Dark Horse

by Jessica Gadziala

  That was a really important trait on the job.

  Plus, she had gotten her ass handed to her on their first case.

  She was stacking up strikes against her way too fast.

  And his ass came in all knight in shining armor-y and saved the damn day, called in backups that said he was a team player and acknowledged his own weaknesses - all things potential employers would respect.

  Ugh.

  As pressing as those work-related issues were, they weren't even the most dominant problem she was facing.

  No.

  She was about to be trapped in what had to be a small apartment with Enzo for, well, as long as it took for her not to hiss and cry out if she took too deep a breath.

  The crazy part was, she was almost looking forward to it.

  Not the fighting her sexual attraction to him - and there absolutely was a lot of that.

  Nope.

  She was looking forward - of all things - to being taken care of.

  It went against everything she thought of herself, had carefully cultivated all her life. She was independent, damn it. She made her own - okay, ordered her own - chicken noodle soup when she had a cold. She stitched her own hand when she sliced it open with a box cutter. She paid her bills. She took her own trash out. She took care of every damn thing herself.

  It wasn't in her nature - she thought - not to only do it all, but not have the desire to do it all.

  She liked taking care of herself.

  She liked what it said about her that she had always been able to.

  So why was she getting a weird melting sensation in her belly at the idea of Enzo bringing her food and pain medicine and sitting with her while she stewed in her own self-loathing until she passed out?

  "Espen," his voice called, snapping her out of her own wonders about homemade food prepared by - believe this shit or not - a man, because Enzo apparently cooked, to find Enzo standing in the opening of the elevator, pushing his back into the doors that were trying to close. "You coming?"

  "Right. Sorry. I was... thinking about the case," she lied, knowing it even fell flat when he smiled.

  "Sure you were, honey. Sure you were." But he left it at that as he walked to his door, slipping his key into the lock.

  "Oh." Somehow, that escaped her as he flicked on the light and revealed, well, not the eyesore she was expecting given that she knew that the insides of these apartments hadn't seen an update since around the seventies.

  But apparently, aside from reading people, making friends easily, having some kind of criminal past, being dedicated to his family, cooking, and taking care of people, Enzo also knew how to do some basic home improvements.

  Where carpet likely had been, there was sleek grayish hardwood. The walls were painted a crisp shade of a deep gray that should have been too dark for the small space, but somehow just made it seem crisp and manly. The countertops she had pictured had been replaced by something pre-fab from the home improvement store, all swirling gray and black and white, but looked about a thousand times better than the countertops she remembered from the tutor-boyfriend's place.

  It all looked really nice.

  That being said, the place was almost freakishly streamlined.

  Crisp.

  And clean.

  She was pretty sure it would pass a white-glove inspection with flying freaking colors. Hell, the place even had the distinct lingering smell of bleach, glass cleaner, and Pledge.

  And he hadn't even been there in days.

  There weren't shoes or jackets by the door. There wasn't a stray cup in the sink. There were no knickknacks, no pictures, no homey type comforts.

  "You must have wanted to throw on gloves and scrub my place," she blurted out, still not stepping fully inside, suddenly a bit worried about her shoes that might trek some dirt in.

  He turned back to her, and if she wasn't mistaken, looked almost a little... sheepish.

  "Your place wasn't dirty, Espen. It was just more... cluttered than I keep things."

  There was tidy, and there was this. At least in her opinion. This seemed like every surface had been scrubbed. Hell, even the windows to the other end of the room were shining. In a place where city traffic and dust made all windows get grimy in a matter of days.

  "Do you have a cleaning lady?" she asked, just seemingly unable to accept that any average guy was that anal about wiping down surfaces.

  Enzo's face went guarded for a moment, then just as quickly as it went up, it fell down, like he was actively trying not to keep it up, even if it was his first instinct. That, well, it fascinated her. As someone with nothing but guards all around her, she couldn't imagine dropping them, let alone willingly.

  "No, honey. I clean when I'm stressed the fuck out," he admitted a moment later.

  "You... must be stressed out a lot," she observed, judging by the obsessive cleanliness of his main living space. She was sure the bed and bath were the same.

  He nodded a bit at that. "I can't relax if shit isn't put away and cleaned up. It's just how I'm wired."

  She had a feeling that wasn't exactly true. No one came out of the womb and turned up their nose at a pacifier that hadn't been sterilized. Life gave you all your quirks, your eccentricities, your preferences, and your ticks.

  Espen couldn't sleep with a hand or foot over the side of the bed. It was a residual habit from childhood when she was convinced there was a human-eating monster that lived under her bed. She couldn't listen to Christmas music without feeling oddly sad. She bristled when someone told her she couldn't do something - especially so if the reason was that she was a woman. She was also a bit anal about having to wash her feet before bed.

  Life did that.

  Life made her that way.

  She knew the motives behind most of them. Her mother was gone around Christmas as a kid. She was raised as an equal to any man, so she refused to accept that anyone wouldn't see her as that. And, well, getting in clean sheets with dirty feet was just gross.

