Page 38 of His Enemy's Daughter
“Then show me.” Challenge enters my voice. “Stop telling me all the reasons this is a bad idea and show me what happens when Mauricio Barone stops holding back.”
The kiss that follows is answer enough—consuming, possessive, stripping away every pretense we’ve been maintaining. His hands find the zipper of my jacket, and I arch into his touch, desperate for more contact, more heat, more of everything I’ve been denied for twenty-eight years.
“Regina.” My name sounds like prayer and profanity combined. “If we do this—”
“We’re doing this.” I silence his protests with another kiss, one that leaves no room for doubt. “No more talking. No more warnings. Just us.”
He surrenders then—completely, finally—and the world narrows to nothing but sensation: his mouth on my skin, his hands learning every curve, the heat building between us until thought becomes impossible.
“God, Regina—” His voice breaks as I undo his belt buckle, fingers brushing against him with deliberate intent. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
“Maybe we’ll both die.” I pull him closer, needing more. “But at least we’ll die feeling something real.”
The table creaks in protest as he shifts, lifting me like I weigh nothing. My back hits the cool surface, and his body covers mine, solid and protective and terrifyingly overwhelming.
“Look at me.” When his voice demands my attention, I obey, captivated by the storm-gray intensity of his gaze. “This changes everything.”
“Good.” I pull him down for another kiss, pouring all my desperation and hope into it. “I hate everything.”
His response is wordless—hands and mouth answering in ways language can’t. My jacket hits the floor. His shirt follows. Each piece of clothing stripped away reveals more heated skin, moreplaces to explore, more proof that we’ve been starving for this contact.
The first touch of skin against skin sends a shiver of electricity through me. My fingernails scrape down his back, and he makes a sound low in his throat that goes straight to my core. Every touch, every kiss, every movement is both a revelation and a homecoming—like I’ve been waiting for this without knowing what I was waiting for.
“You’re so beautiful.” His hands trace the curve of my waist, the arch of my hips, learning my body with an attention that makes me ache. “But you already know that.”
“Not like this.” I catch his face, forcing him to look at me. “Not when someone sees me instead of just looking.”
Something vulnerable flashes across his features before being banked beneath desire. “I see you, Regina. I’ve seen you since the moment you walked into that coffee shop pretending to work while actually watching the door.”
“And I saw you.” My hands slide into his hair, pulling him down. “The man who survived fifteen years and still found something worth protecting. The man who looks at me like I’m worth saving.”
“You are.” His mouth trails fire along my collarbone. “Even when you’re being reckless and stubborn and refusing to listen to reason.”
I chuckle and pull him closer. “Just fuck me already.” Even as the words escape, I know they aren’t what I really want.
“I’ll do more than that.” His eyes darken with dangerous promise. “I’m going to ruin you for every other man. I’m going to make you forget what it feels like to be touched by anyone who doesn’t worship every inch of your skin.”
The possessiveness in his voice should alarm me. Instead, it makes me wetter, desperate for him to follow through on that promise.
“Talk is cheap.” I challenge him with a smile. “Show me what you’ve got.”
His laugh is dark velvet. “Careful what you wish for, Regina.”
Then he’s moving lower, mouth exploring places no one has touched with this kind of reverence. My head falls back against the table as he spreads my thighs, his fingers finding me already slick with wanting.
“Look at you.” His voice is rough velvet. “So responsive. So ready. Has anyone ever really taken their time with you?”
The question makes my chest tighten. I’ve been touched before—experimental encounters in college, clumsy attempts at connection that always felt like performance—but never like this. Never with this kind of focused attention that has nothing to do with his own pleasure and everything to do with mine.
“No,” I admit, voice barely a whisper.
“Then let me show you how it should be.” His tongue finds my clit, and I arch off the table with a gasp. “Let me show you what it feels like to be worshipped.”
Everything narrows to this—his mouth, his hands, the relentless precision of his touch. I’m shaking against the table, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until I can barely breathe.
“Mauricio—” His name is a prayer, a curse, a surrender.
He answers by intensifying his rhythm, driving me toward the precipice. Then—a deliberate edge of sensation—and I break apart, pleasure rippling outward in concentric waves that leave me breathless and shaking.
