Does It Hurt?: An Enemies to Lovers Romance

What a little shithead. I did die, and he’s just trying to convince me Heaven is real before he pulls back the veil and reveals a hellfire that will burn me alive.

There’s a flutter deep in the pit of my stomach, steadily growing stronger until the flap of wings has morphed into the breath of a dragon. I’m already burning alive, and only his hand has touched me.

I wet my dry lips, my tongue darting out for no more than a second, but his eyes have latched onto my mouth, the blaze within them powerful. It’s then I realize he is the hellfire. 

His hand slides away, and with only a moment of hesitation, I walk past him. I feel him fall in step behind me, scorching a hole into my back. 

I coerce my muscles to relax as I walk straight across the hall and into the tiny bathroom. It’s barely big enough to fit a stand-in shower on the right side and the sink and toilet on the left. 

Swallowing nervously, he brushes past me to turn the nozzle, the spray stuttering before the stream evens out. The water pressure is awful, which usually calls for long showers.

I don’t know if that’s a good thing or not yet.

He turns to me, leaning against the wall next to the stall, and crosses his arms. Flicking his sharp gaze down my body, he commands, “Undress.”

Oh, shit.

This got intense way too fast, and it’s almost instinct to heed his demand.

No, Sawyer. Bad girl. He’s mean. He’s terrible to you and thinks he has a claim on you. So what if he saved you? You probably would’ve woken up eventually anyway. It’s not like you were on the brink of death—he’s just dramatic as hell.

My subconscious is screaming at me nearly as loud as the pounding headache, but it all fades away as his eyes heat, searing into my flesh while he watches my hand drift to my t-shirt, moving without my consent.

Goddammit. It’s my pussy in control, not my head. Not even my heart.

This is the first time Enzo and I have truly spoken since the storm, and the fact that I’m already undressing for him is almost pathetic. Though completely unsurprising. Getting naked for him is as natural as it is for myself.

I bite my lip as I pull it over my head, cautious of my injury. Next, I shimmy out of my jean shorts, left in my green bathing suit.

I feel the touch of his gaze as intimately as if he were caressing my body with his fingers. 

“Those, too,” he says, voice deeper and huskier.

“These can get wet,” I argue weakly. “They are designed for that.”

He meets my stare, the muscle in his jaw pulsating. The moment he does, a deep throb pulses between my thighs. My pussy aches from a single look, and if that isn’t giving someone too much power, I don’t know what is.

“Take them off. Now, bella.”

The pulse intensifies, and he doesn’t miss the way my thighs clench, though I try to distract him by untying the strings around my neck and letting the top fall. 

It reminds me of when we first met, and he took me behind the waterfall. It feels like ages since that day. Like we’ve lived entire lives. 

I look away, focusing on a corroded spot in the cheap vinyl on the floor, but I can still feel him staring. Quickly, I untie the knot around my back and then let my bottoms drop, too.

Before I lose my nerve, I quickly step in the shower, though I’m forced to step within a foot of him to do so. Those twelve inches didn’t spare me from his heat any more than if I were standing twelve inches from the sun. What do those measly inches matter when I’m still being charred to ashes?

The hot spray immediately causes goosebumps to rise on my skin. I peek over my shoulder at him, finding him in the same spot, though his head is turned, and his eyes are locked onto my ass.

Thank God it’s not flat. It’s not big by any means, but plenty plump and round to attract the male gaze. Though these days, that’s not entirely hard to do anyway.

Just as he goes to meet my stare once more, I turn away, too chickenshit to face him. I grab for the shampoo, readying to squirt a dollop into my hand before he snatches the bottle.

“You can’t get soap in your wound. I’ll do it.”

“You don’t hav—”

“Did you think I came in here to merely watch?”

“I—well, I don’t know. I wouldn’t put it past you to be a creeper.”

“I wouldn’t put it past me, either,” he retorts, squeezing out the shampoo into his palm. “Maybe that’s why I need to touch you so badly.”

I inhale sharply, shocked by his admission. His fingers sliding into my wet hair distracts me quickly enough, and I shudder as he gently massages soap into the red strands. Pink water floods beneath my feet, swirling down the drain as he meticulously works around the cut.

“Tell me about the shipwreck,” he says.

Instantly, I’m transported back into that cold ocean, disoriented and deprived of oxygen as powerful waves commanded my body.

“It’s all kind of a blur. I remember the terror the most and feeling so disoriented. But I saw you there floating, and I tried calling your name, but you wouldn’t answer. I swam to you and saw that you were unconscious and bleeding. All I could think about was the sharks.”

