I snort. Since I can’t even cook eggs or toast without burning the kitchen down, it’s tempting. But maybe that’s a weapon I should save for a special occasion.
Me: Seeing as I’m not going to torture you, I’ll order something. But we need to talk. Come at eight.
Chapter 20
Matteo
Before I knock on Raven’s door, I adjust the eyepatch I’m wearing tonight. No theatrics. No explanation. Sometimes the prosthetic stays in, sometimes it doesn’t. Tonight, the socket’s sore and I don’t give enough of a shit to pretend otherwise.
I knock at exactly eight o’clock—two sharp raps that echo my pulse—and wait, wondering what the hell this is about.
The door swings open, and all my thoughts evaporate like water on hot coals. Raven stands framed in the doorway, blonde hair piled in a messy bun on top of her head, strands escaping to frame her face.
But it’s not her hair that short-circuits my brain—it’s what she’s wearing. A dusky pink crop top stops just below her ribs,revealing a strip of smooth skin above denim shorts so short they’re criminal.
“You gonna stand there all night?” she asks, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk that says she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. “Wait, what the hell happened to your eye? Are you okay?” The smirk’s now completely gone, replaced with a worried expression.
“I’m fine,” I rasp, taking a step closer. “Are you going to invite me in?”
She steps aside with a dramatic sweep of her arm. “Enter at your own risk.”
“Where’s my hello?” I ask, staying firmly in place.
Her eyebrow arches. “Hello,” she chirps, voice dripping with fake sweetness.
“Not that kind of hello.” I tap my lip with one finger. “I think I deserve a proper greeting.”
A flush crawls up her neck, staining her cheeks. She rises on her toes and aims for my cheek. I turn at the last second, catching her mouth with mine. No tongue, nothing overly aggressive, but with Raven, it still means something.
When I pull back, her pupils have dilated, eating the brown until only a thin ring remains. Desire clear as day.
“Better,” I murmur.
She rolls her eyes but steps back to let me in. “Seriously, why are you wearing an eyepatch? And don’t tell me it’s a fashion accessory.”
The apartment smells of tomato sauce and garlic, warm and inviting in a way that catches me off guard. A large pizza box sits open on her coffee table beside an unopened bottle of red wine.
“Pizza?” I guess, surprised by the domesticity of the scene. “And here I thought this was a booty call.”
“Can’t live on orgasms alone,” she quips, padding ahead of me into the living room. “Now, answer my question.”
The view from behind is even more devastating as those shorts cup her round ass like they were custom-made for it. Each step makes the fabric ride higher, revealing more of those full curves.
“There’s nothing wrong with my eye,” I grin. “It doesn’t exist.”
“W-what?” she gasps and spins around, hands on her hips. “What the hell does that mean?”
Ignoring her, I move toward the kitchen. “I’ll get glasses for the wine.”
“Don’t bother,” she calls, dropping to the floor beside the coffee table. She crosses her legs beneath her, looking utterly at home sprawled on the hardwood. “We can share the bottle.”
I pause, watching as she tears the seal from the wine with her teeth, spitting the foil onto the pizza box. There’s something unbearably intimate about the gesture—more so than watching her pleasure herself on camera.
This is Raven unfiltered, unpretentious, unperforming.
“Are you trying to get me drunk, Little Thief?” I ask, shrugging off my suit jacket and draping it over a chair.
She snorts, working the corkscrew into the bottle. “Would it work if I were?” Then she tilts her head to the side. “Is that the key to get you to answer my damn question?”
