Chapter 5 (Enzo)

Fuck!

The sound of her crying echoes through my apartment walls, and I should feel guilty. I should feel like the monster I am. But I don’t. Instead, all I can focus on is the memory of her body beneath mine, the way she fought against me with such raw, untamed passion. My cock strains against my jeans, and I curse under my breath. This is so fucking wrong.

I practically run to the bathroom, slamming the door behind me. The harsh fluorescent light flickers on, and I catch my reflection in the mirror – wild eyes, flushed skin, tattoos stark against my chest where my shirt's fallen open. I look exactly like what I am: a man losing control.

Gripping the edge of the sink, I try to steady my breathing. But all I can think about is her – those emerald eyes filled with defiance, those full lips trembling with both fear and anger. The way her curves pressed against me during our struggle. The softness of her skin under my rough hands. The plushness of her breasts, the way they heaved as she tried to catch her breath.

My mind races with vivid images – her nipples hardening beneath the thin fabric of her shirt, the delicate pink of her areolas visible under the strain. Her hips, firm and inviting, squirming under my grip as she tried to escape. Every detail is seared into my memory, making my blood boil with lust.

"Fuck!" I growl, turning on the cold water full blast. I splash it over my face, but it does nothing to cool the heat burning through my veins. I'm rock hard, aching, and filled with self-loathing for wanting someone I have no right to want.

The memory of her scent lingers in my nose – a mix of fear-sweat and something sweeter, more feminine. I can still feel the ghost of her body writhing against mine as I held her down. Even her resistance was intoxicating, the way she refused to submit despite being completely at my mercy.

My hand slides down my abs, following the trail of coarse hair disappearing into my jeans. I shouldn't be doing this. Shouldn't be thinking about her this way. But I'm already unzipping, already wrapping my hand around myself, groaning at the relief of contact.

In my mind, I see those fierce eyes looking up at me, but now they're dark with desire instead of hatred. I imagine her full lips parted, begging for me instead of begging for freedom. The fantasy is vivid – her pale skin flushed with arousal, her dark hair spread across my pillows, her curves bare and waiting for my touch.

I imagine her delicate fingers tracing the lines of my tattoos, her nails digging into my flesh as she pulls me closer. Her breasts, now bare, urgent for my touch. I picture my hands cupping them, feeling their weight, their softness, my thumbs circling her erect nipples. Her breath hitches, her back arches, and she lets out a soft moan that drives me wild.

My hand moves faster as the images flood my mind. I picture her fighting me with that same wild passion, but this time ending with her surrendering to pleasure instead of tears. The thought of making her moan my name instead of cursing it drives me closer to the edge.

Water drips down my face, my chest heaving as I chase my release. It's wrong, so fucking wrong, but I can't stop. Can't push away the thoughts of claiming her, marking her, making her mine in every way possible. The tension coils tighter in my gut as I imagine the sounds she'd make, the way she'd feel wrapped around me.

I picture the wet heat between her legs, her thighs parting to let me in. The slickness of her skin against mine, the tightness of her as I push deeper. Her body responding to mine with an urgency that matches my own. Her cries of passion echoing through the room, mingling with my own guttural groans.

When I come, it's with a muffled groan against my forearm, my whole-body shuddering. For a moment, everything goes white-hot and blank, and I'm free from the guilt and conflict. But reality crashes back almost immediately, and I'm left feeling even more disgusted with myself than before.

I clean up mechanically, avoiding my own gaze in the mirror. The satisfaction is already fading, replaced by a gnawing shame that sits heavy in my chest. What kind of man gets off thinking about a captive girl? A girl who's terrified, traumatized, and completely at his mercy?

But even as I try to shame myself, I know this won't be the last time. The attraction is too strong, too primal. She's under my skin now, and no amount of cold water or self-disgust is going to wash away the want.

Splashing more water on my face, I try to pull myself together. I need to stay professional, stay detached. She's just another job, another task from the family. Nothing more. I repeat this like a mantra, but even I don't believe it anymore.

Back in the bedroom, I strip off my sweat-soaked shirt and collapse onto my bed. Her cries have quieted now, but her presence still fills my apartment, my thoughts, my blood. As I stare at the ceiling, I know sleep won't come easy tonight. Not with her so close, yet so untouchable. Not with this hunger still burning in my veins, barely satisfied and already building again.

I close my eyes and try to focus on anything but her. But her image is burned into my mind – her lips, the curve of her neck, the softness of her abdomen. I picture my hands exploring every inch of her, my lips following the same path. The taste of her skin, the way it quivers under my touch.

My mind wanders to her hips, their perfect roundness, the way they fit in my hands. I imagine gripping them tight, feeling her grind against me. The friction between us growing hotter, more intense. Her wetness against my length, her body needing mine as much as I need hers.

Her breasts, so full and soft, begging for my mouth. The way her nipples would harden under my tongue, her breath hitching as I took them in my mouth. The taste of her, sweet and intoxicating, driving me wild.

I think about her thighs parting, her legs wrapping around my waist, pulling me closer. The way her heat would envelop me, gripping me tight. The sounds she'd make as I thrust into her, her cries of pleasure filling my ears.

Tomorrow, I'll need to be stronger.

Need to build better walls between us. But for now, in the darkness of my room, I let myself admit the truth – I want her in ways that go beyond the physical. Ways that could get us both killed if I'm not careful. And that's the most dangerous thing of all.

In the silence of the night, I can almost feel her presence beside me. I can almost hear her soft breathing, almost feel the warmth of her skin against mine. The fantasy is so vivid, so real, that for a moment, I lose myself in it. I let myself imagine a world where she wants me as much as I want her, where we can give in to this primal, all-consuming desire without any consequences.

But reality always finds a way to creep back in. The knowledge of our situation, of the danger we're both in, the lines we're crossing. I know I need to stay strong, to keep my distance. But the more I think about her, the more I realize how futile that might be.

The thought of owning her completely, of making her mine in every way possible, drives me to the brink of insanity. The idea of her surrendering to me, not out of fear but out of desire, is the most intoxicating thought of all.