Does It Hurt?: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

“I don’t fucking trust him,” Enzo grunts, storming down the hallway to our room.

I roll my eyes. “You realize that’s the equivalent of saying that you have a stick up your ass. Or that in another life, you were a fire-breathing dragon and destroyed an entire village in a single breath?”

He stops walking and turns to look at me, an incredulous look on his face and his hazel eyes alight with distaste. 

I hate how fascinating he looks, even when he’s staring at me like I’ve snorted marijuana. He’s far from pretty, yet his face is constructed of fine brush strokes, heavy shading, and sharp lines that create an exceptional masterpiece.

Too bad the inside of him is crusted with off-brand paint, frayed brushes, and muddy colors.

“What the actual fuck are you even saying?”

I sigh. “My point is—that’s not surprising. You don’t look like you’d trust a nun.”

The crease between his brows deepens.

“Nuns are, like, super trustworthy. Not priests, though. Stay away from them.”

He shakes his head and stalks into our room, taking a seat on the edge of the bed and putting his chin in his hand as he contemplates the meaning of life and why the sky is blue.

It’s only just after one in the afternoon, and there’s not shit to do around here. We had the fish I caught for lunch—which was admittedly really good for someone who doesn’t eat fish—and Sylvester promised us steaks tonight. With nothing else to do but force a conversation while Enzo glares at him with suspicion, we decided to retire to our room for a little while.

I’m half-tempted to leave Enzo to his drama queen moment and go scrub some of these floors, but then he’s standing in front of me.

“I’m going to check out his room. See if I can find anything.”

My mouth pops open. “Why must you harass the old man? He’s just out here living his life, and you’re questioning the direction he pees in.”

He blinks. “What?”

“Maybe his penis curves to the side.” I throw my hands out in exasperation. When his face twists with anger, I cut in before he can bark something rude. “Look, the point is, you don’t know his life, and he hasn’t given you a real reason for you to question every single thing about him.”

He crosses his arms. “You believe the ghost story?”

“What else am I supposed to believe, Enzo? I’m trying really hard not to gaslight you right now, but other than giving us a bedtime, he hasn’t done anything. Sometimes people are just weird and have odd quirks.”

He shrugs a shoulder, a glimmer in his eye. “And I’m going to go find out just how weird.”

He breezes past me, and I tip my head back in frustration, sighing loudly.

I don’t entirely disagree that there’s something off about Sylvester, but I also stand by the fact that he’s probably just a harmless kook. He’s lived here by himself for decades, completely removed from society. It’s only obvious he will lack social skills and have pet peeves when two random strangers come in and disrupt his life.

And after his story with the prisoners and how they attempted to break in and possibly kill him, it’s no wonder he has trust issues.

We don’t know him, and he doesn’t know us, either. Locking us in our room at night probably makes him feel safe, and I can’t fault him for that.

By the time I make it to the doorway, Enzo is already climbing the steps toward Sylvester’s room.

“Oh my God, you’re unhinged. No more fish for you. Clearly, it messed with your critical thinking skills.”

His chin tips over his shoulder. “As pretty as that mouth is, I’m going to need you to fucking shut it.”

I open said mouth, ready to tell him how pretty a black eye would look on him, but before I can, he growls, halting the words in my throat. “Don’t make me do it for you.”

I feel my face flush hot, his accent making those words sound more delectable than they should, causing my stomach to tighten as his cruel words elicit the exact opposite reaction of what they’re meant to.

Without waiting for my response, he turns the knob and slowly opens Sylvester’s door, the hinges creaking loudly.

My eyes bug from my head, and I’m whipping around, expecting to see—or hear—Sylvester making his way up the steps to catch us red-handed.

But after a full minute of listening, I hear nothing. Turning back toward Enzo, I roll my eyes when I find that he didn’t even bother to stick around and make sure he wasn’t in danger of being caught.

Self-assured dickhead.

I waffle between not wanting to get involved and putting my nose where it doesn’t belong in case Sylvester does have something to hide.

