Page 7 of Enforcer Book Boyfriend

A knock at the door jolted me from my internal thoughts. I smoothed down my dress—a deep red number that clung to every curve and highlighted my smooth brown skin. I strode to the door and pulled it open after doing one last check in the hallway mirror.

Dillon stood there, his tall frame imposing, eyes dark green pools you could fall into if you weren’t careful. “Gracie,” he said, his voice low and slightly rough, like gravel wrapped in velvet. He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, his presence filling up the room.

“Sorry about last night,” he said, shutting the door behind him. His gaze flickered over the setup. The hint of surprise in his eyes was almost satisfying. “Didn’t think you’d want to see me after that.”

“Shows what you know,” I shot back, my tone light. I led him to the table, watching as he took in the spread. “Sit. Eat. You’ll need your strength.”

For a moment, he just stared at me, and I met his unflinching gaze. Finally, he cracked a grin, the kind that said he knew exactly what game we were playing and he was all in.

“Never pegged you for the domestic type,” he quipped, pulling out a chair with a scrape against the hardwood floor.

“Never pegged you for the type to stick around for more than one night,” I retorted, taking my seat across from him.

As we ate, the tension that had been coiled tight between us unwound, thread by thread. The clink of cutlery and the low hum of a bluesy track filled the space as we finished the last of our meal.

“Look, Dillon,” I started, setting my fork down with a deliberate clatter. “I’m not someone you need to handle with kid gloves. What happened at the club didn’t scare me off. I asked for this. And I’m not backing down now.”

He leaned back in his chair, studying me like one of those old paintings of saints and sinners. “Grace, you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“Try me,” I said.

Dillon’s hand paused halfway to his mouth; a piece of tiramisu speared on his fork forgotten. “Being with me isn’t just late-night escapades and adrenaline highs. It’s danger. The kind that doesn’t knock before it enters your life and rips it apart.”

“Sounds like you’re the one who’s afraid,” I shot back, leaning forward so that our faces were inches apart, the table the only thing keeping us from collision. “Afraid that I might actually handle your world.”

“Damn right I’m afraid,” he admitted, raw and unfiltered. “Afraid for you. This isn’t some romance novel where the bad boy’s heart gets tamed by love, and everyone lives happily ever after.

Dillon’s eyes searched mine, looking for a crack in the façade, a sign of hesitation. Finding none, something shifted within him, a decision made. He reached across the table, his fingers brushing against mine, sending a current through me that was full of something more.

“Alright, Grace,” he said, voice low and steady as a pulse. “But remember, you asked for this. And when shit hits the fan—and it will—don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” I replied, a smile lifting my lips.

“Are you sure?” His voice was rough with a tension that matched the tightness in my chest. “Because once you’re in, there’s no stepping back. My world doesn’t do half measures, sweetheart.”

“Neither do I,” I shot back, my heart beating with anticipation. And damn it, I was done with caution. I wanted him, wanted this and whatever twisted, reckless ride we were barreling toward.

I could see the restraint in his posture, the effort it took for him to hold himself still, as if he were a hair-trigger away from shattering the distance between us. It was intoxicating, knowing I had that effect on him, knowing we were both drawn to each other.

“So, what are you waiting for?” I challenged. In response, he gave a low chuckle, the sound wrapping around me like velvet laced with steel. But it was the shift in the air, the almost imperceptible lean forward, that told me I’d struck a chord.

“Fuck patience,” I muttered under my breath and closed the gap. My hands found the hard planes of his jaw as I pulled his face close to mine. The kiss was a collision, fierce and unapologetic.

Dillon responded with equal passion. His hands threaded through my hair. He anchored me tight to him as if he could consume any lingering doubts. Our mouths moved together with a desperation that spoke of things unsaid.

We broke apart, breathing hard, the space between us electric and alive. I saw the flicker in his eyes, that crack in his armor, and I knew then that I had him. That whatever walls he’d built, whatever lines he’d drawn, they were gone.

The weight of his gaze felt like a dare, and I took it. Without breaking eye contact, I stood in front of him, reached for the hem of my dress and pulled it over my head, letting it fall to the floor with a whisper. Dillon’s eyes raked over me, raw hunger etched on his face.

“Fuck, Grace,” he rasped, the words torn from him.

“Less talking,” I said, stepping out of the heap of fabric at my feet.

Dillon closed the distance between us in two strides, his hands finding my waist and lifting me off the ground. The strength in his arms didn’t surprise me. The man was all hard edges and coiled power. His touch made me gasp as my legs instinctively wrapped around his waist.

“Where to?” His voice was gravel-rough, vibrating against my chest.

“Bedroom,” I commanded, the need to feel more of him drowning out everything else. He moved quickly, carrying me down the hall to my bedroom. The door wasn’t even fully closed behind us before we were on each other again. Clothes became irrelevant obstacles that were quickly discarded, tossed carelessly aside as if they burned our fingers.

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