Page 133 of Ruined By Blood
I slide into the low leather seat, careful with my dress. "I'm getting better at pretending to understand business talk."
Enzo chuckles as he settles behind the wheel. The engine roars to life with a powerful rumble that I feel deepin my chest.
"You understand more than you think," he says, pulling away from the Sartori estate with smooth precision.
The city lights blur as we speed down the empty highway. Enzo drives like he does everything else—with absolute control and just enough recklessness to make my heart race. His right hand leaves the steering wheel, finding my knee and sliding up my thigh.
"Enzo," I breathe, my body instantly responding to his touch. "You're driving."
His lips curl into that dangerous smile that still makes my stomach flip. "I'm very good at multitasking, piccola."
His fingers trace slow circles on my inner thigh, inching higher with each pass. The car accelerates, and so does my pulse.
"Remember when you couldn't even look me in the eye?" he asks, his voice dropping to that low, intimate register that's only for me. "Now look at you—charming the Sartoris, pursuing your photography, making me crazy just sitting there in that dress."
Heat blooms across my skin as his hand slips beneath the hem of my dress. I bite my lip, fighting to maintain composure.
"Eyes on the road," I manage to say, though it comes out more breathless than stern.
"My eyes are exactly where they need to be," he counters, but he does return his attention to driving. Without removing his hand.
By the time we reach downtown, I'm flushed and fighting the urge to climb into his lap, traffic laws be damned. Enzo turns down a tree-lined street of renovated historical buildings, pulling into the private underground garage of our building.
Two months ago, Enzo surprised me with keys to this place—a sprawling loft apartment in a converted textile factory, just three blocks from the university where I take my photography classes. Twelve million dollars, I later discovered, though he'd dismissed the figure with a wave of his hand when I'd gasped at the amount.
"It's an investment," he'd said. "And it's close to your school."
The real reason, I suspect, was to give me a space that was truly ours, something new we created together.
The garage door closes behind us, and before I can unbuckle my seatbelt, Enzo is out of the car and opening my door. His eyes have that intense focus that still makes my knees weak.
"Home sweet home," I murmur as he helps me from the car, his hands lingering on my waist.
"Not yet," he says, backing me against the sleek black door of the Lamborghini. "I'm not done with you yet."
His mouth finds mine in a kiss that steals my breath, his body pressing mine into the cool metal of the car. His hands slide down to grip my thighs, lifting me slightly.
"Upstairs," I gasp against his lips. "Please, upstairs."
I feel his smile against my mouth. "Always so polite, even when you're begging."
In the elevator, Enzo pins me against the mirrored wall, his mouth hot and demanding on mine. The cool surface shocks my bare back through the thin silk of my dress. His hands trace the curve of my hips, rough yet familiar.
"Every time you wear a dress," he murmurs against my lips, "all I think about is taking it off you." His teeth graze my bottom lip, sending sparks through my veins.
The elevator chimes at our floor. Enzo breaks the kiss but keeps one hand at my back as he guides me out.
Our loft unfolds before us—soaring ceilings with exposed steel beams, vast windows framing the glittering Chicago skyline, minimalist furniture bathed in moonlight. We barely make it through the door before he spins me, pinning me against the cool metal grain.
"My dress," I protest weakly as his mouth travels down my neck.
"Is replaceable," he growls, fingers already working at the zipper. The rasp feels deafening in the quiet space. "You're not."
The red silk pools at my feet, leaving me standing in nothing but lace panties and strappy heels. Enzo steps back, his hooded gaze drinking me in with such intensity it feels like a physical touch. I shiver despite the warmth radiating from him.
"Beautiful," he murmurs, his knuckles tracing the edge of one scar along my ribs—a cigarette burn from another lifetime. He does this often, mapping every mark with reverence rather than pity. "Every inch of you."
He strips off his jacket and tie with quick movements. I watch, entranced, as he undoes the top buttons of his dress shirt, revealing the intricate tattoo across his collarbone—sword through a black rose, prayer hands beneath. His hands are weapons. His hands are worshipped.
