Page 106 of The Hitman's Secret Baby
But his fingers land not on my throat or my arm, but at my waist.
His grip is firm, fingers splayed over my ribs, and it jolts through me like a brand.
His other hand follows, pressing flat to the wall beside my head, caging me in.
"Stop—"
Before I can form the protest in my mind, let alone say the words, he crushes his mouth to mine.
There is no preamble, no hesitation, just the collision of mouths that never forgot each other, the frantic need of five years packed into a single, scorching kiss.
His hand at my waist tightens, dragging me against him, and I let him, because I have no defenses left to raise. Not against this. Not against him.
I gasp as his teeth catch my bottom lip, and he takes that sound like an invitation, deepening the kiss with a hunger that threatens to unravel me entirely.
My hands, traitorous and trembling, reach for his shirt, fingers curling into the fabric as I pull him closer. I feel the muscles of his back shift under my palms, taut with tension, with restraint on the edge of shattering.
He lifts me.
Just like that.
My legs wrap around his waist without thought, without resistance.
I know this rhythm, this dance.
It is carved into my bones, etched into the secret places of my memory where only he ever lived.
He presses me against the wall with the full weight of his body, and I moan into his mouth, the sound swallowed between us like a vow neither of us can name.
His lips tear from mine, dragging a hot trail along my jaw, down the column of my throat.
I tilt my head back, giving him more, always more, because there is no part of me that does not still belong to him.
"You should hate me," I breathe, voice ragged.
"I do," he growls, teeth grazing my pulse. "I hate that you left. I hate what you did. I hate that I still want you this much."
His head lifts. Our eyes meet. Whatever remains between us, it blazes now, untamed and feral, a storm we never learned to survive.
His mouth finds mine again, rougher this time, and I know without a doubt that we are falling back into something too dangerous to name, too inevitable to stop.
18
ENZO
Aria's breath stutters when I grip the back of her thigh and hook it around my hip.
The soft cotton of her underwear teases against my knuckles as I run my hand between her legs. She's warm. Wet. My patience stretches thin.
"Enzo," she breathes, already trembling, her voice cracked open with emotion. "I?—"
"Not now." My voice is hoarse. "Not when I've been starving for this."
I drop to my knees just long enough to slide her underwear down her thighs, slow enough that she feels it, fast enough that I do not give her time to think.
I rise again, dragging the fabric of her nightgown up to her waist, exposing the skin I've dreamed about for five years, skin I thought I might never touch again.
My belt comes undone with a metallic sound. She jolts in expectation. She knows what this is. What it means when I come apart like this. What it costs me to be rough, but not reckless.
