Page 79 of Ruined By Blood
Her thighs begin to tremble as I press one finger inside her, then two, curling them to find the spot that makes her cry out even louder. The wet heat of her clenches around my fingers, and I groan against her skin.
"OH GOD!" She screams, fingers twisted in my hair, pulling with an urgency that sends fire racing through my veins.
Her body tenses beneath me, and I know she's close. I increase the pressure of my tongue, the rhythm of my fingers, chasing her release like it's my own salvation.
Enzo's chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, his heartbeat a steady drum against my ear. We've been tangled together like this for what feels like forever, my body curved against his, his arm a protective band around my shoulders. The air smells like him—cedar and something distinctly masculine—mingled with the lingering scent of our lovemaking.
"You need to sleep," Enzo says, his voice a deep rumble I feel more than hear. His fingers trace lazy circles on my bare shoulder. "It's been a long day."
I make a noncommittal sound, unwilling to surrender to sleep just yet. If I close my eyes, this might vanish like morning mist. How strange that in the span of days, my greatest fear has become waking up to find this was never real.
"I'm fine," I whisper, though exhaustion pulls at every muscle.
"Stubborn," he says, but there's warmth in the word. His lips press against my forehead, and something tight in my chest loosens.
I stare at his tattoos in the dim light, my finger tracing the sword piercing through the black rose on his chest. Hours ago, I was telling him about my mother. Now we're here, skin against skin, my body still humming from histouch. The transition from nightmare to this feels impossible.
"This can't be real," I say before I can stop myself.
His hand stills. "What can't?"
"This. You." I flatten my palm against his chest, feeling his heart beneath my hand. "I keep thinking I'll wake up and be back in my father's house, waiting for the next client."
Enzo's arm tightens around me, possessive and protective all at once. "This is real, baby. I'm real." His voice drops lower. "And you're never going back there."
I want to believe him with a desperation that scares me. Hope has always been dangerous—a trap that made disappointment cut deeper. But here, wrapped in his warmth, it's hard to hold onto my cynicism.
"Sleep," he says again, his fingers resuming their gentle rhythm on my skin. "I'll be here when you wake up."
My eyelids grow heavier with each sweep of his hand. The steady thud of his heart becomes a lullaby, dragging me toward unconsciousness despite my resistance.
"Promise?" I mumble, already half-gone.
"Promise," he answers, and I feel his lips against my hair.
As sleep begins to claim me, I wonder if this is what safety feels like.
My last conscious thought is that even if this is a dream, I don't want to wake up.
CHAPTER 28
Ilead Sienna down the grand staircase.
"Hungry?" I ask, watching her face carefully. The bruise from Jackson's hand still marks her cheek, and a muscle in my jaw tightens at the sight. The memory of his body bleeding out on the warehouse floor last night should bring satisfaction, but it doesn't. Nothing will erase what he did to her. I haven't told her that I left while she was sleeping. I will tell her. But not now.
"Actually, yes." A small smile plays at the corner of her mouth. It's tentative but real, and something in my chest expands at the sight.
The kitchen is filled with morning light streaming through the windows. Ettore looks up fromthe stove as we enter, his weathered face betraying nothing as he notices Sienna's hand in mine.
"Buongiorno," he says with a slight nod. "Coffee is ready."
"Grazie, Ettore." I guide Sienna to the marble island, pulling out a stool for her. "What are you in the mood for? Ettore makes the best omelets this side of the Atlantic."
Sienna hesitates. "Just toast is fine."
"Piccola mia," I say, the endearment slipping out without thought, "you need more than toast. Something substantial."
Ettore busies himself at the stove, pretending not to listen, but I catch the minuscule lift of his eyebrow at my use of the endearment. I ignore him.
