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After that, time becomes considerably less important. We kiss until my lips hurt pleasantly. He touches me like he has nowhere else to be, and I learn that Enzo likes hearing exactly what I want almost as much as he likes pretending he’s the one giving orders. Eventually I pull him closer until he’s between my legs.

“Enzo.”

He searches my face immediately. “You sure?”

I nod.

“Words, sweetheart.”

My heart kicks.

“Yes.”

His expression softens for one brief second. Then the darker look comes back. “Tell me what you want.”

There is something deeply unfair about how much I enjoy hearing that.

“You.”

“Not enough.”

I laugh breathlessly. “You’re impossible.”

“Tell me.”

So I do.

“I want you to fuck me.”

His eyes close for half a second. Apparently, I’m not the only one who enjoys certain words. When he looks at me again, there is very little polished businessman left.

“Better.”

He reaches toward the nightstand.

“Prepared again?” I ask.

“I was hoping you’d stay.”

That unexpectedly sweet answer lands somewhere far too close to my heart. I cover it with a joke.

“You should probably keep emergency supplies in every room at this point.”

“Planning ahead.”

“Very mafia of you.”

His hand stops. Only for a fraction of a second. Then he looks at me.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I laugh. “You look guilty.”

“Do I?”

“You are Italian.”