42. Chapter Forty-Two

I finish drying myself off, grab my t-shirt, and put it on over my mostly-dried swimsuit. I've spent two full hours in the hot tub, and my muscles feel brand new. The last couple of weeks have been pretty boring. Enzo has kept mostly to himself, doing a lot of work in his office or leaving. He hasn't shared a meal with me. To think—if this were a real marriage, we'd have been on a honeymoon. But of course it doesn't, so instead, as a new wife, I'm moping around the house trying to find ways to keep myself busy.

I drop the damp towel into the hamper against the wall and stop to stare at the massage table. I've spent a lot of time in this spa room since I've been here, and this is the first time I've noticed different sheets on this massage table.

They were sky blue.

Now they're white.

Clean.

Changed.

Why?

Movement outside the door catches my attention. Enzo walks by but stops just before he's out of my view, looking down at his phone. Ear buds are in his ears, and I don't think he notices I'm in here.

His body is covered in a sheen of sweat, his tan skin flushed. His work-out shorts are so tight they should be illegal. He's been in the gym every day this week, though I'm not sure he should be. It's been only two weeks since the accident. I hope he isn't in there lifting weights. Though I worry about him pushing himself too far, too soon, I won't tell him that. I don't go in there and check on him to see what he's doing. He's a grown man. An adult. He makes his own decisions. Besides, I don't want him to think I care.

Because I shouldn't.

I shouldn't, but I can't help worrying about him every single day he goes out to do whatever it is he does.

As he stands there, doing whatever it is he's doing on his phone, I give myself the moment to enjoy the view. Enzo is hot as sin. His chest and stomach are heaving. His body is tense, his muscles thoroughly worked out.

I am suddenly very interested in this man.

And possessive, which makes no damn sense.

But it's why I open my mouth.

"Hey," I snap. He lifts his head and looks at me, frowning. He pulls an ear bud out, raising a brow. I gesture to the table. "You get massages?"

"Twice a month," is his answer. Simple. Just a few words to answer my question.

Well, that infuriates me.

It must show.

He smirks, stepping into the room and eyeing me carefully.

"Why?" I ask, tilting my chin up.

"My line of work isn't easy on the body."

I look him up and down, noting how much I like his body. How much I want to run my hands along it. I don't know why. Maybe it's because I haven't spent any time with him lately, so he hasn't been able to annoy me. Somehow, the way he makes me feel sexually is burned into my brain, but the way he annoys me? My brain seems to forget all about that. And it's been a while since Enzo has made me come, and maybe, just maybe, I'm finally at a point where I'm okay admitting I want my husband to please me. He is my husband, after all. And though he isn't a good one, considering I didn't get a wedding, a honeymoon, or even get to say I do, he is still my husband. I am still trying to get the man to trust me. I still want out of here.

But Enzo is hot, and he's opened me up to things I now crave. Like amazing orgasms.

I gesture to the table. "Lie down."

He raises a brow, but he doesn't question it. He walks in and puts his things on the table against the wall and lays back.

"On your stomach," I say.

He turns over.

I move to the shelf on the wall with all the lotion, and as I pretend to figure out which I want to grab, I take another moment to look at him. The sculpted muscles on his back, the curve of his ass, his thick legs. Jesus, he's so hot. How can one human look so good? Especially one who is such an asshole!

I squirt some lotion into my palm and put the bottle down on the small table near me. I lather my hands together before pressing them to Enzo's upper back and running them down his spine. His back is tight, especially his upper back, so I focus my attention there, running my fingers along the tense spots around his shoulder blades and up by his neck.

His breathing increases, and I swear I hear a few satisfied groans when I'm working on the left side. Makes sense, considering this was the shoulder that was dislocated. Everything feels okay, and other than the muscles being tense, it seems maybe he has been taking care of it okay.

And because there's something wrong with me today, I say, "I don't like the idea of women touching you."

He doesn't respond, so I keep working on his back.

"I'll give you massages from now on," I add, wondering if I'm pushing limits. Wondering why the hell I'm saying this at all. Has the Stockholm Syndrome finally set in? I've finally lost my mind, that much is certain.

"I need professional massages," he says, though I barely hear him with his face buried in the face hole.

I run my hands down his spine and back up, focusing around his shoulder blade again.

"I have my massage license."

It's not entirely true. I went through the schooling, but never finished to get my license. It's close enough, and that's all he needs to know. I move down his left side, doing some work on his lower back, before moving to the other side and doing the same. When I go back by his head to do some more work around his shoulders, he looks up at me.

"I didn't know," he says softly. Almost like it's an apology. Which makes no sense. Of course he doesn't know anything about me. Just like I don't know anything about him.

I nod and step around him so he'll stop looking at me like he wants to devour me, but his large hands grip my waist and tug me back in front of him.

"Are you jealous?" he questions. He drags his tongue along his lower tip, and I think of sinking my teeth into that lip.

Yes.

"No," I spit. "I just don't want an STI."

He looks like I've slapped him, but quickly recovers. I think he's going to say something but doesn't. I move out of his grasp.

I get more lotion and work on his thighs. He rests his head down, and I can't pull my gaze from his body as I work on his toned, tanned thighs. He has these little back dimples I didn't realize would be so sexy on a man. His ass is so firm and bubbly. Perfectly round, and Jesus, I want to bite it. What kind of thought is that? What would he do if I did that? He'd kill me. And that isn't an exaggeration. I think he may actually kill me.

"Turn over," I say, stepping back to grab the lotion. I hate that I wonder if he'll be hard when he does.

