to get settled in,” I point out.
“One,” he says, his voice dripping in dark warning.
Oh shit.
At least I’m wearing sneakers. I spin around and take off running as I hear his voice trailing after me.
“Two.”
The apartment is huge, but I’m not bothering with hiding in here. Nope, I’m racing to the elevator. I’m there, about to push the button, when strong hands grasp my waist, whirling me around to face Enzo. He’s got me pinned against the doors, his jaw rigid, his too-blue eyes burning into mine. He’s furious, and he’s hotter than any man has a right to be.
“You didn’t say three,” I protest weakly.
“My game, my rules, hellcat.”
I’m back to his original nickname for me. It’s a warning, but I also kind of like it.
One of his hands comes up to my neck, squeezing gently, forcing my head back. I’m completely in his control, and the worry has fast melted into something far more potent. My panties are soaked.
I lick my lips. “I didn’t know we were playing a game.”
“Liar,” he accuses, but there’s a different kind of heat in his voice now as his face dips toward my neck and he inhales deeply.“You were playing a game of your own, weren’t you?” He nuzzles my throat.
Liquid heat pools in my belly.
“I…I wasn’t playing a game,” I manage, sounding annoyingly breathless.
“That’s not what the sushi dinner was about?” He kisses the hollow under my ear.
It should be criminal for him to smell this good. It’s not just cologne either. It’s Enzo. He’s fucking delicious. His pheromones are making the neurons in my brain short-circuit.
“Dinner was just dinner.” My hands find their way to his shoulders, my nails digging into the ripped muscle under his suit jacket. “An attempt to be a good little wife.”
“The opened cabinets, the mess, the sneakers, the flamingo’s asshole pink you painted the bedroom?” He palms my breast, his wounded arm apparently giving him no trouble at all, and flicks his thumb over a hard nipple.
“I told you, it’s called Flamingo’s Pink Paradise.”
“I don’t give a fuck what it’s called,” he growls into my ear and then takes the lobe in his teeth.
My heart is hammering hard, a combination of my frantic sprint to the elevator and the effect he has on me. “You don’t like it? I can always paint it my other favorite color. What do you think about Royal Purple Rhapsody?”
He bites the shell of my ear and plucks at my nipple, taking it between his thumb and forefinger and twisting. “I think you have a death wish,cara mia.”
“You’re unhappy?” I continue to play dumb, not sure where it will get me. But so far, his idea of torture involves erogenous zones, and my ovaries are completely on board with that. “You told me to get settled in and make myself at home, so that’s what I did.”
“You know I didn’t mean it like that.” He finds his way back to my throat, nipping and sucking.
“Howdidyou mean it, then?” I’m playing with fire, I know. But I like getting burned.