Biting my lip, I shut our door behind me and slink toward the three steps leading up to the room.

Try as I might to deny it, I have an attraction to doing the wrong thing.

I creep up the stairs and into the room, finding Enzo pulling open the top drawer in a lopsided dresser. Pictures of sailboats and lighthouses adorning the stone walls, dust covering the frames.

His bed is neatly made, and something about that eases my mind. As if it confirms my theory that Sylvester is just a meticulous person, and that perfectly explains why he locks our door at night and forces us to pee in a bucket—not that either of us has done so yet.

Adrenaline pumping through my system, I softly close the door behind me.

Next to a tall dresser is a big closet with sliding shuttered doors that draws my attention. With Enzo right beside it, I decide to head for the nightstand next to the bed instead. Anything to avoid being close to that barbarian.

He ignores me anyway, but I’m sure he’ll find a time to insult me for going along with his plan later.

I slide open the top drawer and am immediately disturbed when there’s a full set of dentures right there, the teeth dirty. This is going swell already.

There’s loose change, a tarnished gold watch, a box of bullets, and a few Polaroid photographs.

Sparing a glance at Enzo, I pick them up and flip through them. 

The first is a photograph of a younger version of Sylvester smiling down at a blonde baby girl in his arms. He looks to be in his thirties or forties. Beside him is a blonde woman, staring at the duo with a grin. Though, when I get a better look, I see that the man is gripping the woman’s wrist with his other hand, his fingers visibly digging into her skin tightly. Studying her face closer, I notice now that her smile is strained, and her shoulders are curled in.

Flipping it over, messy feminine handwriting is scrawled on the back.

Sylvester, Raven, and Trinity, 1994.

Raven? Sylvester mentioned he named the island himself. He must’ve named it after his wife.

So, what happened to her?

The next photo is of the same blonde baby, though a few years older, sitting next to Raven, who is swollen with another child. The girl—Trinity, I assume—is sitting on the floor with a miniature wooden horse between her legs. Her hair is disheveled, and her pants are stained. None of which is out of the ordinary for a toddler. I’m barely put together as an adult. I flip the image over.

Raven, Trinity, baby Kacey, 1996

In both photos, they’re in the lighthouse, with the same bookshelves. I guess this explains the children’s books on the shelves. At some point, Sylvester had a family.

I move on to the last one. This one is of a sunset on the beach. It’s dark and grainy and hard to see, but with closer inspection, it appears there’s someone standing in the water. 

I squint, straining to figure out exactly what I’m staring at.

A young woman. She’s facing the camera, and it looks like she’s naked, an arm crossed over her chest to cover herself. For a moment, I’m still confused, until I realize her palm is raised, hiding her face.

My stomach drops and my heart picks up speed for a reason I can’t place.

Unsettled, I place the photos back in the drawer and shut it quietly.

“Find anything?”

“Sylvester had a wife and children…” I trail off, unsure how to explain how sinister those photos felt. Part of me doesn’t want to validate Enzo’s concerns, but I’ve been in enough dangerous situations to know better than to hide that. 

Before I can continue, a thud sounds from down the hallway. 

My eyes widen, and panic ensues as I pivot toward Enzo.

His stare locked on the door, he slowly shuts the dresser drawer while simultaneously reaching for the closet door. 

The rhythmic thudding continues down the hallway, heading directly toward us. It’s the sound of Sylvester’s wooden leg.

Clenching his jaw, he cracks open the metal closet door just enough for him to slip through.

Enzo finally meets my stare, and something flashes across his eyes. I know exactly what he’s thinking—leave me out here by myself. 

But if I’m caught, he knows I wouldn’t go down alone. So, he slides to the side and waves me in.

Sylvester opens the bedroom door just as we get the closet shut. My breath is short and chest tight as we peer through the shutters. I’m beginning to shake from the adrenaline. 

Worse yet, we’re trapped in a confined space. Though wide enough to fit us side by side, we’re cramped against flannel shirts and musty coats. My vision tunnels and it feels like the walls are closing in around me.