He rolls over, his eyes closed and a relaxed look on his face. He better keep his eyes closed because if he starts watching me, I may not be able to control myself. When I get more lotion on my hands, I turn to work on his chest, and that's when I notice it.

His hard-on. Big. Long. Thick. Right there for me to stare at. My jaw drops, but I shake out of it and dart my eyes to his. Thankfully, they're still closed. He doesn't seem to notice his dick is rock hard, staring me in the face. Maybe he doesn't know? Is that possible? Can guys' dicks get hard without them knowing?

I move back by his head and run my hands along his chest and down his pecks. I'm careful around his shoulder, focusing on the way he reacts to me when I put pressure on that spot. He winces a little but seems more relieved than in pain.

I go back for more lotion, but before I can reach it, his arm is wrapped around my waist again and he's pulling me on top of him.

"Enzo!" I growl, trying to get out of his grip, but he caught me off guard, and I am fully seated on his hips.

He's warm beneath me, and his dick is right there. Hard between my legs, pressing against my needy pussy. His fingers brush along my thighs in a gentle caress.

"Do you think so little of me to think I'd get hard over any woman who touches me?"

"I have no reason to think otherwise," I say, my words coming out raspy.

He smirks. "My masseuse is a man."

Oh…

I'll admit that gives me a small sense of relief. But I won't let him know that.

"You like men," I retort, letting him know it isn't an acceptable response.

"I like Rafael."

"Why is it different?"

He shrugs. "I don't know."

Such a simple response. A shrug and an I don't know. And here I thought everything that came out of his mouth had to be rude and smart. His gaze roams over my face, down my body, and focuses on where I'm sitting on him. I can't bring myself to look down and see how much of me is showing, but his hands on my thighs are like hot coals scorching my skin.

I run my hands up his abs and over his chest. "I still want to do it."

"You need to use more pressure," he says.

"I can do that."

He watches me carefully before nodding once.

I twist my body to get the bottle of lotion and squirt it directly on his chest. He hisses at the coldness, and I smirk as I rub it in. His hands grip my thighs tighter and he thrusts upwards, his dick pressing harshly against my clit and sending little shockwaves of pleasure through my belly. My eyes fall closed, and I scrape my nails down his chest. He groans a low raspy sound that has my pussy aching for him.

Taking in a slow breath, I open my eyes and keep massaging his chest, focusing on his deltoids because they're tense, especially on the shoulder that was hurt.

"Harder," he says.

I apply more pressure but am careful. I don't want to hurt him and set back his healing. Dislocated bones aren't anything to mess around with.

"Harder, angel," he says, thrusting up into me again. His fingers bruise my skin, and my stomach does a somersault.

"I don't want to hurt you," I whisper.

"I'm not fragile."

"You're recovering from an injury."

"Go harder or I'll call Jon right fucking now."

I assume Jon is his masseuse.

Fuck Jon.

I dig harder. His lips part, head digging back as he sucks in a breath. His brow furrows, this intense look on his face as he lets out a low satisfied groan that has me soaked.

"Yes, angel," he rasps out. "Just like that. Keep going. Fuck, that feels so good."

His words, though meant about the massage, are so erotic. That should be reason enough to make me stop, but I keep going. And because I'm already so far gone, I rock my hips along his dick as I work on his shoulder. I'm so wet, so unbelievably wet, and I want him to call me out on it. I shouldn't be doing this, but I can't stop. I love the way his body feels, love the way he sounds. Everything about him is so masculine and powerful. His presence is so big, and it makes me feel—it just makes me feel.

Enzo doesn't hide that he's enjoying this. His hands grip me tightly, and his breathing and sounds of satisfaction are like music to my ears. The fact his dick is throbbing makes it all so much better. I move down his chest and focus on his abs. This isn't part of a normal massage; I just want to touch them.

"You didn't do my glutes," he says after a moment, and I look up to see him watching me, his eyes hooded and full of lust.

"Roll over," I say as I get off.

He smiles as he does.

I like him like this. Nice, a little flirty. It makes me think things between us could be normal. I dry my hands on the towel so I don't get lotion on his pants, and use my fingers to press into his glutes, which are more tense than I thought they would be. Touching his ass is weird in a way, but also enjoyable. It's firm but soft, which is so unlike the rest of him. And as I push down, I wonder if the pressure I'm applying is affecting his dick. Does he like it? Does it feel good?

I live in this happy little bubble for a little while. I get through both of his glutes before I remember it doesn't matter if he is nice, flirty, and things seem normal. Because they aren't. Because I'm being forced to stay here. I'm a payment to him. Nothing but a transaction. That thought sobers me and has me not enjoying rubbing his ass like I was a few moments ago. But apparently nowadays, I'm a glutton for punishment because I don't stop. My body is humming with need, and I'm hoping this massage turns into Enzo getting me off because I love when he does that. I don't care if he's an asshole. He's an asshole who's good with his hands, and good at reading my body. And I'll take whatever good-feeling stuff I can, because there isn't much anymore.

And what makes me feel less guilty about this are his words floating through my head.

There are no limits to what I'll do for my wife.

That has my heart squeezing in my chest, wondering if everything with us could be okay. Enzo's phone dings, pulling me from my ridiculous thoughts. He grabs it, checks it, and calls someone.

"What's going on? Okay. Right now? Yeah, downstairs. Okay."

He ends the call. "I have to go," he says carefully, and it's like a bucket of ice water over my head, solidifying every concern I have.

Yes, Enzo may make me feel good physically, but he'll never be what I need. He'll never be the husband I deserve, because Enzo is a bad man. He's in the damn mafia, and that means my happiness will never come first. Only his will.