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He watches me carefully before nodding once.
I twist my body to get the bottle of lotion and squirt it directly on his chest. He hisses at the coldness, and I smirk as I rub it in. His hands grip my thighs tighter and he thrusts upwards, his dick pressing harshly against my clit and sending little shockwaves of pleasure through my belly. My eyes fall closed, and I scrape my nails down his chest. He groans a low raspy sound that has my pussy aching for him.
Taking in a slow breath, I open my eyes and keep massaging his chest, focusing on his deltoids because they’re tense, especially on the shoulder that was hurt.
“Harder,” he says.
I apply more pressure but am careful. I don’t want to hurt him and set back his healing. Dislocated bones aren’t anything to mess around with.
“Harder, angel,” he says, thrusting up into me again. His fingers bruise my skin, and my stomach does a somersault.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whisper.
“I’m not fragile.”
“You’re recovering from an injury.”
“Go harder or I’ll call Jon right fucking now.”
I assume Jon is his masseuse.
Fuck Jon.
I dig harder. His lips part, head digging back as he sucks in a breath. His brow furrows, this intense look on his face as he lets out a low satisfied groan that has me soaked.
“Yes, angel,” he rasps out. “Just like that. Keep going. Fuck, that feels so good.”
His words, though meant about the massage, are so erotic. That should be reason enough to make me stop, but I keep going. And because I’m already so far gone, I rock my hips along his dick as I work on his shoulder. I’m so wet, so unbelievably wet, and I want him to call me out on it. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop. I love the way his body feels, love the way he sounds. Everything about him is so masculine and powerful. His presence is so big, and it makes me feel—it just makes me feel.
Enzo doesn’t hide that he’s enjoying this. His hands grip me tightly, and his breathing and sounds of satisfaction are like music to my ears. The fact his dick is throbbing makes it all so much better. I move down his chest and focus on his abs. This isn’t part of a normal massage; I just want to touch them.
“You didn’t do my glutes,” he says after a moment, and I look up to see him watching me, his eyes hooded and full of lust.
“Roll over,” I say as I get off.
He smiles as he does.
I like him like this. Nice, a little flirty. It makes me think things between us could be normal. I dry my hands on the towel so I don’t get lotion on his pants, and use my fingers to press into his glutes, which are more tense than I thought they would be. Touching his ass is weird in a way, but also enjoyable. It’s firm but soft, which is so unlike the rest of him. And as I push down, I wonder if the pressure I’m applying is affecting his dick. Does he like it? Does it feel good?
I live in this happy little bubble for a little while. I get through both of his glutes before I remember it doesn’t matter if he is nice, flirty, and things seem normal. Because they aren’t. Because I’m being forced to stay here. I’m a payment to him. Nothing but a transaction. That thought sobers me and has me not enjoying rubbing his ass like I was a few moments ago. But apparently nowadays, I’m a glutton for punishment because I don’t stop. My body is humming with need, and I’m hoping this massage turns into Enzo getting me off because I love when he does that. I don’t care if he’s an asshole. He’s an asshole who’s good with his hands, and good at reading my body. And I’ll take whatever good-feeling stuff I can, because there isn’t much anymore.
And what makes me feel less guilty about this are his words floating through my head.
There are no limits to what I’ll do for my wife.
That has my heart squeezing in my chest, wondering if everything with us could be okay. Enzo’s phone dings, pulling me from my ridiculous thoughts. He grabs it, checks it, and calls someone.
“What’s going on? Okay. Right now? Yeah, downstairs. Okay.”
He ends the call. “I have to go,” he says carefully, and it’s like a bucket of ice water over my head, solidifying every concern I have.
Yes, Enzo may make me feel good physically, but he’ll never be what I need. He’ll never be the husband I deserve, because Enzo is a bad man. He’s in the damn mafia, and that means my happiness will never come first. Only his will.
Chapter Forty-Three
Vincenzo
“We can’t let them get away with this,” Marco growls.
