Chapter 20: Commuter's Delight
The car smelled of leather and rain. Outside the tinted windows, the city blurred into streaks of neon and haloes of streetlight. Sofia watched it all from the backseat, her hands folded in her lap, feeling the phantom ache between her legs from the night before. The permission to return to the café felt less like freedom and more like a tether being lengthened. She was still on the leash. Marco, a silent mountain in the driver’s seat, was its manifest end.
Enzo sat beside her, a contained storm in a tailored suit. He hadn’t spoken since they’d gotten in the car. He was reading something on his phone, the blue light etching harsh lines into his face. The quiet was oppressive, charged with everything unsaid.
She shifted, the soft wool of her skirt brushing her thighs. It was a simple outfit, one she’d chosen herself from the closet he’d filled: a cream-colored sweater, the charcoal skirt, knee-high boots. Normal clothes. A costume for normalcy.
His voice, when it came, was a low vibration in the close space. “Nervous?”
“No,” she said, too quickly.
He slid the phone into his inner pocket and turned to look at her. His gaze was a physical weight. “You should be.”
“Why? Because you’ll have Marco shoot anyone who smiles at me?”
“Because you’ve gotten used to the silence of the penthouse. The noise will feel different now.” He reached over, his fingers brushing the pulse point at her wrist. It jumped under his touch. “You’ll remember what you left behind. And you’ll wonder if it’s still there for you to pick back up.”
His insight was a needle slipped between her ribs. She turned her hand, let her fingers thread through his. A small rebellion of connection. “I’m just going to make coffee, Enzo.”
“You’re going to walk back into a life where Lorenzo Mancini doesn’t exist. Where I was just a man who liked his espresso black.” His thumb stroked her palm, a contradictory caress. “I wonder which one of us will find that harder to stomach.”
The car took a smooth turn. Marco’s eyes never left the road.
Enzo’s mood shifted suddenly, the contemplative stillness burning away into something darker, more immediate. The hand holding hers tightened. “Come here.”
It wasn’t a request. He pulled her by the wrist, forcing her across the smooth leather seat until she stumbled against him. He guided her onto his lap, her back to his chest, her skirt riding up. She could feel the hard ridge of his erection already pressing against the cleft of her ass through his trousers.
“Enzo, we’re in the car,” she hissed, a glance forward at Marco’s implacable back.
“And you’re on my cock,” he murmured into her hair, his hands sliding up her thighs, pushing the skirt to her waist. His fingers hooked into the lace of her panties. “These are in the way.”
He didn’t peel them off. He yanked. The delicate lace tore with a sharp, ripping sound that seemed absurdly loud. He balled the ruined fabric and shoved it into the pocket of his suit jacket. His palm returned to her bare skin, possessive and warm.
“Marco,” Enzo said, his voice perfectly calm.
“Boss.”
“Take the long way. Through the warehouse district. Now.”
“Yes, sir.” The car accelerated smoothly, then took a sudden, sharp left. Sofia gasped, her balance failing, and fell back fully against Enzo’s chest. He took the opportunity to unzip his fly, freeing his cock. It sprang hot and heavy against her lower back.
“You wanted normalcy,” he whispered, his lips against her ear. His hands gripped her hips, lifting her slightly. “But you belong to me. So you’ll walk into that café with the feel of me still on you. With my cum leaking out of this pretty, tight cunt and down your thighs. A reminder. For you. And for me.”
He positioned the blunt, broad head of his cock at her entrance. She was wet—a traitorous, instantaneous response to his crude words and the illicit danger of the moving car. He didn’t push. He waited, making her feel the insistent pressure.
“Do it,” he commanded, his voice a gravelly rasp. “Take me. Take me in front of my driver. In the back of my car. Show me how much you want your old life back, Sofia.”
A cocktail of shame and white-hot desire flooded her veins. She pushed down.
He was thick, and the angle was awkward, forcing a slow, stretching invasion. A low groan escaped him as her body swallowed him inch by inch, until she was fully impaled, sitting in his lap with him buried to the hilt inside her. She felt impossibly full, speared. She clenched around him instinctively.
