Page 81 of His Enemy's Daughter
“Exactly.” I finally look up, letting my gaze travel over him with deliberate appreciation. “Working. Just like I’m working now on securing supply chain agreements that will triple our profit margin.”
“It’s Saturday.” He plucks the laptop from my hands with the confident ease of someone who knows I won’t actually protest. “In Sicily. In July. And you’re sitting inside reviewing contracts instead of enjoying the fact that we own a villa with a private pool and no one is trying to kill us.”
“I was enjoying it.” But I’m already standing, drawn by the promise in his storm-gray eyes. “I enjoy building things. Creating something legitimate from the ground up.”
“I know.” His hands find my hips, pulling me close enough that I can smell salt and sunscreen and the cedar scent that’s become synonymous with home. “It’s one of the many things I love about you. But even empire builders need breaks.”
“Is that what we’re building?” I loop my arms around his neck, feeling three months of peace and partnership settle warm in my chest. “An empire?”
“A business.” His correction is gentle, thumbs tracing circles on my hipbones through the thin fabric of my sundress. “Legitimate import-export operations, warehouses, shipping contracts. Nothing that requires looking over our shoulders or wondering when federal prosecutors will come knocking.”
“Boring,” I tease, even though the normalcy is exactly what I craved after twenty-eight years of living in a criminal organization.
“Profitable.” He walks me backward toward the terrace doors, his intent clear. “Sustainable. Ours.”
The last word carries weight that has nothing to do with business. Three months of building something together—not just the import company that’s already showing impressive returns, but a life that’s chosen rather than inherited. Morning coffee on the terrace overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea. Afternoons spent reviewing contracts and negotiating deals with suppliers who don’t know our history. Evenings cooking together in a kitchen that’s seen more laughter than violence.
“I like that word,” I admit, letting him guide me through the villa’s sun-drenched interior toward the back terrace and pool beyond. “Ours.”
“Good.” He pauses at the threshold, framing my face with hands that have built as much as they’ve destroyed. “Because I’m not interested in sharing you or what we’re creating. Not with ghosts from the past or obligations to organizations that aren’t ours.”
“Possessive.” But I’m smiling, rising on my toes to brush my lips against his jaw where the scar catches afternoon light. “I like it when you’re possessive.”
“I know.” His smile turns dangerous, predatory. “I also know you’ve been sitting at that laptop for six hours straight, building our empire one contract at a time. And while I appreciate your dedication...”
“You think I need a break?” I arch an eyebrow, challenge clear in my tone.
“I think you need to remember that we didn’t survive everything we survived just to spend every waking moment working.” He scoops me up with fluid grace, and I laugh—bright and genuine and free in a way I never was before. “Sometimes you need to just... exist. Enjoy being alive.”
“And how do you propose I do that?” As if I don’t already know, don’t already feel the heat building between us like it has every day since we arrived in Sicily and claimed this life as ours.
“I have some ideas.” He carries me through the terrace doors into the late afternoon sunlight that paints everything gold. The pool stretches before us—infinity edge overlooking the sea, water so blue it rivals the sky.
“The pool?” I thread my fingers through his silver hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp in a way that makes his grip tighten. “We have a perfectly good bedroom.”
“We’ve used the bedroom.” He sets me on the pool’s edge, hands already finding the hem of my sundress. “Multiple times. Very thoroughly.”
“And the kitchen. And the office. And the terrace at sunset.” I lift my arms, letting him pull the dress over my head to reveal the bikini I’m wearing underneath—emerald green that matches my eyes. “You’re insatiable.”
“Only for you.” His gaze travels over me with heat that’s become familiar but never loses its edge. “Three months and I still can’t keep my hands off you.”
“Good.” I slide into the water, gasping slightly at the temperature contrast. “Because I’d be concerned if domesticity had dulled your interest.”
“Never.” He follows me in, water rising to his waist as he stalks toward me with predatory grace. “Domesticity just means I get to have you in new and creative locations.”
“How romantic.” But my breath catches as he reaches me, hands spanning my waist and pulling me flush against him.
“I have my moments.”
His mouth finds mine, and I moan against his lips—three months and this still feels like discovery. Like I’m learning the shape of him with every kiss, every touch, every time he sinks into me and makes me whole again.
“Regina.” My name on his lips is a prayer, a curse, a claim. “You’re everything.”
I wrap my legs around his waist, arching against him as his hands explore wet skin, finding all the places that make me tremble. This is what we survived for—not the money or the revenge or the satisfaction of destroying monsters. This. Afternoons by our pool in Sicily, where the only danger is drowning in each other.
His cock fills me in one smooth thrust that makes us both gasp, water buoying us as I rock against him, finding a rhythm that’s familiar and new each time. His hands grip my hips, guiding movements that build pleasure in waves that threaten to overwhelm.
“You feel—” He breaks off, forehead resting against mine as I tighten around him. “Christ, Regina. You always feel like coming home.”
