Page 62 of SINS & Lies

His tie!

Enzo has control freak written all over him in big, bold graffiti, and all I want to do is scrape it off.

With my tongue.

Shut up.

It’s fucked up that he grabbed me by the throat. But what’s even more fucked up is that my body responded. I didn’t want him to stop, and that pisses me off.

If I’m aroused by a twisted, arrogant, sadist, what does that make me?

I shake my head. Clearly, I have issues.

“One week.” A whisper cuts through the darkness, sharp and hushed.

Huh?

I glance at the bathroom door, edged in a faint glow of light.

It’s a private bathroom with marble counters, gold fixtures, and Netflix. An over-the-top indulgent space fit for a king. I know because I’ve become well acquainted with it between sex-a-thon sprints, and frankly, I could’ve lived in there.

This time, the whisper is louder and more urgent. It’s a woman’s voice. “That’s what he said.”

I step off the bed, my gaze snagging on a smoking jacket draped over the corner. I don’t remember that being there before. Did Enzo leave this for me?

Slipping it on, it smells like fresh laundry and swaddles me like an angel cloud. Not gonna lie—I could get used to this.

I move to the door and press an ear to it, straining to catch the conversation. A few snippets bleed through. “Yes. That’s what I heard.” Who’s she talking to? My hand lands on the handle when I hear, “He’s got her for a week. Then he’s ditching her.”

My heart clogs my throat. Me. She’s talking about me. Which is fine, I guess. It wasn’t like Enzo dropped to one knee, professing his undying eternal love.

So why does it feel like someone’s wringing every last drop of emotion from my chest?

Maybe because the sting of his stubble is still fresh between my legs.

I steel my heart. He paid off a debt—a big one. Shouldn’t that be enough? This is probably just a normal business transaction from one dangerous mobster to countless women seeking his help.

If enduring a week of being ravaged by Enzo is what it takes to see Riley, then so be it.

Especially if he ravages me like that.

Shut up.

And sure, I agreed of my own free will. But he conveniently omitted the part about broadcasting it to the whole damn world—especially to Savannah.

Who seems to have taken it upon herself to be the town crier. Her tone softens slightly, and I lean in, trying to catch every whispered syllable.

When she says, “All I know is that he’s not putting this woman over his family. And why would he? She’s nobody.”

Nobody? Tough talk from a high-heeled pooper scooper.

She then adds, “Of course, he hit on me.”

He did?

And it’s all I can do to resist the urge to storm in, snatch her phone, and shove it up her pompous ass, all while saying, “Back off, bitch. He’s mine.”

Instead, I draw in a deep breath and remind myself that he isn’t mine. In fact, men like Enzo can never be owned. It’s the reason they’re so damned good in bed.

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