Page 63 of Come Take Me Now

“Almost.” I stand and approach him. “You did too many of these,” I say, unbuttoning the three buttons to expose his inked chest.

“Really?”

“Yeah, the world wants to see your art.” I flatten the collar, and he’s watching my every movement. I take a step back while he tucks in his shirt and zips his pants. “How do I look?”

“Like I want to unzip you and take you right here, right now.”

“Later,” I tease.

I brush against his side as I walk by to get my shoes, black platforms. I’m not usually a heels girl, but when your date is seven inches taller than you are, you wear the damn heels.

“I think we might need to break those out a bit more often,” Enzo says, referring to my shoes.

“And let me guess…stockings too?”

He plants his hand on my ass. “Mm, now you’re speaking my language.”

I push back. “Come on, let’s go.”

Enzo borrowed his mom’s Escalade for tonight after saying he wished his Saab was running instead, but it’s still a project. He’s also not going to drink aside from maybe one drink when we get there, but I trust him to be the DD. He told me I deserved to let loose after all I did for him.

Later, we burst through the front door, laughing, loosened from a night of dancing and drinks.

“I told you not to take those heels off!” Enzo bursts with laughter. He grips my hips and pulls me across his lap, and we crash onto the bench in front of his bed. His thighs press into my chest and stomach. “But you don’t listen,” he says, suddenly more serious. His hand lands on my ass over my dress. Not hard, but enough to leave a sting. He does it once more, and I suck in a ragged breath.

Then everything snaps.

“Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop! Stop!” I cry out. He pulls me off his lap, and I settle on the floor in front of the bench, bringing my knees up to my chest. I wrap my arms around my knees to stop the shaking, but it doesn’t.

“Till, I–I don’t know what I did…” he stammers. I shake my head and press my forehead into my forearms, and my tears moisten my forearms. “I’ll give you a minute.” His fingertips gently graze my bare shoulder, and I hear his footsteps soften as he exits the room.

I haven’t been spanked since I was a kid, and only my dad spanked me. Never my mother. Definitely never my stepfather. I know Enzo didn’t mean harm, but my skin holds the memory of being terrified of going to Dad’s house. Of what he’d do if I were too much for him to handle. It wasn’t my fault. It was my undiagnosed condition that made me a rambunctious kid. And Mom never believed me because his actions didn’t leave physical marks. Not by the time I went back to her house. But he left mental scars that I’ve repressed.

I need to tell Enzo, so he doesn’t feel like he did anything wrong. I like it rough with him, but he hasn’t done that before. A shudder whips through me.

Maybe I have daddy issues.

Enzo and I weren’t even born in the same decade, yet the fixation on him started instantly.

Oh, my God, I’m so fucked up.

And I need to get out of this fucking claustrophobic dress before I can face Enzo.

My legs feel heavy as I get to my feet again, and I fumble around until I grab the zipper to release myself from its tight confinement. I shed the thong, too. I just want complete comfort.

I dump my dress on the floor of his organized closet and run my fingers along his clothes until I land on a soft T-shirt. It’s an aged band tee, softened from years of being washed and worn, and it smells faintly like him. A little musky, a little fresh. I pull it over my head. The shirt goes past my butt, and the sleeves go to my elbows in the best oversized way. I catch a glimpse of myself as I turn to leave his closet, and my mascara has smeared under my eyes. But I don’t care to fix it.

I tiptoe down the steps, and I find Enzo sitting in the living room with his head in his hands. His shirt is unbuttoned now and pulled from his waistband to reveal his inked abs, and he glances up when he hears the bottom stair creak.

“Till, I’m sorry. I–,” he starts, but I interrupt him.

“You didn’t do anything wrong.”

I hear him exhale from across the room. “Oh, good. I was worried I hurt you,” he mumbles.

“No, you didn’t.” I sit across from him on the couch and pull my knees up to my chest.

“So, what’s going on?”