Page 45 of Enzo
I silenced him with another kiss, pouring everything I couldn’t say into it. My inexperience, my want, my trust. When I pulled back, I found my voice again.
“I won’t regret what this does for you. I won’t regret making you feel good, Enzo.”
Something in his expression broke open, vulnerable in a way I’d never seen before. This man who always seemed so sure, so steady was confused. His hands moved to my hips, lifting me slightly, adjusting our position so we fit together more perfectly. I gasped at the sensation, at how right it felt to be held like this.
“I want to make you feel good, too,” he whispered, his voice rough. “But we don’t have to rush.”
I swallowed hard, my inexperience making me both eager and terrified. “I want that too. I just—I’ve never?—”
“I know.” He pressed a kiss to my temple, so tender it made my chest ache. “We go at your pace. Always.”
“I can’t get… I don’t…I can’t get properly hard,” I whispered, each word a blade of shame slicing through the warmth we’d built. The heat curling between us fled, chased away by fear and memory. My chest tightened like I was bracing for ridicule, for disgust, for something that would confirm every terrible thought I’d had about myself. Instead, Enzo’s gaze didn’t flicker. No pity. No revulsion. Just patience. Just care.
He cradled me tighter, his hand firm at my back. “Hey,” he murmured to soothe my panic. “This—what we’re doing—it’s not about that. It’s aboutyou. And kissing you, holding you like this? That’s everything.”
His words didn’t fix the ache completely, but they softened it, made it bearable, and made me believe—for maybe the first time—that I wasn’t broken. My voice cracked on the last word, shame turning all the heat between us into something colder. I thought he might laugh or, worse, be angry. Instead, his expression stayed soft and patient, and his arms wrapped around me tighter, sheltering me from embarrassment.
“Holding you in my arms is enough,” he said
I believed him because of the way he kissed me—slow and deep and consuming, like I was all he wanted, as though I could be enough if I wasn’t perfect. He held, kissed, and touched me as if we had endless time to figure it out.
The garage was hardly romantic—tools hanging on the wall, the faint smell of motor oil and metal—but in that moment, it felt like the most intimate place in the world. It was just us, cocooned in our own universe, where nothing else mattered.
His thumb traced my bottom lip, and the kisses were gentle. The shift from urgent to tender made something twist low in my belly—a warm ache buzzing under the surface of my skin. I wanted to chase that feeling, to let myself be swept up in the tide of it, but a flicker of fear tugged at the edges of my thoughts. Could I want this and still be safe? Could I give in without losing myself?
But Enzo’s kisses didn’t demand. They offered. And with each soft press of his lips, the fear faded a little more. Maybe it would have become more, and I could have helped him come.
I was on sensory overload, too much self-doubt making me spiral. The best thing I could do was leave him to do his own thing now—no point in me being here if he wanted to get off.
Why would he be turned on because of me?
I slipped off his lap.
“Night, Enzo.”
“Night, Robbie.”
I was only safe when I shut my door and curled up in my bed.
Breathe.
I exhaled, stepping inside my room and shutting the door behind me. The familiar weight of solitude settled over my shoulders, but it didn’t bring the usual sense of relief tonight. It felt… off. Like my skin was too tight, my thoughts too loud.
I picked up my well-worn copy ofThe Hobbit, settling onto my cot with the small lamp giving me enough light to read. Losing myself in a book was easy. The words, the world, and the characters always swallowed me whole and let me disappear for a little while. But tonight, the kissing with Enzo, the weight of his arms around me, the storm of emotions I wasn’t ready to name—it all pressed in, making the letters blur.
I tried. Flipped a page. Then another. But I wasn’t absorbing any of it. My brain kept circling back to how Enzo had held and kissed me, how his breath had hitched, and how he hadn’t pulled away.
How he’d tugged me to sit on his lap.
My throat felt dry, a leftover consequence of too many emotions. I sighed and lasted an hour past hearing Enzo head upstairs before and swung my legs off the cot, padding out into the quiet of Redcars. The shop was silent, apart from the hum of the security system, as I made my way to the small kitchen at the back. The fluorescent light flickered on as I stepped inside.
I grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and took a long sip, letting the cold seep into me and hoping it might make me think less about Enzo.
But it didn’t work.
The image of Enzo—his steady hands, the way he’d held me so carefully as if I mattered—stayed in my mind, impossible to shake. I exhaled sharply, turning off the light and letting the darkness settle around me. But as I turned, something flickered in the corner of my vision—a small, bobbing light moving outside in the courtyard.
My breath hitched. The security floodlights should have clicked on if someone was out there. My pulse hammered as I leaned toward the window. Probably a cat. Maybe a car’s headlights bouncing off something metal. Something normal. Something explainable.
