Accidentally Yours Chapter 63

**Enzo**

The SUV slid into the private garage, headlights knifing through concrete and steel. Enzo was already there—jacket off over his forearm, tie gone, sleeves rolled, every line of him wound tight.

The engine cut. Silence took the room.

The rear door swung. Lola hopped out—and then she didn’t walk. She launched. He caught her midair without a wobble, her legs cinched around his waist, arms locked behind his neck like gravity had chosen sides.

“I’m sorry if I stink,” she blurted, breath warm against his jaw, half-laughing. “And I’m mad nobody warned me, and I hate everybody a little—” a quick kiss to his cheek, “—but I love that you’re here after my minor accident.”

He didn’t let her slide even an inch. “You’re here,” he said, voice rougher than he meant. That was all that mattered.

Twenty seven hours of air without her.

Now—lungs back, heart back.

Up close, she carried heat and something sweet under it—scorched sugar, adrenaline, relief. It hit him like a vow.

Metal popped behind them. Nico’s men cracked the trunk. A whimper crawled into the quiet.

Lola twisted in his arms just enough to see. She smiled—bright, lethal. “See ya later, bestie.”

The man’s eyes rolled; his knees went to water. He folded back into the trunk with a thud.

A breath edged out of Enzo—too brief to be a laugh. “What did you do to him?”

“We just talked,” she said, unbothered.

His mouth flattened. “Later doesn’t exist for him.”

She tipped her face to his, wicked and soft at once. “We’ll discuss it in the shower.”

***Not here. Fine. In steam and tile, then.***

Enzo didn’t look away from her. “Take him down,” he told Nico, voice going cold. “Whole. Quiet.”

“Copy,” Nico replied, already moving.

He pressed two fingers to a blank slice of cinderblock beside the vault. A steel plate slid aside with a hydraulic sigh, revealing the real door—matte, thick as a bank. Inside, Nico keyed a second control hidden under a false shelf. The vault’s floor split along hairline seams and lifted, opening a square of black and the first rungs of a stainless ladder.

The man was hauled toward the hatch and vanished into the sublevel—the room Enzo never put on paper: poured in midnight concrete beneath the safe, beneath suspicion; acoustic baffles, independent power, drains that didn’t touch the city. No permits. No blueprints. No echoes.

Only when the hatch sealed did Enzo set Lola back on her feet. His hand slid from her cheek to the soft notch beneath her jaw, thumb fitting like it had been cut for it. “Anything hurt?”

“Just my pride,” she said. “And maybe my hair’s feelings.”

He bent, rested his brow to hers for a long, steady beat. “Shower. Now. Then we’ll talk.’”

Her mouth tugged. “Deal.”

He flipped the jacket off his forearm and settled it over her shoulders—heavy, warm, proprietary—then turned her toward the elevator with his palm at her waist.

“Boss—” Gino started.

Enzo didn’t look back. “Good work.”

Dom added, low, “She kept him busy the whole drive.”

“I noticed,” Enzo said. He could read four hours of her voice right off his face—raw around the eyes, sanded down to nerve.

The elevator doors slid open. Enzo drew her in, close as breath, and the doors sealed on the garage, the men, the hatch.

***Second chances. Vengeance. Sweetness at the edge of smoke.***

***She’s here.***

***The rest is mine.***

**Lola**

They didn’t make it three steps into the suite before Enzo shouldered the bathroom door open and cranked the water hot. A breath later, steam began to curl up the glass.

“I’m seriously okay,” she said—bruise count annoying, tangled hair her sworn enemy—“I’m here and I missed you.”

He didn’t rush past it. His thumb skimmed the faint bloom on her cheekbone, paused above the seatbelt mark at her collarbone, ghosted the tiny split at her lip. “How are you—really? Not physically. You.”

She exhaled. “The blank parts feel… wrong. I’m mad. Furious really. But I’m here. And you’re here.” A tiny lift of her mouth. “That fixes more than I care to admit.”

He nodded once—logged, not dismissed—then pressed a cold bottle into her hand. “Four sips.” He dimmed the lights, set a towel on the warmer, slid her hair tie out like a quiet promise, rinsed the flight off his skin in a fast soldier’s scrub—and gently placed her under the hot waterfall.

“Stay with me,” she murmured. “Even if you’re done.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Enzo grabbed the fresh wash rag and ever so slowly began to wash the last days trauma. It felt so nice having his hands all over her she didn’t want it to stop when he gently pulled away.

He didn’t. He went to his knees.

Her breath tripped.

***Oh.***

***Pray, then.***

***I won’t stop you.***

He kissed her wrist where her pulse lived. Her palm. Each knuckle like a rosary. He mapped the shadowed places—collarbone, shoulder, throat—mouth reverent, hands sure, cataloguing every inch he could have lost and didn’t. When she threaded her fingers into his hair and tipped, he understood and answered like devotion—slow, relentless, the kind of patience that becomes pressure. Heat narrowed the world. When her knees wobbled, he locked an arm around her thighs and held her through the climb he built on purpose.

She broke—sweet and sharp—on his name and the steam, lights going nova behind her eyes.

Yes. Yes. Oh, god, yes.

Mine. Alive. More.

“Bed,” she breathed, breathless and smug. “Now.”

He followed, smiling like a sinner.

Sheets caught skin; she straddled him, already setting the rhythm like a heartbeat that belonged to them alone.

“Eyes on me,” she said.

“Always.”

She folded forward to steal his mouth—wet and open, tongue dragging across his bottom lip like a threat—then leaned back with a slow grind that made his whole body jolt beneath her. His hands flew to her hips, trying to anchor himself, but she set the pace like she owned him.

And she did.

Nails scraped down his chest—no grace, no gentleness, just raw, hungry claiming. Her thighs flexed around his ribs, sweat slicking her skin as she rode him harder, deeper, like she was trying to bury him inside her and keep him there.

He couldn’t breathe right—his head tipped back, jaw tight, every muscle straining not to come too soon. The headboard slammed behind her in sync with her hips—a ruthless, obscene rhythm, like Morse code in sin.

*Come. Take. Stay. Mine.*

She shattered with a gasp that punched the air from his lungs—sharp, wild, hers—and her body clenched around him like a trap he didn’t want to escape.

He came with a ragged, helpless groan—hips bucking once, twice, before he surrendered entirely beneath her. Not a moan. Not a growl. Just devotion, detonated.

She collapsed on top of him, heart hammering, skin on fire. He wrapped his arms around her like instinct—like he needed to make sure she didn’t vanish after ruining him.

They laughed once—wrecked, relieved—and didn’t move far. He rolled them gently, kept her close, kissed her hairline.

“Again?” he asked, quiet, kissing her shoulder.

“Softer,” she said, eyes shining. “Tell me without words.”

“I will,” he promised—and he did.