I don’t like small spaces. I don’t like feeling trapped with no way out. 

Desperately, I glance around, but there’s nowhere for me to go, and the panic only worsens.

Enzo stands still next to me, appearing unaffected by our situation, while Sylvester sits on his bed, the springs protesting beneath his weight. He grunts as he works the wooden peg off, letting it drop heavily to the floor.

Oh, God.

He’s not leaving.

Eyes wide, I watch him swing his legs onto the bed and shift to get comfortable.

Fuck me. The old-ass geezer is taking a goddamn nap.

I can’t stay in here forever. I’m already hanging on by a thread and am contemplating busting out of the door, consequences be damned. How angry would he be if he knew we were in here? 

He’ll kill you, pipsqueak.

Kevin’s voice has my heart stopping in my chest. My breath shortens further, and my lungs are reduced to noodles.

If we’re caught, he will either pull his gun on us or kick us out. We’ll be forced to weather the elements with virtually nothing to protect us. It’s possible to survive, but suddenly that bed and bucket seem so inviting.

But that’s only if he chooses to act rationally.

Slowly, I turn to look at Enzo, feeling unhinged, cramped, and so angry with him. I know I followed him in here on my own, but goddammit, this is all his fucking fault.

Though dark, the air crackles when he meets my stare. I don’t know what he sees, but whatever it is, it prompts him to raise his hand and put his finger to his lips. His hazel eyes cut through me with a warning, but I can’t draw in a deep enough breath to let him know I won’t say anything.

I can’t decipher the emotion that shadows his irises, but before I can figure it out, a loud snore startles me, and a quiet yelp escapes me. I slap a hand over my mouth, my heart beating out of my chest. 

Trembling, I’m relieved to see that Sylvester hasn’t moved. He’s on his side, beard splayed across his tattered red blanket as he snoozes.

When I look back to Enzo, he seems frustrated. Jaw is clenched, and one of his hands runs through his short strands. 

My throat is closing, and I can’t help but look around again, taking in how little space is in here.

I shake my head, trying to express something, but I’m not even sure what. 

Flicking a glance to Sylvester, Enzo grabs my arm and pulls me into him. I stiffen, resisting him. 

First off, I don’t want him touching me.

Secondly, he’s giving me less room. How the fuck does he think that’s supposed to help?

But he just tugs me harder until my back is pressed against his chest. Hot breath fans across the shell of my ear a moment before his whisper penetrates the screeching in my brain.

“Quiet, bella ladra.”

I am being quiet. Or at least I think I am. I’m not so sure anymore, but I’m pretty confident the asshole is just mansplaining how to hide properly.

I open my mouth, ready to tell him in a very quiet but firm whisper to suck my favorite toe, but the only thing I manage is a squeak.

His hand curls around my hip, and I jump in response. My eyes dart to where he’s touching me, his palm flattening against my stomach as he glides it along the edge of my jean shorts.

I fixate on his hand as he pops open the button of my cutoffs and slowly slides down the zipper.

I don’t want this. At least that’s what I chant to myself. 

So why can’t I stop him?

“What are you doing?” I whisper.

“Shh,” he hushes. “I don’t want to hear your words.”

“Then what do you want to hear?”

His tongue darts out, licking along the side of my ear and eliciting a bone-deep chill down my spine.

“I want to hear what it sounds like when you’re breaking and can’t scream.” Just as the last word falls from his tongue, his hand slips into my bottoms, and his finger presses firmly against my clit.

My knees buckle, so his other arm bands across my abdomen, keeping me still as he slowly begins to circle it.

My vision is still tunneled, but now that little pinprick of light is focused entirely on what he’s doing to me.

Mouth open on a silent moan, I exhale heavily when he travels farther down, giving me little warning before his middle finger plunges inside me.

Again, I jump, but the pleasure radiating from my thighs has me pressing deeper into his chest.