A shudder rolls through me, and I’m convinced it’s by pure divine intervention that one of them didn’t show up. Especially since this island tends to be a feeding ground for them, and they’re constantly nearby.

“I didn’t know what to do other than keep trying to wake you. I’m not sure how much time passed. I think I might’ve passed out for a moment, too, but I just recall seeing a bright light in the distance. It was just… there. So, I grabbed onto you, pulled you onto a broken piece of wood, and swam us toward it. Eventually, I saw the lighthouse, and it was the only thing that kept me going.”

He’s quiet for a beat. “How long did you swim?”

Fifty-eight minutes and ten seconds.

I needed something to focus on other than the burning pain in my muscles and the pure horror that anything could come up and eat me alive any minute. So, I counted every fucking second, muttering the numbers aloud as if, at any moment, I would wake up from the nightmare I was lost in.

“A while,” I tell him. “It felt like forever. But I got us there eventually, dragged us both onto the beach, and then passed out again. I woke up only minutes before you.”

He grows quiet again for a moment.

“You could’ve left me and saved yourself.”

I shrug. “It didn’t cross my mind. But I don’t know if it’s because I’m all that virtuous. I would’ve rather struggled with you than be alone.”

His hands are unmoving for a beat, then resume.

“I called you weak,” he states. “Why didn’t you correct me?”

“Because I am—”

“You’re not,” he interjects, voice hard and unyielding. “You’re not weak, Sawyer. You’re exceptional. And I’m sorry I ever validated that misconception.”

My mouth moves, but I’m incapable of uttering a sound. 

“You did something admirable. Imagine what you could do if you only believed in yourself.”

I have nothing to say, and I don’t think Enzo is interested anyway. Instead, I mull that over while he meticulously cleans my hair. 

Kev backed me into a corner, and it feels like I’ve been snapping and growling at anything that has come close since. I’ve been so scared that I’ve forgotten that I’ve been fighting, too. I’ve been fighting to survive, to live, to have freedom. Just like I fought each and every wave that threatened to drag me under.

What would I be capable of if I just stopped running? If I lived my life as Sawyer Bennett. What would it feel like to walk in my own shoes and live without reservation?

But that could never happen. Kev’s influence is too powerful and follows me no matter how far I run. Those are dangerous dreams, and they could get me in serious trouble.

Lost in thought, it snaps me back to reality when Enzo hits a sore spot, and I can’t hold back the hiss.

“Scusa, bella,” he murmurs quietly.

I lick my lips again, my heart doing odd twists and turns from the husky candor of his voice, and how intimate it sounds when he slips into Italian. All of this is intimate, and it’s almost too much to process.

“Bella means beautiful, right?” I ask.

“Si,” he confirms.

Shit, that shouldn’t make me happy. Even with his hatred toward me, he still calls me beautiful.

“And ladra?”

He’s quiet as he continues to massage the soap into my hair.

“You asked me for the truth, and I gave it,” I whisper. “Tell me one of your truths.”

After a pause, he says, “It means thief.”

My heart withers, though it’s only true.

“You ensnare men with your beauty, spin them into your web, and then steal from them. You’re a beautiful thief.”

“I guess I can’t really argue with that,” I mumble, feeling like my insides are crumbling to ash. That’s what happens when you stand too close to the sun.

“Turn your head,” he directs, his fingers reaching forward to grab either side of my jaw and twist my head toward the spray. 

It smarts, the water deepening in color until eventually, it runs clear again. Even still, he doesn’t retreat.

“I think I got it from here,” I say, glancing at him over my shoulder. “Thank you for helping.”

“It’s going to continue bleeding a little until it clots,” he tells me, ignoring my request. “Keep your hair parted, and I’ll patch it up the best I can when you’re done.”

“Okay,” I whisper.

Our eyes meet, and the fire-breathing dragon in my stomach grows angrier.

“Okay,” he parrots.

Slowly, as if he wants me to make sure I’m watching every move, he leans back against the wall, crossing his arms again and getting comfortable. Water is splattered all over the front of his shirt, and the floor is soaked. Yet, he doesn’t seem to notice anything outside of me standing beneath the stream staring at him with a puzzled expression.

A bead of water catches his attention, and I’m not sure which it is of the hundreds, but I know it’s trailing between my breasts and down the planes of my stomach. His tongue slides along his bottom lip, slowly and sensually, as if he’s imagining lapping it up.