  So what in his life made Enzo that way? She had read once about people who clean a lot do it because controlling their environment was the only thing they truly could control. But Enzo didn't strike her as someone who was out of control. Maybe it was something deeper than that. Maybe it was something like he personally felt dirty because of things he had done, and since he couldn't exactly bleach the memories, scrub his soul, he took that energy out on his home.

  That, well, that was almost unbearably sad to her.

  Because, while she didn't know him that well yet, he had seemed to be nothing but a good man.

  Though, that being said, it was clear there was something dark in his past. Even people bred and born and raised in the muck could seem kind in the right situations.

  "Well, at least I don't have to worry about wearing flip-flops in your shower, huh?" she asked, every instinct in her telling her to play it off, to act like it was perfectly normal. She had the feeling that he plain needed that reaction from her.

  The relieved smile he sent her was all the proof she needed that she had said the right thing. "Alright, come on. Let's get you settled," he said, moving off toward the bedroom.

  "Right. So I can get my beauty rest, let these bruises really settle in, and look even worse tomorrow."

  Enzo's bedroom showed the same level of tidy, though he hadn't gotten around to replacing the original carpet yet. This wasn't a surprise. Actually, it was a shock that he had managed to get the floor, walls, and countertops done in the main living space so quickly. But the carpets had the deep lines that likely belonged to shampooing, which also explained the lack of stains in carpet that old. The main focal point was the king-sized bed which dominated the space that was never meant to hold a bed so big. But, she figured, when you were as massive as Enzo, you needed a comfortable bed that would fit you. The frame and headboard were black wood. The sheets a crisp white that, even from a few feet away, she could tell smelled of bleach. The comforter set was more black. There was a black
dresser at the foot of the bed. But where she had perhaps expected a TV, there was simply a large mirror. To the left under a window overlooking more ugly apartment buildings, was a record player with a pile of CDs and an iPod on top.

  "Climb up," he said as he brought her bag over to his closet, and stashed it inside. "I'm taking the couch," he added when she paused.

  "What? No. That's... ridiculous," she insisted, shaking her head. "I'm like a third your size. I'll take the couch."

  "You're hurt. I'm not. Stop fighting it, and climb up before I pick you up and put you there," he said, voice firm, but lips twitching.

  Because she didn't doubt for a single second that he would absolutely do that, she moved to the edge, went up on her tiptoes, and shimmied her butt up on it. Never before had she struggled to sit on a damn bed before. It was one of the few times it was obvious how much smaller she was than a lot of people.

  Noticing, Enzo smirked. "Should I knock together a step stool for your tiny ass?"

  "Shut it," she said, but she was smiling.

  "Alright, get comfortable. I'll get some Advil and whiskey for you."

  With that, before she could object, though she was getting achy again, he was off to do just that.

  By the time she kicked off her shoes, and got situated back against the pillows, being faced with the reality of how shitty she looked thanks to the giant mirror staring back at her, Enzo was back with what was promised. He watched as she took it, disappeared into the bathroom to brush his teeth, then grabbed an extra pillow off the bed, and a blanket from the closet, then moved into the living room.

  "Get some sleep, Espen. Take it easy for a bit. You can be a badass in the morning again, I promise."

  With that, leaving that melting feeling in her belly again - which she was going to go ahead and pretend was thanks to the whiskey, though she knew better - he was gone.

  And she was alone.

  In a strange room.

  With no background noise at all.

  Unless, of course, you counted what sounded like rap thumping a few doors down, even at the late hour.

  Which didn't count.

  What could she say, she was used to something on - a radio, a TV - to help her fall asleep, to dull the sounds of the never-sleeping city.

  She couldn't even toss and turn.

  She laid there, staring at the ceiling for what seemed like hours, but was probably only half an hour at most, before she let out a frustrated huff.

  To her, it was quiet.

  But, apparently, it was enough for Enzo to hear in the other room.

  This was evidenced by his sudden presence in the doorway, the shadow casting across the room making her turn to see him standing there.

  And, oh good, cruel, lord.

  He was shirtless.

  He was without a shirt.

  Because that was what she needed right then.

  In case you were wondering, yes, he was every bit as exquisite as you might be thinking with his deep-cut abdominal muscles she had fantasized about, his coiled biceps, his unexpected ink, his perfect skin, his Adonis belt muscles half-disappearing into his low-slung thick black sweatpants, and the scars that were just waiting to tell their stories.

  She found that she wanted to know them all.

  "What's up?" he asked, stepping toward the foot of the bed. "Your ribs making it hard to sleep?" he asked, getting closer still, letting her see his face more clearly, noticing for the first time that his eyes were a bit heavy, like maybe her quiet huff had somehow woken him up.

  Could he really be that light of a sleeper?

  Well, she figured that maybe that had a lot to do with what kind of life he had led. People who lived inside dangerous situations tended to wake if the wind blew against the windows. You never knew what might not actually be the wind, or the house settling, or a random animal outside the window.

