Accidentally Yours Chapter 28

**Lola**

(Still breathless. Still feral. Still not done.)

She should’ve been tired.

Should’ve collapsed sideways into that stupid expensive mattress and passed out face-first like a normal person.

But no.

Her body buzzed. Every nerve still tingling. Her thighs ached in the best way. Her lips were swollen. Her heart was wrecked.

And Enzo?

He was lying flat on his back, chest rising slow and heavy, hands still clenched in the sheets like he hadn’t recovered yet.

***I am going to be sore all over tomorrow.***

She liked him like this. Quiet. Open. Unraveled.

But she wasn’t done.

“Come on,” she whispered, brushing her fingers down his stomach. “Shower.”

He groaned like the thought of standing up was physically offensive.

“You’re trying to kill me.”

Lola smirked, sliding off the bed, still naked, still dripping.

“You’ll live, probably.”

He followed. Of course he did.

The shower was big enough for five people, but she pulled him close, kept him in her space—pressed against the tile with steam wrapping around them like silk.

Warm water hit her back. His hands found her hips. But this time, she didn’t let him lead.

She pushed him against the wall.

Enzo blinked down at her, surprised.

“Your turn,” she murmured, standing on her toes, mouth ghosting over his jaw.

His brow ticked up. “You gonna take care of me, tesoro (darling)?”

She smiled against his skin. “Better. I’m gonna make you mine.”

And before he could say another word, she sank to her knees.

He let out a soft curse, one hand bracing on the tile above him, the other tangled in her hair.

She didn’t tease.

Didn’t drag it out.

Didn’t need to.

Her mouth wrapped around him, slow and sure—taking him deep, sucking hard. He was already half-hard, sensitive from what they’d just done, but growing fast.

“Fuck, Lola,” he groaned, his head dropping back. “*Fuck—*you’re gonna ruin me.”

***That's the plan. You'll never be able to go back after I'm done with you.***

She used her hands to stroke what her mouth couldn’t reach.

Used her tongue like a weapon.

Felt him twitch and pulse and fight it.

But she didn’t stop.

Didn’t let him.

She wanted him wrecked.

Wanted her taste in his head every time he closed his eyes.

And just as he started to lose rhythm, just as his abs tightened and his thighs flexed—

She pulled back.

Enzo let out a wrecked sound, somewhere between a gasp and a growl.

“Lola—”

She stood. Slow. Slick with steam and sin.

Then she dragged her nails lightly down his chest. Pressed her mouth to his throat. Sucked. Hard.

Not gentle. Not delicate.

She bit.

Right at the base of his neck. Just above his collarbone. A mark no shirt could fully hide.

He hissed.

Then she dropped one hand between them and stroked him once. Tight. Hot. Wet from the water and her palm.

He came with a growl in her ear, hand clutching her hip so hard she knew it would bruise.

Perfect.

She licked the mark she left and whispered, “Mine.”

Enzo was still panting against the tile when she reached for the body wash.

He didn’t speak. Just blinked at her like she’d short-circuited his entire nervous system.

***Marvelous.***

She pumped a generous amount into her hands and turned him gently, dragging suds across his chest, shoulders, down his arms.

He let her.

Didn’t even try to stop her. Didn’t say a word as she knelt to wash his thighs, calves, feet—the whole damn man. Like she was memorizing him in every direction.

“You’re spoiled now,” she muttered as she reached his back. “This is a one-time deal.”

“We'll see,” he rasped.

She smirked. ***Yea***

They rinsed. Switched. He soaped her up next—slow, too slow, making it clear he hadn’t come down from whatever dark edge she’d pulled him to.

By the time they were dry, she was half-asleep leaning into his chest, wrapped in a towel she didn’t bother to tighten.

They padded through the penthouse, naked, damp, exhausted.

Into the bed.

Onto the mattress.

Tangled together in warm sheets and silence.

Enzo lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other curled around her waist.

She was half on top of him—leg tossed over his thigh, cheek against his chest. Her favorite position.

“Got work tomorrow,” she mumbled.

“Text them you’re sick.”

“Tempting. But I have a 10 a.m. appointment and a waitlist three months long.”

He didn’t argue. Not like she expected him to.

But she felt it—that shift in his chest, the protective tension curling beneath the calm. The possessive instinct. The wariness.

“You’re not gonna fight me on it?” she asked softly.

Enzo ran his fingers along her spine. “No.”

That surprised her. She blinked up at him.

***That feels amazing. It's so comforting and arousing.***

***It's almost distracting me from the fact that this possessive man is….being understanding?***

“I already told Dom and Marco to follow you. Keep their distance. Blend in. But you’ll be covered.”

Her chest tightened. Not in fear.

In something else.

Something dangerous.

“You’re a scary kind of sweet, you know that?”

His lips curved. “Only for you.”

Lola woke up with a little extra time before she had to leave.

Enzo taking deep steady breaths, in heavy sleep next to her. 

Lola slid out from the blankets carefully, shivering as cool air kissed her bare skin.

She tiptoed to her bag, fished out the black Sharpie from hell she kept on her keychain for spontaneous mischief (and menu edits), and padded back toward the bed like a cartoon villain.

Enzo didn’t even twitch.

With the grace of a gremlin on a mission, she climbed onto the bed, straddled his waist, and pressed one hand gently to his forehead to keep him still.

“Teach you a lesson on daring me to do anything,” she whispered, grinning. “I always follow through.”

She gave him the thickest, goofiest mustache known to man.

Handlebar. Full villain arc. A tiny swirl at the end for flair.

Then, for good measure, she added little triangle eyebrows.

He didn’t stir.

She capped the marker and sat back, admiring her work like it was a Renaissance masterpiece.

But as she climbed off and gathered her clothes—now neatly folded on the chair thanks to whoever decided to be husband-coded—her smile dipped.

She wasn’t gonna see his face when he woke up.

That sucked.

No sleepy confusion. No growl of outrage. No smug chuckle when he realized she’d gotten him back.

Just her… leaving.

***Ugh, that's a gross feeling. Shake that shit off queen.***

She stood at the bedroom door, fully dressed now, hair tied up, bag slung over one shoulder.

She looked back once.

Enzo, naked, tangled in sheets, marker mustache bold and proud, utterly unaware.

She smiled. Grabbed her phone and snapped a picture.

***For later.***

***For blackmail.***

***For phone background purposes. *devilish inner smirk****

She instantly set it as her phone background. 

Rolled her eyes.

Then whispered, “You better text me the second you see it, Don Mustachio.”

And disappeared into the hall, already wondering how the hell she was going to get to work without calling attention to the fact that she was leaving the penthouse of a man who’d just wrecked her body and reprogrammed her soul.