Does It Hurt? (15)

Finally, he releases me, and I just barely clamp my mouth shut in time, catching the drool before it drips onto his face. I bite my lip, relishing in the way his nostrils flare as he watches me.

He doesn’t shy away from my gaze, although I can’t say the same for myself. It feels too intimate—too probing. Like maybe if he stares long enough, he’ll see that I’m the worst person he could’ve given himself to.

I look away, curling my lips into a lighthearted grin.

“That was…”

“Don’t insult me by condensing what that was down into a single word,” he cuts in, his deep voice hoarse.

“Okay,” I say simply, rolling off him and shuddering from the feel of his cum coating the inside of my thighs. Another thing that feels too intimate. “I won’t then.”

“Good.”

He’s still staring at me, and my flight instincts are beginning to kick in.

“Come home with me,” he says as if sensing that.

Normally, I feel relieved when I’m invited into their house, but this time, I feel nothing but sadness. The worst part is—it’s not enough to stop me. It’s not enough to override my desperation to survive.

“I’d be happy to.”





Chapter 5


Sawyer





The morning rays peek through Enzo’s curtains, which feels like a punishment. Maybe because my mood is the exact opposite of sunshine and rainbows.

Heart pounding, I carefully sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Enzo softly snores beside me, his arm tossed over his head and the sheets down to his waist.

It’s hard to swallow. A defined body with muscles, grooves, and divots that made my mouth water several times last night is on full display. And that perfect V that points directly to the weapon between his thighs.

We only fell asleep a couple of hours ago, and every time I shift, my body aches. My core aches.

The man was relentless and insatiable. His fingers and tongue were in places that had never been touched before, and even thinking about it now has my face burning hot.

I’m going to miss you.

But I need to survive more.

Steeling my spine, I gently slip out of bed, quickly gather my clothes, and yank them on.

Casting another glance at Enzo, I pick up his discarded shorts and rifle through them until my fingers close around his wallet. Smooth, black leather encasing his identity.

Enzo Vitale. Thirty-four years old. Born November 12th—Scorpio; Lord, help me. Six-four—so he is a foot taller. Hazel eyes. He’s as delicious on paper as he is in the flesh.

I never physically steal anything. It’s too noticeable. So, I snap a quick photo of it, then replace the wallet in his shorts. Before slipping out of the room, I give him one last glance-over, every beat of my heart ringing hollow. I hate that I’m doing this to him, but then I hate that I do this to anyone at all.

Softly closing the door behind me, I walk out into his living room and kitchen area.

He lives in a beautiful home—lots of white with brown wooden beams lining up the walls and across the ceiling. I was surprised to find that Enzo has good taste and interior design skills. Almost as surprised as he was when he discovered my lack of a gag reflex.

Tiptoeing through the space, I open random doors until I find my gold mine. His office. A simple wooden desk, black leather chair, and several diagrams of sharks hanging on the walls. Bookshelves line the wall behind his desk, full of textbooks that are most likely for smart people.

Adrenaline is racing through my system as I approach the desk and start rifling through the drawers. Nothing of value in any of them—until I tug on the bottom one, finding it locked.

What I need is definitely in there. There’s a small bobby pin hooked around the string of my bathing suit top. I always have one there. Always.

Slipping it off, I straighten it out and insert it into the lock. I’ve gotten pretty good at this, so within a minute, I’m carefully sliding the drawer open.

Pausing intermittently to listen for sounds, I dig through the contents, my heart spiking when I find a card that says Repubblica Italiana written across the top, with a bunch of numbers and letters below. I slip my phone from my back pocket and do a quick Google search, matching it to what’s called a tessera sanitaria. I’m not sure how to interpret what it says, but I can make out his first and last name, birthdate, and place of birth. I’m almost positive it’s the equivalent of a social security card in America and precisely what I need.

I also uncover an official document naming Enzo as the owner of a corporation labeled V.O.R.S., along with a business address.

Guilt tugs at my heartstrings as I quickly snap photos of them, close the drawer, and sidle out of the room.

God, I hope he thinks he just forgot to lock it, but I know better, which is why I will do everything in my power to never see Enzo Vitale again.



The loud banging on a door from somewhere nearby has my heart nearly bursting from my chest. I’m in the midst of bleaching my roots, so I toss the brush into the bowl and grab for my gun lying in the sink, adrenaline causing my vision to sharpen.

Breath short, I stare out past the entryway to the bathroom and at the door to my hotel room straight ahead, waiting for someone to bust through and take me away in handcuffs. Time ticks by, only nothing happens, yet there's no calming the thundering in my chest.