Page 50 of SINS & Lies

Mostly at Enzo’s expense, which I have to cover my mouth not to laugh out loud at. Discovering that big, bad golden eyes will take so much shit from his brothers, it’s endearing. It’s like me with Riley—times five.

I’m hanging onto every word, but not so much that I can’t multitask. I glance around. Hmm. Did they unpack everything? Several drawers catch my eye.

With silent, stealth-like moves, I slide open a drawer. My heart leaps into my throat, and my breath catches.

Three neat rows of my underwear greet me, alongside more neat rows of brand new, lacy ones with tags still intact. And, because Enzo is a guy, most of them appear to be thongs.

Has this man not seen my ass? It eats thongs for lunch.

Carefully, I lift a particularly pretty red pair. They’re exquisite. See-through lace boy shorts in that dangerous combination of illicit and expensive. So expensive, I might need white gloves just to handle them.

I hold them against my body, realizing they’re a perfect fit. Did he pick these out himself?

I set them down and pick up another pair. My mouth falls open as I discover this one—black and leather—also happen to be crotchless. In my pocket they go as I’ll be flushing those down the toilet as soon as I get out of here.

Which brings up a good question: When you flush on a plane, where exactly does it go?

I picture some poor unsuspecting cow in a field, getting a face full of blue liquid and pleather, and decide he or she cannot be victim to Enzo’s depraved porn tastes.

I’ll simply wait until we’re somewhere over the ocean, I guess.

Ocean.

Nerves dance along my neck as I envision the plane ascending into the abyss of dark sky and sea. Refusing to succumb to the fear simmering beneath the surface, I move on to the next drawer.

I chuckle to myself as I sift through the drawer, finding a mishmash of bras, mostly new ones, thank God. Let’s face it, my old bras have seen more wear and tear than a copy of Fifty Shades of Grey—library edition.

I pick one up and mold it against my girls. Another perfect fit.

How the hell does he know my size?

I catch a glance of myself in a full-length mirror, the cream lace trimmed with rose gold thread.

Don’t know, don’t care.

The crotchless panties might be a bust, but I’m definitely keeping these.

Finally, I get to the bottom drawer. As soon as I open it, my eyes snap wide as all the blood in my body rises in a hot flash up my cheeks.

It’s long, it’s pink, and absolutely nothing could mortify me more.

It’s. A. Vibrator.

Correction: it’s my vibrator.

And, yes, I may have thrown it into my bag because it was already in my underwear drawer, and I had to make a split-second decision, not that I would necessarily need it.

I mean who am I kidding? This is Enzo Fucking D’Angelo, the man for whom there’s a website dedicated to that as his middle name, along with the hashtag KingpinSexGod. It’s like a fan page with hundreds of pictures of drop-dead gorgeous women dripping off his arms.

And yes, I checked him out. More like an investigative journalist and less like a stalker.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

These nut jobs actually have bets on which he’s had more of: kills or lays.

And I just wasn’t sure if he’d always be a warm a girl up kind of guy, or more rough and impatient and eager to cram every last inch of man meat in to the hilt.

And there’s a whole lot of it to cram in. So much so, that I probably should’ve brought lube and a shoehorn.

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