Dark Heart, Gentle Hands Chapter 21: you taste like sin

Enzo’s POV

He lowered himself between my legs with such slow, deliberate confidence that it sent a tremor down my spine. His eyes never left mine dark, intent, unreadable. It was as though he was watching for every twitch of emotion, every flicker of hesitation I tried to hide. His hands moved with practiced ease, slipping beneath the waistband of my pants and briefs. In one smooth motion, he pulled them down and off, baring completely before him.

The air hit my skin with a sharp chill that made acutely aware of just how exposed I was. Vulnerability crept in fast, coiling in my chest. My hands moved on instinct, trying to shield myself, to create so barrier between and the way he was looking at as if he could see everything, strip down to the soul. But he caught my wrists with ease and pinned them above my head against the mattress. The pressure was firm, not painful, but inescapable. My heart was thudding so hard it made my breath catch.

"You are beautiful," he said, his voice low, roughened by desire, "Let worship your body."

His words sank deep, almost painfully intimate. Worship. No one had ever said sothing like that to . Not with such reverence, not like they ant it.

He leaned down and kissed again, his lips insistent, his mouth coaxing mine open as he sucked and nibbled on my bottom lip. A whimper escaped , embarrassingly soft, as his free hand wrapped around my fully hard cock. His grip was warm, sure, and unhurried.

"Let make you feel beautiful," he murmured against my lips, "feel wanted."

And God, I did. Just from the way he touched careful, yet commanding. His strokes were slow, almost torturous in their precision, dragging pleasure out of in waves while his mouth moved down from mine, trailing kisses across my jaw, my throat, my chest. Each kiss left a mark, a promise etched in bruised skin.

He kissed over my ribs, my stomach, down the soft lines of my body, leaving a constellation of hickeys in his wake. I moaned, my back arching toward him, my senses frayed and barely holding. But then he paused. His hand stilled on my cock. His mouth stopped mid-kiss.

He was staring eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. I followed his gaze and knew imdiately. The hickey. The one from Dr. Olivier.

"I—" I started, throat dry.

"Shhh, it’s okay." His voice was soft, but laced with sothing darker. Possessive. He kissed the mark not gently, but hard. Then his teeth sank into it, sharp and deliberate.

I flinched. "Ouch! You’re only going to make it redder than it already is."

"That’s my intention," he growled against my skin. "I’m the only one allowed to adorn your body with hickeys. If anyone else does, then I need to replace them with mine."

The possessiveness in his voice wasn’t masked. It wasn’t subtle. It was raw, and it slamd into like a wave. The look in his eyes dark, primal, claiming made my breath stutter and my entire body flush with heat.

"Okay..." was all I could manage to say, breathless and trembling.

Without another word, his hand resud its movent, stroking again, this ti firr, more insistent. My hips jerked up into his grip, helpless to control the way my body responded. Gasps and sighs spilled from , filling the room with the sounds of my unraveling. He watched fall apart with unwavering focus, like it was a gift he’d been waiting to unwrap.

Then he moved down again, his mouth now dangerously close, his breath ghosting over the very center of my need.

And I was completely, devastatingly his.

His mouth found my dick he started with the tip, tongue swirling, teasing, making squirm beneath him. I gasped, the sound slipping out before I could catch it. He smiled against , clearly pleased with the reaction, and then took more of into his mouth, slow and deep, until my back arched off the bed.

My hands strained where he held them above my head, my fingers curling, needing to touch him, to anchor myself to sothing as the heat built rapidly inside .

"Please," I whispered, unsure if I was begging him to stop or to keep going. Maybe both. Maybe neither.

He didn’t answer with words his reply was a moan, low and deep, sending vibrations up my length that made my thighs tremble. He was relentless, alternating between long, wet strokes and soft kisses along the base, the kind of attention that made feel like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.

"You taste like sin," he murmured against my skin, dragging his tongue along a vein that made twitch in his grip.

"You’re going to kill ," I panted, chest heaving, legs barely able to stay still.

"No," he said, licking his lips, his eyes full of fire and tenderness, "I’m going to make you live."

Then he took again, deeper this ti, and I lost my mind. My vision blurred, stars burst behind my eyelids, and I was nothing but a ss of need under his hands and mouth. The build-up was unbearable slow, drawn out, and cruel in its perfection.

I ca hard, with a broken cry, his na leaving my lips like a prayer, or maybe a curse I couldn’t tell anymore.

He didn’t stop until I was trembling, twitching, until I was too sensitive to handle even the brush of air against my skin. Only then did he crawl up beside , his lips soft on my temple.

I turned my face into his neck, trying to catch my breath.

"You’re mine," he said, not possessive just sure. Like a truth that didn’t need explanation.

I nodded against him. Because sohow, deep in my bones, I already knew. I always had been.

"Now sleep little human." He whispered in my eyes and like an obedient puppy I caved in.