My eyes narrowed. “I’d like to see you try that shit.”

Wordlessly, Enzo plucked the glass out of my hand and yanked me to my feet. I stood there, staring at him wide-eyed, stunned that he had that much strength. I’d witnessed it myself, but it still shocked me. Normally, I wasn’t an easy man to move, but Enzo did it without a second thought.

He braced himself, crouched, and I went up onto his shoulder as if I weighed nothing. The shock wore off as he carried me through my apartment.

“Put me down!” I snapped.

A quick, hard swat landed on my ass, and I blinked. Had he just slapped my butt? I wanted to protest, but my drunk brain wasn’t equipped to handle this. We stopped off in my bathroom, and he dropped me onto the closed lid of my toilet.

“Clothes off.” He pointed to the hamper in the corner. “Put them in there. And brush your teeth.”

I gawked at Enzo. “There is something seriously wrong with you,” I said. “Why aren’t you taking the hint to leave?”

“There was a hint to leave?” he asked.

Unlike before, when he really seemed confused by my anger, this question was filled with smart ass-ness. I had told him directly to fuck off, yet he was still here. He turned his back to me and leaned over into the tub, turning it on and adjusting the temperature. My eyes ran over his backside. At some point, he’d taken off his jacket and put it somewhere, but I had no idea when. Was I that drunk? Or staring at other things a little too hard?

“Clothes,” he repeated, a slight growl in his voice.

I wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove his demands. The beer had only made me bolder, and I felt some kind of way about him right now. Whether I wanted to fuck him or kick his ass, that was the question.

Enzo’s hands were on me so quickly my head was spinning. He yanked off my clothes, tossing them into the hamper. I shoved out a hand in protest, but he simply knocked it away. When he shoved me back and ripped off my boxers, I found my voice again.

“Hey! I know how to shower by myself,” I huffed. “Can you get out?”

Enzo looked down at me. “I can, but I don’t think I should. You’re drunk enough to slip and crack your head open on the faucet. Blood would splatter, creating a bigger mess. Based on your height and weight, there are multiple ways your fall could land you either in the hospital or the morgue.”

“Jesus,” I muttered. “That’s so violent.”

He shrugged. “Yes, but it happens.”

His eyes moved from my face to my body. I watched as they did a slow tour of me, roaming over every inch of exposed flesh. He reached out, and I winced but stayed silent as he dragged two fingers over an old, jagged scar on my stomach.