Buttercup

34: overflow

Enzo's POV

"That's still not asking, Enzo."

I didn't laugh.

Didn't smirk.

I just stood.

And in the next breath, I moved.

The chair scraped back behind me, and I was on her—lifting her off me like it was muscle memory, like her weight belonged in my arms. Her legs wrapped around my waist without hesitation, and I kissed her like I'd lost time. Like I had something to prove.

Because I did.

I walked us to the wall behind my desk, pressing her there with my body. Hard. Solid. Her hands gripped my shoulders like she knew what was coming. Like she needed it.

"You think this is a game?" I rasped against her mouth.

"No," she breathed, lips parted. Dazed. Daring.

"You think I don't know exactly what I'm asking for?"

I pressed my forehead to hers, the heat between us sparking all over again. My breath came out ragged. My hands on her thighs, her waist, her back—like I couldn't decide what part of her to anchor to first.

"You think I care about where you've been?" I asked, voice low. "What you've done?"

Her eyes were on fire.

"They tried to break you," I whispered. "But they couldn't."

I let my mouth find her neck, dragging slow and deliberate, tasting the pulse there like it meant something. Because it did. Every fucking inch of her meant something now.

"You're here. You're mine. And I'll burn this whole world down before I let someone try you again."

She let out a breath that wasn't quite a laugh—more like a sound caught between disbelief and desire. Her fingers threaded through my hair, holding me close, grounding me in the moment.

"I didn't know you missed me," she whispered, voice teasing but soft. Guard down.

I leaned back just enough to see her.

My fingers curled tighter around her.

And then I said it.

The truth, plain and bare, no armor on it.

"I always miss you."

Four words. That's it.

But I felt them leave my mouth like they were cut out of something raw.

She stilled in my arms, and I knew she heard it. Felt it.

I didn't know how else to say what she'd started to mean to me.

But I knew this—I wanted her close. Wanted her full of light. Wanted her safe. Wanted her mine.

And I was going to make damn sure she knew it.

I thrust deeper, my hand still locked in her hair, the other wrapped tight around her waist, holding her in place like she might float away if I let go.

Her moans were getting more desperate—raw and shaky, breaking apart under every push of my hips.

"You feel that?" I gritted against her shoulder. "That's mine."

She whimpered, breath stuttering. But didn't speak.

I slowed my pace, dragging out every stroke, making her feel the stretch, the claim of it.

"Say it," I breathed. "Say you're mine."

She shook her head. Bold. Reckless.

I growled, low and dark. Grabbed her jaw, turned her face just enough so I could kiss her. Hard. Filthy. Full of heat and teeth.

Then I pulled back, still inside her, grinding slow and deep. Her body clenched.

"You wanna come?" I asked, my voice pure gravel.

She whimpered again.

"Say it, Colette."

"Enzo..."

"Dillo." (Say it.)
I rolled my hips just right. She nearly buckled.
"Tell me who you belong to."

She bit her lip so hard I thought she might draw blood.

I slapped her ass once—sharp, not cruel—just enough to snap her back.

"Now, Buttercup."

Her voice cracked when she whispered it.
"I'm yours."

"Louder."

"I'm yours, Enzo."
Breathless. Shaking. Eyes fluttering shut.

I rewarded her with my mouth on her neck and my fingers circling her clit again, bringing her higher, making her fall apart all over me.

"That's right," I growled. "Say it again."

"I'm yours." She moaned. "God, I'm yours."

I didn't stop.

Not until I felt her convulse around me, crying out with my name on her tongue like it was the only thing that existed. I followed seconds later, spilling into her with a curse in Italian I didn't even register.

"Cristo... sei mia." (Christ... you're mine.)

We were both breathless, sweat-slick, tangled in heat and skin.

Still buried inside her, I wrapped my arms around her waist and leaned over her back, kissing her shoulder, her spine, the curve where her neck met her shoulder.

"Mine," I whispered again. All fucking mine. I don't care what the term people use, she's mine.

She was trembling. Her voice soft and ruined.

"Yeah... okay. Yours."

I smirked against her skin.
"Say it like you mean it next time."

She laughed—half out of breath, half delirious.

"Next time?"

I pulled her tighter against me.

"Oh, Buttercup. There's always a next time."