But I can’t lie, not when his hands are sliding under my sleep shirt, not when his thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts. “Don’t you dare stop,” I gasp, arching into his touch.
“Fuck,” he groans. “I’ve been thinking about these since the moment I saw them.”
My hips roll against his instinctively, seeking friction. “Hurry up and get to the good part,” I demand, my voice breathless.
His laugh is dark and satisfied against my skin. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes studying my face with an intensity that makes me squirm.
“The good part, huh?” His fingers find my nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger until I’m biting my lip to keep from moaning. “And what part is that, exactly?”
His phone buzzes in his pocket, vibrating against my inner thigh in a way that’s frustratingly distracting. Matteo ignores it, focusing instead on sliding my shirt up and over my head in one fluid motion.
The cool morning air hits my bare skin, but I don’t have time to feel exposed before his mouth is on my breast, tongue flickingagainst the metal bar through my nipple.The sensation shoots straight between my legs, making me moan his name.
His phone buzzes again. And again. And again.
“Fuck,” he growls, resting his forehead against my sternum. “I have to take this.”
I try not to whimper at the loss when he pulls away, fishing the phone from his pocket with obvious reluctance. His expression darkens as he reads whatever message has interrupted us.
“Problem?” I ask, making no move to cover myself. Let him suffer a little.
His eye flicks up, taking in my disheveled state with a hunger that makes me clench my thighs together. “Business,” he says shortly, thumbs flying over his screen in response. “I need to go.”
Disappointment floods me, but I mask it with a shrug, reaching for my discarded shirt. “Duty calls. People to threaten, kneecaps to break?” I cringe at the last part. Mostly because I tend to chicken out and make up stories in my head about him being a florist.
Okay, I don’t actually do that. But I do bury my head in the proverbial sand. Like with the guy he had to talk to. Have I asked if he’s still breathing? Nope. Am I going to ask? Also nope.
“Something like that.” He catches my wrist before I can pull the shirt on, his grip gentle but firm. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“Don’t cover up.” His voice drops to a register that makes my stomach flip. “I want the image of you like this to haunt me all day.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I drop the shirt. “Is that an order, Matty?”
“Would you follow it if it was?” He steps closer again, his body heat enveloping me as he crowds me against the counter.
“Probably not,” I admit with a smirk. “I’m not very good at taking orders.”
Before leaving, he claims my lips in one more all-consuming kiss. One that lingers in the recesses of my mind while I shower, get ready, and it’s still there when I arrive at Holston’s for my meeting with the Kearney brothers.
Work becomes a blur after the first meeting of the day. Emails, calls, edits, Holston hovering like a stressed-out pigeon, and one intern that shouldn’t be allowed near any of my projects. The whole time, Matteo’s morning kiss keeps replaying like a glitch I can’t reset.
Hours slip by, and I barely notice it’s almost three in the afternoon when my phone rings, and Mom’s name flashes across the screen with the photo I took last Christmas. She has tinsel in her hair, laughing so hard her eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Hey, Mom,” I answer, unable to keep the smile from my voice.
“Hi sweetheart.” Her voice explodes through the phone, loud and rapid-fire as always. “I thought I’d have to call at least twice to catch you. Are you busy? Is this a bad time? I can call back later.”
“It’s fine,” I laugh. “I’m never too busy for my mom.”
She sniffs. “Good. Because I did not suffer through sixteen hours of labor just to be ignored.”
That makes me laugh even harder. “Mom, you know eight of those hours belong on Leo’s bill,” I reply. It’s an old argument, one where both me and my twin refuse full responsibility for the many hours of horror she endured.
While she catches me up on how everyone’s doing, I absentmindedly reply to a client email and double-check my schedule for next week out of habit.
“So listen.”
