LV. Never felt this way before
Enzo’s mouth hovers near my temple, then slowly trails down the side of my face without touching. His breath brushes my skin, warm and tightly controlled. But when his lips finally hover over my jaw, the entire world seems to stop.
He doesn’t let me feel his lips, doesn’t let me find out if they’re soft or firm. And yet, his breath right there feels like a kiss—warm, light, and dangerously intimate.
I look up at him, studying his face up close. So close I could fall into the black of his pupils. He exhales, his breath tickling my lips, then drags the tip of his nose along my jaw and down to my neck.
Enzo inhales my scent, like he’s trying to memorize it, and it sends a shiver up my spine. Then, finally, his lips meet my skin, right below my ear, and he bites slowly, making me let out a moan I try, and fail, to hold back.
“You don’t believe it,” He says, low, right by my ear, “but you’re going to know me better.”
He presses his mouth to my neck for another second, then pulls back, as if he doesn’t want to leave a mark that would betray what just happened. And still, the sensation throbs there as if he bit hard, as he did mark me.
“I really have never let a woman undress me…”
His hand on my lower back slides up, tracing the curve of my body until it stops just beneath my breast. He doesn’t cross the line, but it’s clear he could at any second. He doesn’t shove me against the wall or try to invade my space roughly, but he doesn’t let me back away, either.
Actually, even if he let me go, I don’t think I could take a single step.
“I’m the kind of man who pulls hair and fucks from behind in front of a mirror, Marina,” his voice drops lower, making my breathing deepen with each word. “They can’t even get their own clothes off.”
“So, you’re the type who doesn’t like losing control?” I ask, somehow finding my voice, though it comes out more strangled than I intended.
“Hm? Control? Not at all.” He breathes there, right at the pulse point of my neck, and the heat of it cuts through my skin like a fever I can’t contain. “This isn’t about control.”
Enzo pulls back slightly, just enough to let a sliver of space settle between us, but not enough to stop me from feeling his heat and presence—a ghost across my skin, in the tension pulsing low in my belly.
His hands release my curves and slide down my arms, leaving them hanging useless at my sides now, forgotten. It’s like every function in my brain short-circuits, and I forget everything except the smell of him and the pounding in my chest.
“There’s something deeply intimate about the act of being undressed.” Enzo’s hands reach my wrists and stop there, holding them firmly but without force. His thumbs draw small circles on my skin, and the gesture, subtle as it is, disarms me in a way I don’t understand. There’s no overt attempt to dominate, only presence…
And it’s heavy.
It burns. It fills every inch of me.
I’ve never felt anything like it.
Then slowly, calculated, like everything about him, he guides my hands to his abs, which tighten under the pads of my fingers. My breath stumbles, and God, he’s right. There’s something intimate, dangerously intimate, about this. No book, no class could’ve prepared me for it.
With Matteo, things were hot, intense, and overwhelming. Explosive, really. Like lighting a match and throwing it into a gas tank—fast, demanding, consuming everything around it. There was no space for hesitation or doubt. It was raw desire, immediate. Two bodies colliding to burn, to destroy, to leave marks.
But with Enzo… the tension builds in silence. Electricity flows between our bodies, connected by a single touch, a caught breath. It’s like standing at the edge of a cliff, knowing the fall won’t be fast… it’ll be slow, every second stretched out, as if time itself bends to him, determined to torture me.
“And letting someone do it…” He guides my hands even lower until my fingertips brush the waistband of his pants, drawing my gaze there as well. “It’s like handing them power.”
I feel my eyelids grow heavy, pulled down by a desire rising out of control, so much that it tightens my chest from the inside. I force myself to take another deep breath, even if I’ve lost count of how many I’ve taken in this short time.
But again, the warm, humid air does nothing to clear my head. If anything, it only fogs it more, if that’s possible.
Enzo’s thumbs glide over my knuckles, guiding my fingers to his pants’ button and positioning them so I can undo it with a single touch.
I lift my gaze again, and once more, his face is so close that if I move even an inch, our noses will probably touch.
His breathing is deep, too, but not in the controlled way it was before. His chest rises and falls hard, as if it takes effort just to fill it… Then it stutters for a second, faltering, when I finally open the last button far too easily.
But it shouldn’t be. It shouldn’t be simple to get under his skin. Lust is easy. I’m good at that. I know the power I have, the effect I can cause. But this doesn’t feel like a simple desire. It doesn’t feel like hunger that’s sated with skin against skin.
I watch his face, every inch, every subtle shift that might reveal what’s going through his head in this exact moment. I try to read him the way he tries to read me. And maybe that’s exactly why I feel so unstable.
Because if letting someone undress you is to give them power… he just handed me a loaded weapon.
And I don’t know why.
Slowly, finally, I lower my hand, brushing the tips of my fingers along the zipper of his pants. His breath catches for a moment as he holds my hands there, not pushing or pulling… just grounding. Me, maybe. Or himself.
The zipper slides all the way down, and even though the sound is soft, it feels like it splits the tension hanging between us. Enzo’s chest expands again, his jaw tightening reflexively, making the muscle twitch beneath the stubble of his blond beard.
“Do you really know what you’re doing, Marina?” He asks, in a low voice, so thick with heat and weight. “Or are you just waiting to see how far I’ll let you go?”
My throat tightens. Not from hesitation, fear, or uncertainty. But because part of me truly wants to find out just how far he’ll let me go.
I know he’s testing me, watching me, deliberately ignoring every red flag and all the alarm bells that should be going off in his head like a death knell. And yet, he’s letting me push forward, purposefully messing with me.
Maybe it’s extreme confidence, that sense of being untouchable. Maybe he thinks my true intentions don’t matter. That doesn’t matter if I’m hiding something, because nothing I could do would be a real threat.
There’s that kind of arrogance about him... like he knows he’s too good for everyone else. Truly, like a god among men. But even so, he’s made of flesh and bone, desire and ego. And those things usually have an endless hunger for what they’re not supposed to have.
And that’s exactly what I’m offering him. What he shouldn’t touch. What doesn’t belong in the script or in the predictability of his routine. Something that’s clearly a danger, a mistake—but he can’t seem to resist it.
I’ll make sure of it.