Chapter 58: LVIII. “A little heat.”

He steps forward, and instinctively, I don’t move. I don’t give ground. I let him close the space, feel his heat crawl over me again. The head of his cock brushes the soft cotton of my shirt just above my navel—barely a graze, but it’s enough to make my breath stutter.

Then, Enzo turns, that graceful predator’s turn that makes every muscle ripple across his back, and he steps into the bath like he’s walking into battle, calm, precise, and almost ritualistic, like everything about this man.

Water laps at Enzo’s thighs, ass, and waist until he sinks low, arms draped across the marble sides like some ruined, beautiful god.

He closes his eyes for a second, and I can tell the heat hits just right. His throat bobs with a soft exhale, and the vein at his neck still pulses with tension. But he’s quiet again, watching me through heavy, almost-closed lids.

My fingers twitch at my sides. I don’t trust them right now, not with the way my whole body buzzes as if I’m still kneeling between his thighs—not with the image of him burned so deep into me that I’d feel his shape in the back of my throat for days.

I adjust the hem of my shirt because it matters, like that’ll somehow erase the heat stamped into my skin where he touched me, where he almost did.

“Will that be all, Signore?” My voice betrays me. There’s a rasp in it, something raw. Not soft, not polite. It sounds like danger—sounds like a need… and I hate that.

Enzo doesn’t open his eyes fully, but the corner of his mouth tilts up, low and dangerous, just enough to let me know he heard it and knows exactly what it costs me to turn away right now, while his thumb grazes the edge of the marble.

The bathwater shifts around him with a soft splash as he adjusts, muscles rolling under his skin like tension made flesh. He doesn’t even have to speak; his silence demands I feel it, demands I wait. It lets me know he’s not done playing.

I turn, deliberately slow, giving him the full view of my hips swaying as I move toward the thick white towels on the counter.

I know he’s watching. I feel the heat of it like a spotlight on the small of my back as I fold one towel, carefully, then another, stacking them like I’m just doing my job. As if I didn’t just have his cock twitching inches from my mouth. As if my panties weren’t still glued to me with arousal.

He shifts again in the tub, water sloshing louder this time, and I set the last towel down and smooth it out, brushing invisible wrinkles that aren’t there, just to give my hands something to do.

“Nothing else for now,” he says finally, his voice low and dark. “Unless you’re offering.”

I glance over my shoulder, enough to catch the full flicker of heat that flashes through his eyes when our gazes lock again.

Slowly, I take two steps toward him and pause at the edge of the tub, letting my eyes fall to where the water breaks around his abs, down to the place just below the surface where his cock still lurks beneath the water, thick, half-hard.

I watch it for a beat too long, and let him see me watching. I let him feel the weight of my gaze like a tongue trailing over him without mercy.

Then I look back up, slowly, locking eyes with him again.

Enzo doesn’t flinch under the intensity of my stare. He leans back deeper into the bath, and I know it’s not for comfort. It’s a game. A slow, torturous one.

His hand lifts, water dripping from his fingers as he runs them back through his damp hair, unhurriedly, confidently, controlled, until his palm drags over the back of his neck and lingers there. That’s where I see it—that tension in his jaw, the flex that betrays his restraint.

He opens his eyes fully this time, and when he speaks again, it’s without a hint of irony: “You know I’d say yes, right?”

I blink, not because I’m surprised, but because it’s so direct. He leaves no space for denial, no room to sidestep. It’s not a tease anymore—it’s a line, drawn clearly between us. And for the first time, I feel how thin the air’s gotten, as if it might crack if either of us breathes too deeply.

“Not sure you’d survive it,” I say quietly, and that makes him chuckle softly, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“I got shot, amore. I can take a little heat.” Enzo’s voice drops into something darker, thicker, threaded with just enough challenge to make my pulse skip. It’s not bravado—he means it. That tone says he’s not afraid of getting burned, not if it means he gets to taste the flame.

And God help me, there’s a part of me that wants to test how deep he’ll let it scorch.

I should scoff, say something sharp, something biting. But nothing clever comes to mind. Not when the image of his body, wet and gleaming, draped like sin in that bath, keeps pulling me in.

My gaze drops again, shameless, tracing the swell of his pecs and the way the water ripples with each slow breath he takes. His cock, half-submerged, stirs slightly beneath the surface, and I swear it twitches the moment I glance at it.

He’s waiting.

He’s so goddamn ready, and he knows I know.

“Shot or not,” I murmur, my fingers tracing lazy circles along the tub’s rim, “You don’t seem all that steady right now.”

Enzo’s mouth twitches, but he doesn’t bite the bait—not directly.

“I’m steady enough to do something about this,” he says, his eyes flicking to my legs, then dragging upward, burning every inch they pass. “If I wanted.”

The way he says it, slow and pointed, makes my thighs press together harder instinctively. I hate that he can do this to me with just his voice, just the heat in his stare, especially since I could watch him fall apart under my hand.

I take a slow, deliberate breath, letting the tension coil tighter between us before I do exactly what I know will drive him mad.

I step back a fraction, lifting my chin just enough to meet his gaze, keeping that faint, knowing smile perched on my lips. My hands rest lightly at my sides, fingertips brushing the hem of my shirt, not to adjust it but to keep me from giving in to the urge to reach out.

“You don’t need to worry about me, Signore,” I say softly, almost casually, as if I’m talking about the weather rather than the way his cock pulses and strains beneath the water, or the way his eyes darken with a mix of frustration and hunger. “I’ll leave you to your bath.”

I step toward the door and let it click softly shut behind me, not even waiting for an answer or permission to leave.

The sound echoes just enough to make the hallway’s emptiness feel like it’s humming with the heat we just left behind.

Outside, the faint echo of his laugh—or is it a groan?—reaches me, and I freeze.

My body stiffens, every nerve ending alive with the memory of his skin, his cock, the weight of his hands, and the smirk that promised danger.