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)
But now, here in his bed, with the warmth of his skin against mine, this feels… different.
More intimate.
More like something I shouldn’t analyse too closely.
I hesitate for a second, but Matteo doesn’t let me linger in my thoughts. His muscular arm tightens around my waist, guiding me closer until my head rests in the crook of his neck. His free hand trails slowly up and down my back, his fingertips barely grazing my skin with a touch that is both soothing and possessive.
I place a tentative hand on his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. His heartbeat thrums beneath my palm, solid and sure.
“Relax, bella,” he murmurs, voice husky but softer now.
He presses a lazy kiss to my temple, his fingers drifting into my hair, threading through it in slow, absent strokes.
“You’re thinking too much.”
Maybe I am.
Maybe I should pull away before this moment turns into something it shouldn't.
But with his warmth surrounding me, his touch keeping me anchored, I decide to let myself enjoy it - just this once.
I close my eyes, melting into him as he continues to touch me, his fingers never still, mapping out my skin as if he needs the reassurance that I’m here.
That I’m his.
And for the first time, I don’t want to run.
But after a few moments of blissful, easy quiet, Matteo turns his head and smirks at me.
“So. It’s still just my dick you like, huh?”
I laugh weakly, swatting his chest.
“Shut up, Rossi.”
“Never.”
He kisses me again, slower this time, and I melt into him despite myself.
And as I drift into a hazy bliss, one thought lingers:
How the hell did I ever think I hated him?
Chapter Forty-Three
Daphne
Spending the night at Matteo Rossi’s home was never on my agenda.
Nor was riding him the next morning, his hands gripping my hips so tightly as he lifted his hips to meet my thrusts - almost as if he was afraid I'd disappear if he didn’t physically hold me down.
Neither was being bent over the counter of his expansive kitchen island, my palms pressed flat against the cool marble while his deep, gravelly voice whispered filthy promises in my ear as the sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Promises that made my knees weak and my mind fuzzy, like, "I’m not stopping until your legs fucking shake," and, "You're going to think about this every time you set foot in a kitchen, bella."
Annoyingly, he’s probably right.
But here I am, standing in said kitchen a few hours later, sipping a cup of coffee while wearing his shirt and last night's makeup, wondering how exactly I got here.
Matteo, ever the smug bastard, is lounging across from me on one of the bar stools, shirtless and grinning like he’s won some sort of prize.
"You look good in my shirt, you know," he drawls, raking a hand through his messy hair.
"Don’t get used to it," I shoot back, though my heart stumbles in my chest when his eyes darken with amusement.
My shoulders sag a little as I look over at the clock hanging on the wall.
"I should probably get going."
"Mmm," he hums, taking a lazy sip from his own mug. "But you haven’t ridden me on the sofa yet."
I practically choke on my coffee, cheeks burning as I set the mug down.
"You’re such an ass."
"And yet," he smirks, standing and sauntering toward me, "you’re still here."
He’s right, and I hate it.
I should be gone by now. Hell, I should have been gone hours ago.
But there’s something magnetic about Matteo Rossi, and despite his arrogance, I can’t tear myself away from him.
"I really do need to go," I insist, stepping back as he cages me against the counter.
"Fine," he murmurs, leaning down until his lips brush mine. "But next time, don’t pretend you don’t want to stay."
I don’t reply. I can’t.
I don't want to admit it to myself - but deep down, I already want there to be a next time.
When I finally make it home later that morning, I collapse onto my bed and stare at the ceiling, replaying the events of the past twelve hours in vivid detail.
Matteo had taken my phone before I left, saving his number with a winking emoji next to his name and made me promise to text him this evening.
"Just in case you need a quote for an article," he said with a mischievous grin.
"Yeah, that’s exactly what I’ll need it for," I’d muttered, earning a laugh that had lingered long after I walked out his front door.
I don’t text him, though. Not that day, or the next.
I tell myself it’s because I’m busy with work, catching up on match reports and stats, preparing pieces that Mark will inevitably try to nitpick.
But in truth, I’m scared of what texting him will mean.
Of what this thing between us is becoming.
*
Two days later, as I sit at my desk with a lukewarm cappuccino and a blank Word document mocking me, my laptop chimes with an incoming video call.