One Bossy Proposal: Enemies to Lovers Romance

Fuck, this woman.

It’s not just my heart and soul that’s hers.

She’s got the rights to my balls for life.

My tongue returns, rolling across one firm peak. She drags my head tighter against her, low whimpers becoming loud, insistent moans.

Her fingers curl through my hair, down my neck, and graze down my back. I love how her fingernails dance on my skin, urging me to do my best, my worst, my everything.

Tonight, she’ll get my all.

My tongue massages her supple skin until I can’t stand it.

Until she’s bucking her hips against my leg, grinding against the rigid hardness she’s roused, begging me to take what’s always been mine.

“Fuck,” I whisper, tearing away to shift my weight.

I glare down at her, this fragile thing, that tattoo inviting me to take her every which way from Sunday and into the next week.

“Lincoln, please,” she urges, winding her legs around mine.

She’s asking for my fuckery. All of it.

So I grab the base of my cock, glaring down. I smack my swollen tip against her clit several times, teaching her she’s only on the first level of begging.

She’s speechless by the time I move in, claiming her pussy, no condom between us. Her pussy clenches me, taking me deep, snapping the last thread of my control.

I bite her lips when my head comes down and my hips go to work. It’s animal, primal, and somehow still so human it hurts.

Each thrust shakes her down, faster and faster, hammering her into the mattress. It isn’t long before she blows, going off in a flurry of gasping breaths, her nails digging into my back until it hurts.

Glorious.

Her pain, I love.

I don’t care if she cuts me to the bone, just as long as I’m buried inside Nevermore, pillaging her from the inside out with punishing thrusts. My pubic bone drags against her clit every time I press to the hilt, and soon, I’m baring my teeth.

She looks up with a question flaring in her eyes, too lost for words, but I hear her loud and clear.

Will you? Will you come inside me?

Goddamn. Could I do anything else?

“Hold on, sweetheart,” I growl, rearing back so I control my finish, so I can heave every last drop from my balls in her womb.

She makes me that insane.

She makes me so sure that if we’re meant to have kids, I want to start early, even if a cooler head suggests something different.

Tonight, fuck cooler anything.

I’m pure molten steel as I drive into her and her mouth falls open, her eyes roll back, and her pussy steals my soul.

My cock swells in her chaos, jerking, pulsing, spilling into her.

We come together in a ballad of flesh, pure white-hot delirium fit for two lost souls made whole.

Edgar Allan, eat your fucking heart out.

Or don’t.

Because I’m making better poetry than any I ever imagined with Miss Poe, and it’s all I need.

25

Fortunato and I (Dakota)

Months Later

Crisp wind nips at my fingers, but I won’t give in just yet.

I’m in my writing groove, brain vibing, heart in flames—and most importantly of all—words flowing.

I cross out a line and replace it. This journal has been a godsend, far more intimate than writing on a computer or hashing out words in my bargain notebook.

We found it at an estate sale in good condition.

Since it’s come into my hands, the black leather is slightly battered, the pages softly tanning with light exposure and good use.

Lincoln planned this getaway, and it’s brought my muse to life.

I don’t know what it is about the coolness and majesty of Mt. Rainier or the vibrant autumn leaves spiraling in the wind, but the verses flow, streaming from my soul.

He slides open the deck door, wearing a tight burgundy button-down shirt, unclasped at the top with his throat exposed. The man doesn’t even need to call “Come in, it’s almost supper!” to get my attention.

“Just give me a sec. I’m wrapping up...”

“That means another hour in Nevermore time. Get your sweet ass in here before you freeze,” he growls.

I look up, gazing into his honey-brown eyes and smile.

Will the effect he has on me ever fade?

“I’m blaming you. When you said I’d get a lot of writing done here, I didn’t know I’d be glued to my pen and paper,” I tell him.

“I was right. What else is new?” He huffs out a rough breath. “You came here to spend time with me, remember?”

I wince. Even after all these months and so many changes, he’s still got an elephant-sized ego.

“I came to spend time with Fortunato.”

He rolls his eyes.

“Poe, you’re a freak for naming that journal,” he says.

“And you burn for me, Burns. Even when I can’t fathom why.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart. You burn. If you’ve got another poem or two about falling into bed, I’ll remind you how easily I can turn you into ash.”