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Where the hell is the button to start this stupid thing? All I want is for my food to warm up so I can eat!
“Be lucky I have pants on at all,” he says, sauntering into the kitchen. I hate that I can see him from my peripheral. I wish I could block him out. He comes directly toward me, stopping inches away. “So what do you say?” he asks softly.
“About what?” I snap. I expect him to make a comment about the papers and the fact I didn’t sign them.
“About me helping you.”
“With what?” I bark, turning my gaze on him. He’s so close, and there’s that scent of his again. Only this time? It’s worse. His scent, his natural one, is so much stronger not hidden beneath his laundered shirts and whatever cologne he uses. It has me nearly drunk.
Enzo drags his fingers up my arm, and he tugs on the sleeve of my oversized t-shirt. I shiver and hate myself for it.
“Of me helping you with that stress.”
Do it, I think. But of course that isn’t what I say.
“I’m not stressed.”
He smirks.
“No?” Humor shines in his dark eyes. I shake my head. “Let me help you, anyway.”
“I don’t want you to touch me,” I say, even though I don’t mean it. Pretty sure he knows I don’t mean it too because my words come out weak.
Enzo is hot as hell. It doesn’t help that he somehow knows what my body wants. More so than I do, apparently. How is that not tempting? That’s the problem. Pleasure is tempting. Through all ages, all walks of life, one thing humans crave is pleasure. And Enzo certainly gives it.
“I think you’re lying,” he says, moving closer. “I bet you’ve thought about my face between your legs at least twice today.”
Try a hundred…
“No,” I say, taking another step back until I hit the counter.
“I bet you’re wet.”
“Am not,” I say. And I’m not. At least, I don’t think I am. How the hell would I get wet within seconds of talking to him? “I don’t even like you,” I add.
The smirk widens as he moves closer, the heat of his body seeping into mine. Hate myself even more that I like it. This man is slowly destroying me, bit by bit.
“You don’t have to like me to fuck me.”
I open my mouth to respond, but nothing comes out.
He’s right.
I didn’t like him or Rafael at the club, yet I still did what I did.
“You’re a monster,” I whisper.
“Yeah? And you fucked me.” He brushes his knuckles down my cheek. “What does that say about you, angel?”
I slap his hand away. “That was before I knew who you were.”
He chuckles, low and raspy. “And you think that makes it better?”
Oh, the way those words anger me. The way he makes it seem like I’m some kind of whore for doing what I did. Like fucking someone I don’t know is bad? He did the same thing. And he paid for it. I want to argue the point, but it’s useless. He’s only trying to get a rise out of me. Which is why I won’t give it to him.
“Well, I hate you,” I say casually.
There. No rise. Simple words.