  Before she could choke back the drool that was flooding her mouth at his mostly-naked body, and form a coherent sentence, he was reaching for the comforter, moving it aside.

  She noticed too late that his eyes had gone molten, so hot that she immediately felt flushed.

  "Lucky for you, I know a surefire pain remedy," he promised as he climbed up onto the bed, resting on his side facing her.

  She knew.

  She knew what he meant. She also knew she was supposed to object. That was what she needed to do.

  But he was towering over her, smelling like him, looking at her like she wasn't a busted mess, like maybe he still found her beautiful, like there was nothing in the world he wanted to do but be right there at her side.

  Whatever defenses she had left, fell away as his hand whispered across the space where her shirt had ridden up to reveal a sliver of skin.

  "Enzo," she whispered, her own voice unfamiliar to her. She wasn't sure what she was even going to say, but felt like she needed to say something.

  "Sh," he said, his fingertips teasing just under the waistband of her pants. "Just let me take care of you," he demanded softly, the words sending an almost painful surge of desire through her system.

  That, coupled with a strange fluttery sensation in her chest, had her nothing but expectant, compliant, and unbearably ready when his hand kept on its path downward, as his fingers found the waistband of her panties and ran the length of the front over and over until every urge she had was to squirm. But thanks to the still-present pain in her side, anytime she did, she let out a whine that had nothing to do with how turned on she was.

  "That won't do," he murmured a second before his hand slipped under the waistband, then stroked up her slick cleft, making a choked moan escape her lips as her hand slapped down onto his arm, digging in as his finger found her clit without hesitation. "Yeah, I like that a lot more," he declared as his finger stroked over her swollen bud with just the right speed, driving her upward, but not fast enough to let the orgasm slam through her, dragging it out, making it sweeter.

  A heavy pressure settled on her lower stomach as she turned her head to bury it in his neck to muffle the sounds of her moans and whimpers that sounded far too loud in the too quiet night.

  His thumb moved to work her clit, his other finger sliding down her cleft to pulse at the opening to her pussy, the tip almost, but not quite penetrating over and over again, until even being buried in his neck didn't muffle her cries of need.

  She needed release like she needed to keep breathing, like she needed to prove herself, like she needed to make her own way in life. It was an overpowering thing, wiping out every other thought in her head but that one.

  Then, as if sensing this, his finger thrust inside her. Not giving her a second to react to that, he started pumping inside her - fast, unrelenting, driving her up quick and hard.

  Just when she was sure she couldn't take it anymore, his finger turned, and raked over the top wall, hitting her G-spot with precision as his thumb pressed into her clit.

  And the whole world went white.

  Pain wasn't even a concept she understood as her body writhed through the pleasure he gave her.

  Even when the waves slowed, as she came back down into her body - and maybe her right mind - his fingers didn't leave her. One stayed inside her, his whole palm resting against her cleft.

  Possessive.

  She shouldn't have liked it.

  But there was no denying that she absolutely did.

  "How are those ribs feeling?" he asked a moment later, slowly pulling his hand out of her panties, then pants, letting it rest on her hip.

  "Huh?" she asked, brain still not quite functioning properly. What could she say, it had been ages since she had an orgasm that wasn't self-inflicted. And perhaps even longer since she had one quite so powerful. And never from something as simple, as almost juvenile as fingering.

  "That's what I want to hear," he said, voice sounding amused and, if she wasn't mistaken, full of masculine pride. She couldn't even fault him that; he had totally earned it.

  His hand dug into
her hip then, pulling, made her head push back to look up at him, a question in her eyes, but then she felt a pillow press into her back.

  "This should help ease that throbbing ache thing," he explained as he released the tight hold on her hip.

  She knew she should have told him that it wasn't her ribs that kept her from falling asleep, but she found it was every bit as nice as she thought to let him take care of her, to let herself have some softness after such a hard fucking day.

  And, even though the sun was starting to streak through the windows, she felt her eyes getting heavy. With Enzo beside her still, seeming like he was settling in for some shut-eye as well, his heartbeat a soothing sound, she finally drifted off to sleep.

  --

  And then nothing.

  She woke up alone in bed, almost half-convinced that the whole fingering orgasm thing was a very vivid, very good, very satisfying dream.

  But then she noticed the cup of orange juice and bottle of Advil on the nightstand, feeling herself smile even as she went to sit up and her ribs objected.

  It should have been a bigger relief for it to be a dream, but somehow she felt more comfortable with it being reality.

  For once in her life, she figured winning, proving a point, holding onto her pride, wasn't all it was cracked up to be.

  By losing, by not proving her point, by saying 'fuck off' to her pride, she got a mind-numbing orgasm from the best looking man she had ever seen in her life.

  It was kinda a situation where losing made her win at the same time.

  She was okay with that.

  She was definitely okay with lots more of those orgasms. Once her ribs were fully better, she intended to return the favor. And then they could mutually give each other all that goodness at the same time.

  Why had she been fighting it so hard in the first place?

  It was right about then that she heard her cell ding from the nightstand where she had flung it right before her first failed attempt at sleep.