Without looking away, I blindly reach for the body wash and squeeze that on my hand next. We’ve been using our own rags, but my hand will be so much more interesting.

Beneath his penetrating stare, I rub the soap between my palms, then cup my breasts, spreading the suds across them. The heat in his eyes deepens, and his nostrils flare. I can see the outline of his hard cock in his shorts. At some point, he must’ve readjusted, so it’s tucked in the band, and I’m disappointed by that.

“Concentrati, Sawyer,” he demands, his voice laden with desire. Concentrate. I can interpret that command.

Biting my bottom lip, I move my hands down my stomach, across my hips, and over my ass cheeks. He tracks every move religiously, as if the secrets to the universe will appear within the suds coating my skin. 

Holding my breath, I watch him closely as I glide a hand toward my pussy. The muscle in his jaw pops, his teeth clenched tightly together. I brush my pointer finger across my clit, a tiny moan slipping free. His eyes rocket to mine.

“Attenta, bella. You shouldn’t strain yourself with a head injury.” 

“It doesn’t take much to make myself come,” I say. “It’s you who has to work for it.”

A thick brow rises, the challenge sparking his hazel pools.

“Is that so?” he croons. “Let’s see it then.”

I hesitate, uncertainty beginning to taint the desire.

Enzo has probably seen me from every angle possible, yet all I can feel is an utter embarrassment at the thought of doing something so intimate. Maybe because the relationship between us has been built on cruelty from both sides, and so easily, he could use this as another opportunity to hurt me.

“My head is really hurting, I’m not in the mood,” I lie, turning away. My head does hurt, but I’m definitely in the mood. Or at least I was until I ruined it.

 ”Is that a lie, Sawyer?”

Shit. I don’t know why I thought I could get away with that. Maybe because most people would take my word for it, considering I just suffered a head injury.

“Finish up,” he snaps, pushing off the wall and storming out of the room. I close my eyes in defeat, angry with myself for defaulting to the one thing he despises most. It’s a habit. One I haven’t figured out how to break yet.

Feeling dejected, I finish washing the rest of my body, then wrap myself in the tiniest towel I’ve ever seen. It might as well be a goddamn hand towel. My hair is still dripping wet, too sore to do much more than squeeze the excess water out as best I can.

When I enter the room, I find Enzo sitting on the edge of the bed, facing me with his elbows on his spread knees, fingers linked, and head bowed.

Hearing my arrival, he lifts his head, and I’m a little stunned to find his stare no less intense than it was in the bathroom. If anything, it’s only strengthened.

I stop short, nearly wheezing from the sight. It feels as if I can hardly expand my lungs past the size of a strand of hair. His mouth is pulled into a slight frown, and his thick brows are low over his eyes. He appears angry, sure, but when doesn’t he? He’s looked this way every time he’s been inside me, and this time… this time is no different.

“Do you think you’d still lie to me if I knew that you were?” he asks quietly, his tone inquisitive but lethal. Like a hitman asking if you’re ready to die now.

I roll my lips, contemplating how I’m supposed to answer that. I don’t always want to lie, it just comes easiest. It’s a better alternative than confrontation.

“What do you mean?” I ask finally. 

His eyes trace the top of the towel where I clutch it tightly against my chest, down the middle, and to the bottom where it barely covers me. The towel doesn’t even fall past my ass entirely, but I guess I can’t be surprised Sylvester doesn’t own Egyptian cotton extra-large towels.

Shivering beneath his probing stare, I clench my thighs tighter, hoping to conceal myself further and abate the incessant need pulsating in my clit.

 It only draws his attention.

“I mean,” he starts slowly. “If I knew exactly when you were lying every time you did it, do you think you would continue to do it?”

I shrug, but I instantly regret it. It only served to lift the baby napkin around my body higher. Again, his attention is ensnared on my clenched thighs.

“I’m not very brave,” I confess, and with great hesitation, he lifts his eyes to mine once more.

“I’m a coward,” I tell him, my chest tightening from the truth of it. “Running and hiding is easier. Sometimes, I will say and do anything to get someone to turn their attention away from me. It feels safer that way. Confrontation… it’s never led to anything good.”

He doesn’t respond, but he does seem to be listening.

“Shut the door, and come here,” he says finally. And just like any other time he orders me around like a warlord, my body listens despite my head screaming otherwise.

The door creaks shut, the click feeling like a bomb. Then, I approach him as one would a sleeping bear, my knees trembling as I near. When I’m only a foot away, I stop, attempting to keep my breathing even but failing miserably. My chest is moving too fast to be natural, but fuck, I can’t breathe.

