Chapter 8: Ruler of the Sheets
The safehouse bedroom held the chill of the river dawn. Enzo slept like the dead, one heavy arm flung across Sofia’s waist, pinning her to the mattress. She lay watching the tinted window lighten from black to bruised purple. His words from the night before circled in her head like carrion birds. The cost of the air you breathe.
His body, however, told a different story. Even in deep sleep, he sought her. His face, softened by exhaustion and rid of its cutting fury, was buried in her hair. The cut on his jaw was an ugly, raised line.
And then, there was the insistent, thickening pressure against the curve of her backside. He was hard, a dense, persistent heat seeping through the thin silk of her panties and his boxers. A primal, half-asleep rhythm had begun, a slow, grinding rock of his hips. A low groan vibrated against her shoulder blade.
Her own body responded instantly, a slick, aching readiness that shamed her with its speed. She tried to shift, but his arm tightened, a band of iron.
“Don’t move,” his voice was a sleep-roughened rasp against her skin.
His hand slid down from her waist, over the plane of her stomach, and under the elastic of her panties. His fingers, blunt and sure, found her wetness immediately. He grunted, a sound of pure, male satisfaction.
“Dreaming of this,” he mumbled, his fingers sliding through her folds, circling her clit with a lazy, proprietary familiarity. “Dreaming of this tight little cunt waking up hungry for me.”
She arched into his touch, a small, helpless sound escaping her. The contrast was dizzying: the tender vulnerability of his sleeping face, the violently possessive words, the expert ministrations of his hand. He worked her with a sleep-slowed precision, his own hips never ceasing their steady push against her ass.
“Enzo,” she breathed.
“Shhh. Let me feel you.”
His fingers plunged inside her, two thick digits curling upwards, and Sofia gasped, her hand flying back to clutch at his hip. He fucked her with his hand, the rhythm deepening, matching the roll of his own hips. She was climbing fast, too fast, the remnants of last night’s use making her hypersensitive, raw.
Suddenly, he stilled. He withdrew his hand, bringing his glistening fingers to her lips. “Taste,” he commanded, his voice now fully awake.
She opened her mouth, and he slid his fingers in, watching her suck them clean with dark, hungry eyes. The taste of herself, mixed with the faint salt of his skin, was profoundly intimate.
With a sudden, powerful movement, he flipped her onto her stomach. The silk sheets were cool against her flushed skin. He yanked her panties down to her thighs, his hands gripping her hips, hauling her back onto her knees. He loomed over her, a wall of heat and intention.
She felt the broad, blunt head of his cock nudge against her from behind. He spat once, roughly, guiding himself. There was no preamble, no gentle easing. With one relentless thrust, he buried himself to the hilt.
The air fled her lungs in a punched-out cry. He was so deep she felt impaled, stretched to a breathtaking limit. He held himself there, letting her body shudder and adjust around the overwhelming invasion.
“Christ,” he hissed, his hands kneading the flesh of her ass. “Even like this. Like a fucking glove.”
He began to move, and the world narrowed to the brutal, perfect friction of his stroke. Each withdrawal was a tease, each plunge a conquest. He set a punishing pace, the slap of his skin against hers loud in the sterile room. One hand gripped her hip, the other tangled in her red hair, not roughly, but firmly, holding her in place, arching her back to take him even deeper.
“Is this what you were thinking about?” he growled, driving into her. “While you were touching yourself on my command? Thinking about me filling you up just like this?”
“Yes!” she cried, the word muffled by the pillow.
“Say it. Say you thought about my cock.”
“I thought about your cock!”
“Beg for it.”
“Please,” she sobbed, her fingers scrambling for purchase in the sheets. “Please, Enzo, don’t stop.”
He groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated triumph. He shifted his angle minutely, and the next thrust brushed a spot inside her that ignited a white-hot wire of pleasure. She came suddenly, violently, her internal muscles clamping around him in rhythmic pulses that tore a ragged scream from her throat.
His control snapped. With a final, brutal series of drives, he emptied himself into her with a guttural shout, his whole body stiffening, then collapsing heavily over her back, crushing her into the mattress. His breath was scorching on her neck. They were both slick with sweat, a tangled, breathing mess.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of their ragged breathing mingling. He finally rolled off, pulling her with him, tucking her back against his chest. He nuzzled the sensitive skin behind her ear.
“I measured you,” she whispered into the silence, the confession bubbling up from some hazy, pleasure-drunk place.
“What?”
“This morning. Before you woke up. With my hand.” She demonstrated, wrapping her fingers around his wrist where it rested on her stomach. “You’re thicker. Than my… my favorite toy ever was.”
A rumble started in his chest, a genuine, surprised laugh. He shifted, turning her to face him. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, the darkness momentarily banished. He looked younger. “Is that so?”
She nodded, feeling a blush creep up her neck.
He kissed her, slow and deep, a languid, possessive exploration. “Good,” he murmured against her lips. “Now you know nothing else will ever fit.”
The moment of softness evaporated as the untraceable phone buzled on the nightstand. Enzo’s body went rigid. He snatched it up.
“Talk.”
He listened, his face hardening into its familiar granite mask. Sofia watched the transformation with a sinking heart. The man who had just laughed and kissed her was gone, replaced by the Boss.
“He’s where?” A pause. Ice formed in his eyes. “No. Let him wait. Let him sweat. I’ll be there in ninety minutes.” He ended the call and swung his legs out of bed, the muscles in his back rigid.
“What is it?” Sofia asked, sitting up, the sheets pooling around her waist.
“Vito.” The name was a curse. “He’s at the social club. Demanding an audience. Doesn’t accept that his wife’s ‘tragic accident’ was an accident.” Enzo ran a hand through his dark hair. “The dumb fuck is making noise. The wrong kind of noise.”
He stood and walked naked to the fortified window, staring out at the bleak river view. “A grieving man is a dangerous man. Not because he’s smart, but because he’s got nothing left to lose.” He turned to her, his expression unreadable. “Marco will bring you your things from the apartment. You’ll stay here.”
“For how long?”
“Until I decide it’s over.” He began to dress with swift, efficient movements, pulling on a fresh black suit from the hidden closet. “This is the part you don’t get to argue about, Sofia. This is the cost. Vito’s not smart enough to come for me directly. But a pretty girl who walks to the market for flowers? That’s a message he’d understand.”
The cold logic of it settled in her gut. She was a soft target. A point of leverage.
He finished buttoning his shirt and came to stand before her, cupping her chin. His thumb stroked her cheek. “You are mine. That means I keep what’s mine safe. Even from my own. Especially from my own.” He kissed her forehead, a gesture so strangely paternal it made her throat tighten. “Use the phone. Order anything you want. Just do not open that door.”
He left without another word. She heard the muffled exchange with Marco in the other room, then the finality of the locks re-engaging.
The spacious, bulletproof apartment felt smaller now. Colder. She showered, the hot water not reaching the chill inside her. She thought of Vito, a man she’d never met, gripping a photo of a woman with missing fingers, his grief curdling into a reckless anger. She thought of Enzo, walking into a room where that anger waited.
She wrapped herself in a robe and stood at the window. Somewhere out there, in a fogged-in social club that smelled of cigars and stale espresso, the man who could make her scream with pleasure was going to decide whether another man lived or died.
And her safety, the very air in this sterile room, hung on that decision.