Page 8 of Enforcer Book Boyfriend

Once we were bare, Dillon laid me down with a reverence that contradicted the urgency of our undressing. His muscles rippled under my touch, each one tensing beneath my exploring hands. My fingers danced across the ink that adorned his skin, tracing the outlines of crosses and guns and other symbols that told stories of a life I was only beginning to understand.

“Fuck…” Dillon groaned, his voice strangled as I mapped the expanse of his chest, the valleys of his abs, the V that led to a promise of ecstasy.

“Like that?” I taunted, nails scraping ever so slightly down his sides, eliciting a hiss from his lips.

“More than you know,” he growled, capturing my wrists and pinning them above my head with one hand. His free hand blazed a trail of fire down my body, igniting sparks that threatened to explode into flames.

“Show me,” I challenged, arching into his touch, daring him to push me over the edge.

And he seemed more than happy to accept the challenge.

Dillon’s touch was a live wire against my skin, every caress sending shivers straight to my core. His fingers sketched the curves of my hips, dipped into the hollow of my waist, and traced the swell of my breasts.

“Don’t stop,” I gasped out, arching into him, craving more of that electric connection that sizzled wherever we touched.

After donning protection, he slid inside me slowly. His thickness made me mumble and groan in pleasure. It felt so good, and I never wanted this feeling to go away. Once he bottomed out, he hovered over me, staring into my eyes, before leaning down for a sensual kiss. There were moans, low and guttural. Whispers that were more breath than sound. All swirling in the thick air, heavy with our mingled desire.

Dillon’s thrusts grew harder, his grip tightening on my hips as he pumped into me. His movements were almost violent, mirroring the ferocity of our kisses, the pull of our tongues as we devoured each other’s mouths. Our bodies moved together like they’d been choreographed, a dance born from lust and the desperate need to feel more. I could taste him, and it was intoxicating. Like fire and salt and something wild. The scent of his skin was heady, mixing with the musky scent of arousal in the air, filling my senses and making me high off this intensity. The bed squeaked beneath us as we pushed against it, our moans echoing in the darkness.

With every movement, Dillon marked me. Biting my neck softly, licking the salty sweat from my skin. Rough hands trailingover my body possessively. Teeth dragging down my collarbone and then suckling softly at the mark he left behind. My nails dug into his back, clawing his skin as he picked up speed. It was primal and raw and so very real. This was no fairy tale ending, but a beginning.

Lying there after, with Dillon’s chest rising and falling against my back, I couldn’t help but smirk at the aftermath. My fingers traced the lines of his arm that caged me in, his breath a hot rhythm on my neck. We were a tangle of limbs, dark brown and lightly tanned, our skin still slick with the evidence of what we’d done.

“Shit,” I murmured, not bothering to keep the smug satisfaction from my voice. “I knew you had it in you, but that…that was something else.”

“Damn, Grace,” he rasped, voice raw.

“Never knew it could be like this,” I muttered, running my fingers through his damp hair. The taste of him lingered on my lips, a blend of sin and man that made me hungry for another round.

“Me neither,” he admitted, and there was a tremor in his voice as he shifted, his body still nestled closely against mine. “But I’m not giving it up anytime soon.”

Eventually, Dillon’s breathing evened out, and I felt the weight of his arm around me, possessive even in sleep.

FIVE

Dillon

The clink of my fork against the plate was a soft chime compared to the buzz of voices inside Sabatino’s on a Friday night. Grace’s laughter, rich and unguarded, filled the space around our dimly lit corner table. The kind of spot that offered just enough privacy without seeming conspicuous.

That’s when I spotted him—the prick with a chip on his shoulder, striding toward us as if he owned the joint. His eyes were locked on me, his gait screaming trouble.

“Looks like we’ve got company,” I muttered under my breath, my hand slipping beneath my jacket. The cool metal of the gun felt reassuring against my palm, a silent promise of protection.

“Who is that?” Grace asked, her voice steady but her eyes betraying a flicker of concern.

“Nobody,” I said, but even as the word left my lips, I knew this nobody could turn into a somebody real quick if things went south.

He stopped at our table, looming over us like a dark cloud ready to burst. “Dillon,” he sneered, his voice dripping with disdain.

“Take a walk,” I told him, my voice nothing more than a low growl. The slightest shift of my jacket revealed the glint of my gun—a warning as clear as day.

The restaurant had gone quiet, the soft hum of conversation replaced by a tense silence. Patrons sat frozen mid-bite, their eyes darting between us and the exit, calculating the odds.

The icy grip of the gun beneath my jacket was a reassuring weight against my ribs. Grace, her hand warm on the tabletop,didn’t flinch. I could feel her eyes on me, wide but unblinking, waiting for what would happen next.

“Back off,” I warned him again, the edge in my voice sharp enough to cut through the thick atmosphere.

Grace’s breath hitched. A subtle sound drowned out by the blood pounding in my ears. For a split second, her fingers tightened against the linen tablecloth—a silent display of nerves and exhilaration. She was scared, sure, but there was a fire there too. The kind that could either keep you warm or burn you down to ash.

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