I open my mouth, attempting to ask what he wants with me, but I can’t get the damn words out. Keeping silent, he lifts one hand and gently brushes his fingers along my outer thigh as if curious about how smooth it is. Admittedly, I could’ve cried when I found a pack of disposable razors stuffed in the back of the sink cupboard a few days ago, and I’ve been treating them like rare jewels ever since.

My skin tingles beneath his touch, and my flight instincts are kicking in.

“Tell me a lie,” he says quietly.

“You’re the kindest man I’ve ever encountered,” I respond automatically. His fingers pause, and he glances up at me beneath impossibly long lashes. That look is like a snake bite directly to the heart, the venom paralyzing the muscle and rendering it entirely useless.

“Now tell me a truth,” he directs. I don’t understand what he’s doing, but I’m not entirely sure I like it. This feels more intimate than sex.

“What a fun game this is,” I deflect.

“Sawyer,” he prompts sternly, voice as sharp as a whip. I jump, startled by the severity of his tone.

Jesus.

“I want to run,” I say unevenly, a slight tremor to my words.

“Brava ragazza,” he whispers, his accent deepening while he drops his gaze, resuming to draw little circles on my skin. Goosebumps break out across my entire body, and that’s honestly embarrassing.

“What does that mean?” I whisper.

His eyes flit to mine, and that brief moment is heart-stopping.

“Good girl,” he translates, causing a shiver to roll down my spine. I shift on my feet, the need to run deepening until it’s all I can think about.

“Another lie?”

“Huh?” I mumble, peeking over my shoulder to gauge the distance between myself and the door. It’s only when his touch drifts toward the apex of my thighs that my attention snaps back to him, a rock forming in my throat.

“A lie,” he prompts, lifting his stare again. “Tell me another.”

“Uh,” I breathe shakily. “I’m very calm.”

I swear to God, the corner of his lip twitches, hinting at a dimple. Zeroing in on his mouth, I hardly notice how he’s picking apart my face. Which also makes me wholly unprepared when he suddenly grabs my hips, pulls me forward, and twists us while I fall back onto the bed, air knocked from my lungs as he crawls over me.

The towel falls apart, and I freeze as he positions himself between my legs, his eyes eating up every inch of exposed skin. My nipples tighten painfully, and those hazel ice chips in his skull liquefy, turning into a pool of golden brown and green with that odd splotch of black in his right eye.

The way he’s looking at me now, there’s no stone fortress built around him. He’s entirely exposed, and it’s one of the most heart-wrenching sights I’ve ever seen.

“A truth,” he demands again.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” I murmur, feeling my face flush hot. If he asked me to ride him like a cowgirl, I’d have no issue pushing him down and showing him exactly what a wild animal looks like. But asking me to be vulnerable quite literally feels like pulling teeth.

“Do you want me to touch you?” he questions.

“Yes,” I admit.

He nods his head slowly. “I’m not going to.”

My mouth parts with shock, and I blink at him. 

“I want you to show me how you like to be touched. Show me how you make your pussy feel good.”

My eyes widen, and I begin to shake my head.

“Are you afraid?”

“No.”

Oh, fuck. He’s grinning. Just the slightest, but it’s entirely sinister. Nothing about the way he’s looking at me makes me feel warm and fluffy inside.

“That was a lie, bella ladra.”

It totally was.

He sits up, resting his ass on his heels, his knees spread, and my thighs curled around his hips. He grabs my waist and pulls me closer until his hard cock is pressed against my core. The few millimeters of fabric separating his flesh from mine is too thick. I need to feel him.

As if sensing my thoughts, he asks, “Would you like me to show you, too?”

“Yes.” The answer is out before he can finish, and that grin deepens, displaying the dimples on either side of his cheeks.

No, no. Go back to frowning. That smile is far more dangerous.

Enzo lifts on his knees just enough to slip the shorts down his ass, maneuvering until they fall away completely. The second his cock is freed, I can’t look away.

So fucking beautiful. So fucking lethal.

Long and thick, with veins roping throughout the hardened flesh. Flashbacks of that first night we spent together bombard me, and even now, I can remember the feel of him driving inside me. How he used his dick and fingers with so much precision that he made me physically squirt too many times to count. Something I’ve never been able to make myself do. Yet, I implied I could touch myself better. When, in reality, no one has ever touched me the way Enzo does.

