The room thrummed with the kind of silence that vibrates in the air like a struck chord—sharp, tense, and heavy—where even your own breathing felt too loud. The door clicked shut behind you, and you didn’t turn. You could feel him there—the weight of his stare like static, the deliberate stillness that always came before something reckless, like the moment a match flares before it catches.

Enzo didn’t speak. Not right away. You heard the faint rustle of leather as he shrugged off his jacket, the creak of wood as he took a slow step forward, his shoes a whisper against the floorboards. Still, you didn’t move.

He loved that. The defiance you wore like perfume, laced with tension, steeped in challenge. You could almost hear him smirking.

His breath touched your neck first, cool and deliberate, ghosting over your skin like a warning. Then came the brush of his knuckles along your jaw. Not harsh. Reverent. Teasing. Possessive.

"You’re quiet all of a sudden," he murmured, his voice pure velvet, lilting with that infuriating British drawl. It poured over you like warm honey, slow and mocking, thick with amusement. "Not so bold without an audience, are you, sweetheart?"

Your breath hitched before you could help it. The heat of him, the way he hovered without touching—like he was savoring the silence just as much as he savored the control—made your skin prickle.

His other hand slid around your waist, fingers spreading across your abdomen before pulling you back flush against him. The solid press of his body left no question about what you were doing to him. He made no effort to hide it.

"You know," he went on, his lips grazing your ear, "I only bite when I’m proud."

Your body jolted at the memory. Of the last time—teeth dragging down your shoulder, praise murmured into your throat until pain and pleasure were indistinguishable, bruises shaped like compliments.

"Are you proud of me now?" you asked, barely a whisper, your voice steadier than your pulse.

He chuckled low and warm, his chest vibrating against your back. You could feel his smile in the breath that danced across your skin, in the slow curl of heat that crept up your spine.

"Darling," he breathed, "I’m bloody thrilled."

Then his mouth was on your neck—open, wet, his kiss pressed just beneath your ear with a reverence that bordered on religious. You gasped, hands flying to the doorframe to steady yourself, nails scraping into the wood. He didn’t bite. Not yet. He sucked a bruise into your skin, slow and deliberate, his tongue smoothing over it in soft, cruel circles.

His hand splayed across your stomach, keeping you still, like he was staking a claim.

"You do like getting marked up, don’t you?"

His voice was low, dragging, each syllable soaked in affection and menace. His teeth grazed your throat, a breath away from biting.

"Such a pretty thing… always so eager to prove me right."

You whimpered.

He grinned against your pulse, and then—he bit.

Not deep enough to break the skin, but sharp—commanding in a way that spoke louder than any bruise. Possessive. Deliberate. It stole the air from your lungs, made your spine arch, your legs quake.

His tongue swept over the sting.

"Good girl," he whispered, the praise warm against your damp skin.

Your knees went weak at the words. The warmth they left behind spread lower, pooling hot and urgent. He knew what that praise did to you. He knew, and he wielded it like a weapon.

His hand trailed lower, ghosting over your hips, fingertips dancing at the waistband of your skirt.

"Now," he drawled, every syllable slow and devastating, "why don’t you let me show you just how proud I am?"

He nudged you gently forward until your thighs brushed the edge of the bed. His hands followed the curve of your waist, one palm trailing up your spine, the other smoothing over the back of your thigh as he pushed the fabric up inch by agonizing inch.

You sucked in a breath as cool air kissed your skin, the exposure deliberate, ceremonial.

His mouth returned to your neck, slower now, more methodical, like he was imprinting a map. His fingers dragged a path from your hip to the inside of your knee and back again.

"Every inch of you begging to be mine," he whispered.

You were.

And you’d let him prove it—bruise by bruise, praise by praise, until there was no part of you he hadn’t claimed. Until you forgot who you were without his teeth, his voice, his name marking every inch of you.

He stepped behind you again and pressed his chest to your back, fingers sliding beneath your skirt to hook into your panties. He peeled them down slowly, inch by inch, until they were bunched at your knees. His other hand splayed over your lower belly as he bent you forward, guiding your hands to brace against the mattress.

You shivered at the air against your exposed skin, thighs already trembling.

He didn’t touch you—not at first. Just stood there, letting you feel the weight of his gaze, his presence like a second skin.

Then his fingers dipped between your legs, sliding through the wetness with a low groan. "So ready for me," he murmured, reverent, almost awed.

He pushed two fingers in, slow but firm, curling them as he leaned forward to whisper against your ear. "Such a good girl for me… already so fucking perfect."

Your moan was muffled in the sheets.

He fucked you with his fingers until your hips rocked back against him, desperate for more, gasping with every thrust. He only stopped when you were a shaking mess, when your legs were nearly giving out from the tension wound tight inside you.

Then he pulled away.

You whimpered in protest.

But the sound cut off when you felt the thick press of him—bare, hot, unrelenting—at your entrance. He pushed in slow. Too slow. Letting you feel every inch, every stretch, every beat of his restraint. He bottomed out with a groan and paused there, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise.

"Fuck, you feel like heaven," he muttered, voice wrecked.

He drew back and snapped his hips forward with force, setting a rhythm that had the bed creaking beneath you, your breath punching out of you with every thrust. Praise spilled from his mouth between groans—filthy, sweet, relentless.

"Good girl. Taking me so well. Look at you. So perfect around my cock."

Your fingers clawed at the sheets as the coil inside you wound tighter and tighter.

You broke first. Your orgasm hit like a storm, wrenching a cry from your throat as your body seized around him. Enzo cursed low and pushed deeper, fucking you through it until you were shaking, wrecked.

He followed soon after, pulsing inside you with a low, breathless moan. He stayed pressed to your back, panting, lips brushing your shoulder.

"So proud of you, love," he murmured, nuzzling the side of your neck.