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His hands settle on my hips.
“Did it?”
I look down at him. The man is devastating from this angle. Dark hair wrecked for the first time since I met him. Tattooed chest rising hard beneath my hands. That smooth confidence replaced by something raw. And he’s looking at me like this is exactly where he wants me. Not thinner. Not younger. Not quieter. Me. All thirty-seven years, five cats, inappropriate jokes, soft stomach, thick thighs, and everything else.
Something shifts inside my chest. I start moving. Enzo curses.
“Fuck, Bridget.”
Well. That’s encouraging. His hands tighten on my hips, but he doesn’t control the rhythm. I do. I roll my hips again. His head drops back against the pillow. There’s a strange power in making a man like Enzo Moretti lose that much control.
“You all right down there?”
His eyes open.
“Keep laughing.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to hear what it sounds like when I fuck the joke right out of you.”
Heat flashes through me.
“That’s a big promise.”
One hand slides from my hip between my thighs. His thumb finds my clit. My breath disappears.
“Oh, you bastard.”
“That’s better.”
He circles slowly while I ride him. Once. Twice. The pressure starts building again.
“No.”
Enzo’s gaze sharpens. “No?”
“I cannot possibly come again this quickly.”
His smile turns wicked.
“Want to bet?”
“I’m a librarian. We don’t gamble.”
“Tonight you do.”
He rubs my clit harder. My entire body jerks.
“Enzo.”
“I’m winning.”
“Don’t get smug.”
“I’m inside you, sweetheart. I think I’ve earned a little confidence.”
I lean down and bite his shoulder. He groans.