He wraps his hand around his cock, and if I were standing, my knees would collapse from the sight. My mouth waters as he pumps himself once, twice, three times, and his head kicks back, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he groans.

Dropping his chin, he gives me a look full of both warning and challenge.

“Now, Sawyer. Show me how to touch yourself like I will show you. And when we’re both done, we will see who lied better.”

He knows that I don’t need to demonstrate how to make myself come any more than he needs to. Enzo and I—we’re not very compatible, I think. We speak different languages most days, and it’s a constant battle of figuring each other out. But when we’re stripped of our clothes and our bodies are doing the talking, we understand each other as if God was never angry with humans and separated us by the way we move our tongues. When we’re like this, the way we move them is the only thing that makes sense.

I slide my hand down my stomach and in between my thighs, biting my lip when he follows my movements raptly. My eyelids flutter when I brush my finger across my clit, teasing myself for a few seconds before dropping lower and dipping my middle finger inside me. I’m dripping wet, and the noises my body makes are vulgar, but I’m past caring when it pulls a groan from deep in his chest.

He fists his cock tighter, as if overcome with the sight, and begins to slowly pump himself, his mouth falling open.

I move my fingers back up to my clit and circle it firmly, unable to contain a husky moan. My entire body is on fire, and the pleasure radiating from my pussy has my eyes rolling.

Normally, I’d close them and pretend someone else was touching me instead. But with Enzo crowding over me, pleasuring himself as he watches me, it would kill my building orgasm if I dared look away.

“Tell me a truth,” he rasps, his hips jerking as he strokes himself faster.

My legs quake, a coil forming deep in my stomach and stealing my breath from the intensity of it. This feels too good, and thinking of something to say is challenging. He might as well be asking me to sprint through quicksand.

“I… I still feel dirty,” I profess, and I have no idea why the fuck I just said that, but it’s enough to send liquid heat straight up to my cheeks. I can feel how hot my face burns from the confession, but I only rub my clit faster. Determined to run away from what I said and hide from the way he seems to stare right through me.

“T-tell me a truth,” I stutter, hoping he’ll relieve me from that painful confession.

“I lie to myself every day. I tell myself that I’m so fucking addicted to you because of how sweet your pussy tastes or how it cries so easily for me. But I know it’s only because of you.”

I bite my lip, my face crumpling from how raw and exposed I feel, and for the first time, I don’t feel like running. I feel like staying and letting him watch me unravel.

“Now tell me a lie,” he demands, his voice gravelly, deepening his accent just the slightest.

I shake my head, my brow pinching with concentration as the coil tightens.

“I hate you,” I whisper, spreading my legs wider so the pleasure sharpens.

Enzo’s face contorts, and once more, he appears angry as he stares down at me. Despite the severity of his features, he groans, stroking himself faster and tugging harder.

“Fuck, I hate you, too, baby.”

My hips jerk while my heart seizes, a maelstrom of pain and pleasure circulating throughout my body. I gasp as the coil tightens, then snaps, my orgasm ripping through me and tearing me to shreds.

“Yes, yes, that’s so good,” I chant breathlessly, bucking uncontrollably against my hand.

Enzo follows a moment later, streams of cum jetting from his cock and leaking down his hand. Every vein in his body is strung tight, pulsing against his flesh as he seems to come and come, curses spilling from his mouth.

“Fuck, Sawyer,” he groans, and hearing my name—my real name—fall from his tongue is my undoing.

“Oh my God, Enzo,” I cry, my orgasm spiking to an almost violent level before finally waning.

While I work to catch my breath, Enzo rips his t-shirt over his head and cleans himself up, the silence pressing in.

My head is fucking pounding, and I’m pretty sure there’s some rule that says you shouldn’t orgasm with a concussion, but the only thing I can focus on is what he said.

I hate you, too, baby.

He asked me for a lie. But I never asked him for one.

“Was… was that a truth or a lie?” I ask quietly, my voice still hoarse.

He glances at me, tossing his t-shirt to the side and standing. Still, he stays quiet as he pulls his shorts back on, prompting me to now suddenly feel exposed. I wrap the towel back around me while he straightens.

“Enzo?” I push.

When his eyes meet mine, my chest caves. There’s no emotion on his face, as if what we just did meant nothing.

It didn’t mean anything.

With one last lingering look, he turns away, walking out of the room without a word and shutting the door softly behind him. 

My lip trembles, but I clamp it between my teeth, refusing to cry over him.

We built our tower to Heaven, but God is angry again, and once more, we’re speaking different languages.