Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
And I feel it again.
This thing I’ve been trying to ignore. This feeling I’ve been doing my best to push down.
This pull between us.
“I didn’t ask for your protection,” I tell him, my voice trembling despite myself. “I can handle that man - and anything else - on my own, without you playing the white knight.”
He’s so close that I can feel his breath against my skin, his chest rising and falling in time with mine.
“You’re right,” he says quietly, his voice now a low rasp. “You don’t need saving.”
He leans closer still, and I can’t breathe, my pulse hammering in my throat.
"But if you think for one moment that I can just stand by and let someone talk to you like that - let anyone treat you like that - then you're fucking wrong.”
I swallow hard, my whole body alight with anger, confusion, and something else.
Something that makes my hands tremble at my sides.
“I’m not some fragile thing you need to protect,” I say, the words raw and unsteady. “I can handle myself."
His eyes flick to my lips for a brief moment, and the change is instantaneous.
Like a spark igniting a fire, the switch flips.
“No,” he growls. “I don’t want you to handle yourself. I’ll handle you just fine.”
And then, without another word, Matteo closes the distance between us, his large hands gripping my shoulders with undeniable force as his mouth crashes into mine.
It’s rough. It’s heated.
There’s no gentleness, no hesitation.
Every bit of frustration, every ounce of tension that’s built between us in the last few days, the last few weeks seems to collapse into our kiss.
I don’t pull away.
I can’t.
His lips are insistent and dominant as they claim mine, and all I can do is melt into him. Everything else - the gala, the ridiculousness of the night, Mark’s behaviour, our argument - vanishes.
All that’s left is him and I, and the undeniable heat between us.
Matteo’s mouth moves firmly against mine, rough and demanding as every ounce of frustration, every lingering stare, every sharp-edged comment explodes into something reckless and consuming. His warm, large hands slide down, tracing the line of my arms and pulling me flush against him.
I barely have time to gasp before his tongue sweeps against mine; coaxing, taking, devouring.
A low, primal sound rumbles from his chest as his thick fingers dig into my hips, pulling me harder against his body while simultaneously moving us backwards. The bare skin of my back meets the cool surface of the wall behind as he presses in, his body slotting against mine, heat radiating from him in waves.
I should stop this. I should push him away.
But his hands grip me like he can’t bear to let go, and all rational thought vanishes.
I arch into him, my fingers threading into his dark hair, tugging just enough to earn a sharp inhale from him. His hands roam over the fabric of my dress until his fingers press into my lower back, digging into my bare skin and molding me to him.
My breath stutters, and he takes advantage of the moment, tilting his head and deepening the kiss until it’s nothing but pure, unfiltered need.
One of his hands moves to skim along my side before sliding up. His palm traces the curve of my ribs, and his touch sets my skin ablaze even through the fabric of my dress.
His mouth leaves mine only to trail along my jaw, his breath hot against my skin as he grazes his lips along my throat.
A sharp gasp escapes me when he nips at the sensitive spot just below my ear, his stubble scraping deliciously against my skin.
“You drive me fucking insane,” he groans, his voice thick and breathless as it vibrates against the column of my throat.
I don’t even know if he means it as an insult or a confession, but I don’t care.
Because I feel it too.
This impossible, almost unbearable tension that has been pulling us together from the start.
My hands move of their own accord, sliding down his chest and feeling the heat of his body beneath his shirt. He hums in pleasure when my nails lightly scrape against the fabric, his hips pressing into mine, and suddenly I feel everything.
His strength. His heat.
His need.
It’s overwhelming and undeniable, and god, I want more.
His lips find mine again, rougher this time, more desperate.
Like he’s trying to prove a point and show me exactly what’s been simmering beneath the surface all this time.
Matteo’s hands roam my body like he’s been starving for this.
Like he’s been starving for me.
And maybe I’ve been starving for it too, because now, I don’t hesitate, don’t second-guess, don’t so much as stop to think. I just pull him closer, kissing him harder and deeper, pouring every ounce of frustration and need into the way our mouths move together.
My fingers slip beneath the lapels of his jacket, curling into the fabric as I yank him impossibly closer.