“Fuck,” he breathed. His hands clamped on her hips like vices. “Now ride.”
He helped her, his strength setting a brutal, bouncing rhythm, forcing her to take his length over and over. Each downward plunge drove him deeper, a claiming that was as psychological as it was physical. The car hit a pothole, jolting them, and he thrust up hard to meet her fall, knocking the air from her lungs.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his control fraying fast. One hand snaked around to her front, fingers digging into the soft flesh of her lower belly, as if he could feel himself moving inside her. The other hand fisted in her hair, pulling her head back to expose her throat to his teeth. “This is what you are. Mine. My fuck. My property. Even when you’re steaming milk and smiling at customers, you’ll feel this. You’ll feel me.”
His words were filthy, degrading. They should have curdled her blood. Instead, they fanned the fire in her core. The slapping sound of their joining, the wet, rhythmic squeak of leather, Marco’s utterly focused driving—it all coalesced into a frenzied, taboo symphony. She let her head fall back against his shoulder, her own hips beginning to meet his drives, taking her own pleasure from the grinding, deep friction.
“I’m gonna come,” she panted, the coil tightening beyond bearing.
“You come when I tell you to come,” he snarled, but his own rhythm was becoming erratic, desperate. He pinched her clit through the fabric of her sweater, a sharp, bright pain that sent her spiraling over the edge.
She cried out, her body seizing, clenching around him in violent, fluttering waves. The orgasm ripped through her, sharp and overwhelming.
The feel of her tightening on him was his undoing. With a raw, guttural sound that was stripped of all polish and power, he slammed her down onto him one final time and held her there. She felt the hot, urgent pulse of his release deep inside her, flooding her, marking her as he’d promised. He shuddered through it, his forehead pressed against her temple, his breath ragged and hot on her skin.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of their breathing and the hum of the engine. He softened inside her but didn’t move to separate them. His arms, slick with sweat, tightened around her in an almost convulsive grip.
When he finally spoke, his voice was hoarse, stripped bare. “I hate the thought of you there.”
It was the most vulnerable thing he’d ever said to her.
The car slowed, pulling to a smooth stop. Sofia looked up, disoriented. They were idling across the street from The Daily Grind. The familiar green awning, the chalkboard menu she’d written herself. It looked smaller. Shabbier. A diorama of a past life.
Marco spoke, still facing forward. “We’re here, Miss Rossi.”
Enzo gently lifted her off him. The sudden emptiness was a chill shock. He tucked himself away, zipped his fly with methodical precision. He produced a clean handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her without looking at her. His face was a mask again, the moment of weakness sealed over.
She cleaned herself as best she could, feeling the sticky evidence of his claim trickling down her inner thigh. She smoothed her skirt down.
“Four hours,” Enzo said, staring out the window at the café. “Marco is right here. You look at him, you walk to this car. You do not linger. You do not make new friends. Understood?”
“Understood.” Her voice was steady, surprising her.
He finally looked at her. His eyes were unreadable, dark pools. He leaned forward and kissed her, hard and quick. It tasted like salt and possession. “Go.”
Marco was out of the car in an instant, opening her door, a looming sentinel. She stepped onto the familiar cracked sidewalk. The sounds of the city—the grind of a coffee grinder from inside the shop, the laugh of a passerby—felt alien, too sharp.
She didn’t look back at the car. She walked across the street, pushed open the door, and heard the familiar jingle of the bell.
“Sofia? Oh my god! You’re back!”
It was Chloe, her old manager, wiping her hands on her apron, her face breaking into a wide, genuine smile. The smile she’d once easily returned now felt like a difficult, foreign gesture. She felt the ghost of Enzo’s hands on her hips, the phantom ache of his teeth on her neck, the very real seep of his release inside her.
“Hey, Chloe,” she said, and the word sounded normal. It sounded right. “Yeah. Just for a few hours. Need me on the machine?”