Page 106 of Twisted Vows

The command comes out rough and shaky, as if he’s barely holding himself together. “I want to see you.”

He starts slowly…like it’s not just sex. Like he’s trying to sew himself to my bones and etch his name into my soul. It scares me a bit that maybe me or this moment won’t be enough, that wanting this much is greedy and might end with me disappointed.

Each stroke of his cock stretches my walls in a perfect mash-up of demand and promise.

The friction adds gasoline to my nerves, burning me up all over again. I match every thrust, my hips lifting. I dig my nails into his back, leaving scratches that he’ll feel in the morning. There’s no telling where his groan ends and my moan begins. We create those noises together, loud and shameless, punctuated by the smacks of his groin against my ass.

Everything else? Gone. The Russians, the mafia drama, all the danger that used to sit heavy on my chest just evaporates.

It’s just the two of us, with our sweaty skin and harsh breaths.

Me and this amazing man…who’s driving his incredible cock through me like he’s hunting for the divine.

I feel as though I’m on the edge, standing over something far larger than life and ready to topple. Tears sting my eyes. My chest aches with emotion. It’s simply too much. Too good. As if the universe at last makes sense.

“You’re mine, Sophia,” he growls, rougher now, desperate, like he needs me to never forget it. “Mia. You hear me? Mine. I’ll keep you. I’ll protect you.”

My body just shatters as the wild and blinding orgasm overtakes me. I can feel him go with me while shouting my name and shaking apart. Then he collapses on top of me. Honestly, I want him here forever. I wrap myself around him and refuse to let go.

He looks at me, his eyes dark as midnight, and his face just breaks open. Softer than I’ve ever seen. His thumb traces my cheekbone. Worshipping. Trembling.

“Stay with me,” he mutters, his voice all wrecked. The words burrow right under my skin.

My throat closes, and more tears sting behind my eyes. Though I want to agree to that promise…with genuine intent…I can only nod.

That’s all I’ve got.

Eventually, he falls asleep. The house grows quiet and the waves hush as the night slips in softly. His face, finally relaxed, almost looks younger. I trace his hand, memorizing every rough callus.

But slow, cruel guilt creeps back in. Dante’s name flares in my chest like an old wound. I tell myself I’ll confess. Later. When it’s safe and the world isn’t this damn fragile.

I press my hand to Enzo’s heart and feel his loud, steady pulse. For one moment, I wish I could believe this is forever.

It feels real. Too damn real.

Deep in my gut, though, I know. In the mafia world, peace never lasts.

So I squeeze my eyes shut, soak in his warmth, and pretend, just for tonight, that the world outside isn’t about to burn.

Chapter 22

Enzo

The sea has been roaring all weekend. Not loud, but constant. The sound grinds against thought until it feels personal. The gulls scream. The wind cuts colder. The Hamptons are supposed to be quiet and peaceful.

Nothing about the stone in my gut is peaceful, though. Sophia’s still asleep, and I should be with her. But my jarred nerves have kept me out of bed every damn morning for the two days we’ve been here, pacing the terrace, chain-smoking, and watching the sun crawl up.

By the time she wakes, I’ve burned through half a pack.

Sophia floats through the house, soft as a ghost, her presence brushing against mine but never staying for long. She doesn’t ask what’s eating at me. She already knows the answer is ugly.

Since that night, we’ve orbited each other like fire and flint, close enough to spark but too afraid to ignite again.

Then my phone vibrates.

It’s Marco, who’s back at the Benedetti compound.

His tone is quiet and stripped down. “They finally noticed you’ve left the estate. He wants you.”