Matteo brings bagels this time—an everything bagel with lox for me, plain with egg whites for him. The man’s breakfast habits are as predictable as his suit color choices.
“Do you ever eat anything fun?” I ask, watching him eat the egg whites.
“Define fun.”
“I don’t know, something with sugar? Carbs? A hint of joy?”
His mouth quirks. “I had a lot of fun eating your pussy. Are you offering?”
The way his gaze slides over me makes it clear he’d do it if I said yes. Nope. Not happening.
I need extra pins. Stat.
The sixth and seventh mornings blur together in a haze of caffeine and carbs. Between the breakfast burrito and waffles, I start to notice things about him in the mornings that I don’t see at night.
Like how his hair is slightly damp after his shower, curling at the nape of his neck before he styles it. How he always checks his phone exactly twice during breakfast—once when he sits down, once before he leaves.
I think my favorite thing is the way he stirs his coffee counterclockwise, never clockwise, with precise movements of his wrist. It’s such a small thing, but it’s him.
“Ugh, I’m going to have to start doing something terrible like running if I want to keep fitting into my clothes,” I whine, patting my stomach after I finish my waffles.
Matteo just snorts. “No one said you had to eat all three,” he deadpans.
“You did,” I volley. “By bringing them into my home and refusing as much as a bite, you said I had to eat them.”
“Did I?” he asks, clearly amused.
I nod exaggeratedly. “Really, I had to. Food waste is such a big problem, and you know me. I’m not going to contribute to global issues. I’m all about—”
“Shut up,” he laughs, leaning close enough to lick the corner of my mouth. “There, now not a drop of syrup’s wasted.”
My breath hitches, and I instinctively turn my head, brushing my lips across his. “Are you sure you got it all?” I breathe.
“You’re trouble,” Matteo groans, his breath hitting my skin in small puffs.
Closing the very limited distance between us, I fuse our lips together. His hands immediately tangle in my hair, tilting my head just so for better access. Like everything he does, it isn’t sweet. But neither is the way I purposefully scrape my teeth across his bottom lip.
“Kiss me properly,” I gasp into his mouth.
And Matteo doesn’t disappoint. His mouth slants over mine, taking control of the kiss with a dominance that makes my toes curl against the kitchen tile. His tongue slides against mine, tasting of coffee and promises I’m not sure either of us should be making.
When he pulls away, I’m breathless and dizzy, my hands somehow fisted in his perfectly pressed shirt.
“I should go,” he murmurs against my lips, but makes no move to release me.
“You should,” I agree, even as I lean in for another taste.
This kiss is slower, deeper, and I feel it all the way down to my core. My body arches toward him like it has a mind of its own, seeking more contact, more heat. His hands slide down my back to cup my ass, lifting me onto the table in one smooth motion that reminds me exactly how strong he is.
“Work,” he growls between kisses, trailing his lips down my neck. “I have to—”
“Yeah,” I breathe, tilting my head to give him better access. “Me too.”
But neither of us stops. His hands are everywhere, leaving trails of fire across my skin. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer until I can feel him hard against me through our clothes.
This is madness—pure, delicious madness. I’m perched on my kitchen table with a dangerous man between my thighs, and all I can think about is how badly I want him to tear my clothes off and take me right here.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my collarbone, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “Tell me this isn’t what you want.”