“Do you think it’s hard to breathe because you can’t escape or because I’m inside you?” he croons in a hushed tone, his voice barely loud enough to hear through the waves roaring in my head.

As if to remind me where I am, another loud snore breaks through the silence. My stomach tightens as my attention begins to divide. But then he adds another finger and slowly begins to fuck me with them, bridging the divide and forcing my focus back onto him.

Only him.

I lose myself, my arousal embarrassingly audible as he pumps in and out. My breathing grows heavier, and I’m on the verge of no longer being quiet.

The arm holding me against him moves, his palm moving to my face, covering both my mouth and my nose as he attempts to keep me silent.

It takes only seconds for my brain to register that he’s cutting off my air supply. But he doesn’t stop finger-fucking me. Even goes as far as pressing the heel of his palm against my clit and rubbing firmly.

My eyes roll, and I feel the blood rushing to my face.

“Does it hurt, baby?” he asks quietly. “Not being able to scream for me like you want to.”

I pinch my eyes shut, an orgasm forming deep in the pit of my stomach. It feels like standing at the beach and watching the water retreat hundreds of feet. That looming unease plaguing you, knowing that when the water returns, it’ll come back with a vengeance.

This does hurt. Because I know when it’s over, I’ll be a fucking wreck.

“This little cunt is so fucking wet,” he continues, his accent deepening with desire. With my breathing silenced, the only thing that can be heard above the rough timbre of his voice is his fingers pumping into my soaking pussy. “Do you hear how pretty it sings for me? Why don’t you sing me a lullaby, bella? Let me hear it.”

He quickens his pace, continuing to rub against my clit. My chest pumps wildly, and I can feel my heartbeat in every inch of my body.

I’m torn between needing him to stop so I can breathe and praying to whomever will listen that it never ends.

“That’s it,” he encourages, sensing how close I am by the way I start bucking against him. “I want you to come on my fingers now, bella.”

Fuck him. I won’t come on demand. He doesn’t get to control my body like that.

But then he leans down and clamps his teeth right below my ear, sucking harshly as he curls his fingers just right.

My knees collapse as the orgasm tears through me without permission, seizing my body in a cyclone that’s just as devastating as I feared.

He moves his hand down just enough to uncover my nose, and I instinctively suck in a deep breath, the rush of air heightening my delirium.

I convulse against him, and he’s forced to slide his hand from my shorts and wrap himself around me, attempting to keep me both still and silent.

If Sylvester wakes, I wouldn’t know it. Don’t know if I’d care, either.

I’m too wrapped up in the stars, and up here, I’m fearless.

Eventually, I come down, my head fuzzy and legs weak.

“You’re so easy to break,” he murmurs darkly.

Immediately, what just happened smacks me upside the head.

I go to step away, feeling ashamed for reasons I can’t name, but he’s gripping my bicep tightly, pulling me back into him. I cringe when I feel how wet my arm is.

Because his fucking hand is soaked, and he hasn’t bothered to wipe it clean.

“Did your lullaby rock him to sleep, baby?”

“Shut up,” I hiss, my cheeks burning hot, jabbing my elbow into his rock-hard stomach before reaching for the door again.

“Where do you think you’re going?” he growls.

“Are you planning on staying in here forever?” I snap back.

If he thinks I’m going to stick around after that, then he really can suck my toe. I can deduce that he was distracting me from my very apparent panic attack, but now I feel cheap and regret it already.

Now, he’s just being cruel.

Tension rolls off him in waves, so I rip my arm from his grip.

Sylvester is still snoring away while I carefully slide open the closet door, so desperate to get away that my hands shake. 

Slowly, I slip out from the little black hole Enzo sucked me into and hurriedly tiptoe toward the bedroom door. Enzo follows close behind, ensuring to shut the closet before slipping out of the room behind me.

Instead of heading toward our room, I beeline down the hallway. I need to get away from him before I do something stupid and try to earn his forgiveness.

He may not have deserved what I did to him, but that doesn’t mean he deserves my body. 

Now, if only I could just stop fucking giving it to him.