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Forty Percent Chance of Dying

Enzo

She’d just taken him apart with her mouth—knees on the slick tile, smirking like sin, licking his name off her lips.

And he still wasn’t done.

Not even close.

Because even as he came—loud, hard, helpless—his brain was already locking onto the next need.

Her. Again. All of her.

He was still ...