Chapter 37
“We’ll see,” he rasped.
She smirked. Yea
They rinsed. Switched. He soaped her up next–slow, too slow, making it clear he hadn’t come down from whatever dark edge she’d pulled him to.
By the time they were dry, she was half–asleep leaning into his chest, wrapped in a towel she didn’t bother to tighten.
They padded through the penthouse, naked, damp, exhausted.
Into the bed.
Onto the mattress.
Tangled together in warm sheets and silence.
Enzo lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other curled around her waist.
She was half on top of him–leg tossed over his thigh, cheek against his chest. Her favorite position.
“Got work tomorrow,” she mumbled.
“Text them you’re sick.”
“Tempting. But I have a 10 a.m. appointment and a waitlist three months long.”
He didn’t argue. Not like she expected him to.
But she felt it–that shift in his chest, the protective tension curling beneath the calm. The possessive instinct. The wariness.
“You’re not gonna fight me on it?” she asked softly.
Enzo ran his fingers along her spine. “No.”
That surprised her. She blinked up at him.
That feels amazing. It’s so comforting and arousing.
It’s almost distracting me from the fact that this possessive man is….being understanding?
“I already told Dom and Marco to follow you. Keep their distance. Blend in. But you’ll be covered.”
Her chest tightened. Not in fear.
In something else.
Something dangerous.
“You’re a scary kind of sweet, you know that?”
His lips curved. “Only for you.”
Lola woke up with a little extra time before she had to leave.
1/3
Chapter 37
Enzo taking deep steady breaths, in heavy sleep next to her.
Lola slid out from the blankets carefully, shivering as cool air kissed her bare skin.
She tiptoed to her bag, fished out the black Sharpie from hell she kept on her keychain for spontaneous mischief (and menu edits), and padded back toward the bed like a cartoon villain.
Enzo didn’t even twitch.
With the grace of a gremlin on a mission, she climbed onto the bed, straddled his waist, and pressed one hand gently to his forehead to keep him still,
“Teach you a lesson on daring me to do anything,” she whispered, grinning. “I always follow through.”
She gave him the thickest, goofiest mustache known to man.
Handlebar. Full villain arc. A tiny swirl at the end for flair.
Then, for good measure, she added little triangle eyebrows.
He didn’t stir.
She capped the marker and sat back, admiring her work like it was a Renaissance masterpiece.
But as she climbed off and gathered her clothes–now neatly folded on the chair thanks to whoever decided to be husband–coded–her smile dipped.
She wasn’t gonna see his face when he woke up.
Ugh, that’s a gross feeling. Shake that shit off queen.
She stood at the bedroom door, fully dressed now, hair tied up, bag slung over one shoulder.
She looked back once.
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