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)
I can see it so clearly in my mind - the way she looked at me like she wanted to hate me, but wanted me even more.
Like she was fighting herself the whole time, even as her body begged me not to stop.
I imagine what she’d look like now. Here, on my bed.
On her knees between my legs, that red hair spilling over her shoulders as she wrapped those perfect lips around my cock.
I grunt, my pace quickening.
My abs clench, my legs tense, but I can’t stop.
Not when my mind is full of her - her skin, her scent, the sounds she made when I had her pinned against that marble counter, begging me without even using words.
It doesn’t take long.
I barely last another minute before my breath catches, my jaw locking and my grip tightening as my hips stutter. I cum hard, my release spilling over my stomach as a low, guttural groan rumbles from my chest.
The pleasure is sharp and consuming -
But fleeting.
I barely have time to catch my breath before frustration takes over again.
I run a hand over my face, my body still thrumming with residual heat, my pulse still hammering.
It’s not enough.
I had her. I took what I wanted.
And yet, it hasn’t settled anything.
It just left me wanting more.
I curse, shoving the sheets off me as I sit up on the edge of the bed, my hands dragging down my face.
This isn’t me.
I fuck, and I move on.
I don’t get obsessed. I don’t do attachment.
But with her -
Well.
When it comes to Daphne Sinclair, apparently it’s not that simple.
I push off the bed and stride into the en-suite bathroom, cleaning up the mess I made - because of her - before flicking on the cold water and splashing it over my face.
I need to snap the fuck out of it.
She’s a journalist. She’s here for a few months, and then she’s gone.
I can’t afford to want her.
Not like this. Not when deep down, I know that one night will never be enough.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my chest rising and falling in time with the lingering frustration still thrumming through me.
She was already under my skin. I’d come to accept that.
But now?
Now, I know that she’s not getting out.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Daphne
I wake up with a pounding headache.
I’m not hungover. I’m pretty sure that my headache isn’t a consequence of alcohol.
After all, I’d only had one glass of champagne all evening - and I hadn’t even finished that.
No, my current headache comes as a direct result of the mess of thoughts swirling in my mind.
And the moment my eyes open, the memories of last night crash into me all over again.
Matteo.
His hands. His mouth.
The way he felt against me, inside me.
I squeeze my eyes shut and groan, dragging a pillow over my face as though it might hide away the picture of him in my mind.
What the fuck was I thinking?!
I wasn't thinking. That’s the problem.
I was acting on impulse, on frustration, on whatever twisted chemistry has been crackling between us from the moment we met.
And now, in the cold light of day, it feels like the worst mistake I could have made.
I made some rushed excuse before leaving the gala last night, barely stopping to say goodbye. I didn’t see Mark again. Didn’t see Matteo, either.
I just fled.
And now reality is here, sinking its cruel claws into me.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. For a second, I consider ignoring it, but then I sigh and reach over, glancing at the screen.
It’s a message from Richard.
Even on my day off, I can’t escape work.
Sinclair. That last piece was bloody brilliant. People are eating it up.
When are you next seeing Rossi? Let’s keep the momentum going.
I stare at the message, my fingers tightening around the phone as my stomach twists.
When am I next seeing Matteo?
Ideally never.
I don’t want to see him. Not because of what happened - well, not just that, anyway.
I don’t want to see him again because I cannot trust myself.
Because the moment I lay eyes on his beautiful yet infuriating face again, I’ll remember how his voice sounded in my ear, how his body felt against mine, how he looked at me like he wanted to devour me whole.
And I know I’ll want it again.
I shake my head, sitting up and tossing my phone onto the bed as I swing my legs over the edge. I push myself up and walk over to the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass.
Rome sprawls out before me, golden in the morning light, bustling and alive. A city full of endless opportunities; and yet here I am, completely stuck inside my own head.
My eyes drift blankly over the streets below as my thoughts spiral beyond my control.
I hate myself for sleeping with him. Not because it wasn’t good - it was almost too good - but because it feels like I’ve played directly into Matteo’s hands.