Page 61 of Hexed
His breath is hot against my neck, and then his tongue swipes out like he’s desperate to drink me up. His mouth follows with a sensual kiss. And then another. And another, until he’s all the way down my body and his lips are skimming against the waistband of my sleep shorts.
I shift, and one of his hands leaves mine, his broad arm locking across my stomach until I’m pinned and unable to move.
A shot of arousal hits me, and I’m so wet, I wonder if it’s dripping onto the sheets and whether my thighs would get stuck together if he let them get close enough to touch.
They’re not, of course. Enzo’s frame is nestled between them, forcing them to spread so wide, the stretch causes an ache.
His tongue swipes out against the crease of my leg, and my toes curl. I try to stay still because even though he hasn’t told me to, itfeelslike there’s a silent command in the air, and he’s so good at manipulating my body, I just want to relax and let him do whatever he wants.
I’m wound so tight, I’m trembling, and when his nose brushes against the damp fabric of my shorts, right on top of my clit, my thighs slam shut around his head. He chuckles, and his hands shoot out, his fingers pressing into the muscle as he forces my legs back apart.
His nose brushes against my pussy again, and then he sits back and looks at me with a devilish grin beforeblowingon the fabric.
“Enzo,please,” I beg.
He hums and continues his torture, pressing featherlight kisses—so soft that I question if they’re real—right next to where I really need him.
He’s driving me crazy.
Those hands of his move from my inner thighs and slip beneath the hem of my shorts, fingertips gliding through the wetnesshe’s causing, like he knows it’s there just for him. My insides contract, and my spine stiffens as a shot of pleasure curls through me.
He makes a fist around my shorts with his other hand, right on top of my cunt, and then he leans in?—
Bzzzzz.
I shoot up in bed, strands of hair sticking to my clammy face from the perspiration beading along my scalp, my chest heaving from the breaths caused by my dream.
My clit is literally pulsing, I’m so close to coming.
Glancing around, I get my bearings. Small purple-and-black vanity in the corner, refurbished dresser by the door, bathroom to my right.
I’m at home, in my apartment, and the throbbing between my legs is from a damndream.
Groaning, I fall until my back bounces off the mattress, sinking into the Tencel sheets, and I run my hands over my face.
A sex dream about your cousin’s fiancé. Great, Venesa.
The worst part is, this isn’t the first time it’s happened. It’s been three days since Enzo was actually here, invading my space and wiping blood from my skin like I was something to be cherished, and dreams like this have happened every. Single. Night. Since.
I wish I could get him the hell out of my system, because this is dangerous. There are so many things he doesn’t know, so many things I’llnevertell him, and even if that weren’t the case, I don’tdothings like this.
Attachments.Likingsomeone. I’ve seen what happens when you latch on to someone else, when you make them your entire personality and let them slowly chip away at who you are until you’d do anything for them…even if it’s at the expense of yourself.
Or the kid you’re supposed to love more than anything.
Men like Enzo—dangerous, charismatic, intoxicating men—only drag you down, whip you around, and tear you apart until you’re nothing but crumpled pieces of paper being blown by the wind.
Getting emotionally attached is a death sentence, and while no one can outrun death, I plan to evade it for as long as possible. Besides, despite my dislike for Aria, I don’t actually want to steal her man.
It’s beneath me.
But alas, here we are.
Flashes of the dream parade through my memory, making the tension in my body wind tighter and tighter until I’m about to snap.
I’m not going to get anything done until I take care of this problem, so I give in to the images, closing my eyes and gliding my hand down my stomach slowly, trying to recreate the feel of my fantasy. But my fingers are too soft, too practiced, too comfortable.
Still, my clit’s pulsing in time with my heartbeats, already on edge from the eroticism of my imagination, so it feels good as hell when I slip the tips of my fingers through my folds, picking up some of the wetness that’s pooled between my legs and spreading it around as I start a circular motion against my clit.
