Page 41 of Enforcer

“Darling,” he says, tucking hair behind my ears from my wind-whipped hair.

The nickname has done something to my insides, I ignore it. “I don’t need a nickname.”

“You do need a nickname, tesoro. Besides, you said I couldn’t call you menace.”

“Why do you need to call me anything?”

He shrugs. “To denote my ownership, I guess.”

I laugh, shoving him back. “You don’t fucking own me.”

I hop off the island and sidestep him to the fridge.

He’s on me in a flash, pressing my front into the cold metal of the appliance.

“You’re mine. Even if you don’t want to admit it yet, I’ll give you the time you need,” he whispers in my ear, and I have to fight the shiver tangling at the base of my spine.

With that, he shuffles off to his room, slamming yet another door behind him.

I stay flush with the fridge for a few more moments, wondering how I’m going to survive a night with him since he’s in such a mood.

I know he’s killed, and it seems killing makes Dante wild.

Wild Dante is a flavor I want to taste more than I want to taste fucking cake, and that could be dangerous.

When he’s out of the shower, we eat in uncomfortable silence. He is dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, which is currently making me a bit feral if I’m honest. I know he sees me gawking because I can't take my eyes off him but, thankfully, he hasn't said anything.

“We need to get going if we’re going to make the tasting,” I tell him once we’ve cleaned dinner up and he’s washing his hands.

“I’m ready when you are, darling.”

Great, now he’s taken to calling me his unnerving nickname in my language.

I grab my bag and stand beside the door as he turns off the lights, arms the alarm, and then opens the door for me to exit.

“Shit, I forgot to call the car,” I say. I’m not used to this life where you can have someone drive you around at the drop of a fucking hat.

“We won’t need a driver tonight,” Dante says, hitting the button to take us to the basement, where I know the parking garage for this building is.

“Oh, alright. Perfect, then.”

I shift on my heels, eager to see what he drives. If this man drives like he fucks, I’m in too deep and need to just go home to Florida. I’m a sucker for a man with an expensive car, and Dante Ricci already ticks too many boxes on mybuild-the-perfect mancard, and if he checks any more of them, I’ll be checking myself into an asylum.

He leads me to a black Maserati Ghibli, opening the door for me to get in, and I nearly groan when I slide across the red leather seat, breathing in the scent of the sexy ass car as he rounds the front of it and gets inside.

The engine rumbles to life, vibrating across my skin, and I keep my eyes forward as I bite my lip to release some of the building tension between where Dante is backing the car up withone veiny arm and where I’m melting into the red, hand-stitched seat next to him.

When he drives out of the parking garage, placing his hand on my exposed thigh where my dress rode up, his black rose tattoo flexing as he squeezes, I check another box off on my fucking list in his favor.

If I don’t get away from this man, he will hire a firing squad to take down all my defenses and lead the charge himself.

Soon, I might fucking let him.

“Where to, tesoro?” he asks, gravel tone full of lust that makes my panties soak through as I pull up the cake place on my GPS.

Handing it over to him, I catch his eyes. He flashes me a grin that says he knows he’s winning me over, and I nearly fucking punch him.

Dante Ricci is the Devil in a saint’s clothing, and I want the Devil to pull this sexy ass car over and let me ride him instead. Thoughts like those will get me in trouble.

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