Page 61 of SINS & Lies

Like so many things that dare to stir even a flicker of light in the deep crevices of my chest, instantly, I loathe it.

I whip around, eager to locate Savannah and make her handle this situation. I swear, that woman has one job. One.

“Where the fuck is she?”

CHAPTER 23

Kennedy

Thump.

I snap awake, every muscle protesting as I struggle to orient myself.

In the dimness, it takes precious seconds to shake off the sleep-induced haze.

Where the hell am I?

The soft hum of the engine reminds me I’m not in Kansas anymore. Or even Chicago.

Instead, I find myself nestled in luxurious silk sheets, surrounded by the scent of sweat, sex, and Enzo’s intoxicating cologne.

Slowly, realization sinks in. I’m still on a plane, suspended somewhere over a dark, boundless stretch of ocean, and strangely, I’m not afraid.

With a deep inhale, the fear that overshadowed me earlier—or for most of my life—is gone.

I roll to my back and feel it. Pain—a pervasive ache that courses across every inch of my body. I feel like my mind, body, and soul have been hit by a Mack truck...especially between my legs.

I draw in a sharp breath, easing out of the emotional overload of the last few hours.

Floral notes fill my lungs with each deep inhale. I shift and come face-to-face with it: a plump red rose.

It’s resting on the pillow beside me. Apparently, Enzo’s a man of many talents, including pulling flowers out his butt.

Lazily, my finger dusts the petals, and I take another lingering whiff before throwing an arm over my face.

It feels like I’m plummeting from the top of a skyscraper, free-falling with a clear view of the concrete street below, wondering how to drag out every second.

Argh. I’m falling for him.

For a long stretch, I lie there. In his bed. Alone.

Enzo D’Angelo has wrecked me. Emotionally and physically, inside and out. Every muscle in my body aches from the aftermath of God’s gift to multiple orgasms.

Seriously, I know why there’s a website dedicated to Enzo fucking D’Angelo. He makes fucking both a science and an art, and my body is still reeling from that last one. It was so blindingly intense, I know that walking will pose a serious challenge.

And yet, not once did he please himself.

No hand job.

No dry humping.

Nothing.

What man does that?

One who should be sainted.

Absentmindedly, my fingers trace the rumpled sheets beside me. The man stripped me of my clothes and common sense. At one point, he had me climb onto his face and move like I was neck-and-neck for first place in a bull-riding contest. Yet the most he shed was his tie.

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