“I don’t want you to stop, DeLuca,” she whispered. “And it’sveryinconvenient.”
“Good,” I said, kissing her again, softer this time. Slower. “Because I’ve got at least five more compliments and three metaphors lined up about how good you taste.”
“Don’t push it.”
I grinned. “Too late.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was a laugh tangled with it now—and I knew I’d never stop chasing that sound.
23
NICOLA
“Let’s leave,” he whispered.
And just like that, my brain short-circuited.
His voice was low, rough from all the kissing and the yelling and probably years of ruining hearts without even trying. His thumb brushed along my jaw like he couldn’t help himself. Like touching me had become a reflex.
“My room still has those chocolates you hoard,” he added, voice barely audible over the thump of the club music. “I’ve got better ideas for us than dancing in a club.”
I flushed at his words. Heated memories played in my mind like a slideshow. “Is that where the rest of your metaphors are stored? Oh God, will you start reading me poems or something?”
His grin was devastating. And my heart fluttered at the way his eyes creased. It was so easy with him, to still be silly but heated all at the same time. I watched his jaw flex as his gaze took me in under the low light of the club. I wanted to memorize the moment, this version of him, to store it away just for me. Matteo leaned in, eyes darkening, and kissed just below my ear—soft, possessive, maddening. “Sure, Princess. Among other things.”
And that was it.
I grabbed his hand and muttered, “Lead the way, DeLuca. Before I start making good decisions.”
We didn’t even make it ten feet outside the elevator in the hotel before his hand was back on my waist, pulling me close like I was something fragile and breakable and his all at once. I had half a mind to roll my eyes at the drama of it all, but then he kissed me like he meant it again, and I forgot every smart thing I’d ever known. A blur of lips and hands and me trying to figure out when the hell I became the kind of person who felt like if I wasn’t kissing this man I would simply perish.
The second the door to his hotel room clicked shut behind us, I stopped pretending I was in control.
His jacket came off first, mine shortly after. I kicked off my heels with something that was more desperation than grace and nearly tripped trying to step out of them.
“Your fault if I die,” I muttered.
“I’d give you CPR,” he whispered, tugging me toward him. “Very thorough CPR.”
We stumbled backward toward the bed like two people who had no idea what they were doing and also knew exactly what they were doing.
My fingers found the hem of his shirt and yanked. He didn’t even pause to help—just let me strip it off like I had a vendetta against fabric. Which, honestly, I might’ve.
Every touch. Every press of skin against skin. Every sigh. It felt like fire and clarity and danger and everything I swore I didn’t want. The way my heart rattled in my chest at the way he looked at me. Wanting to touch him, to be touched by him. Having his hand on my back or secretly on my thigh under a table. I craved it now; I think I might crave it forever.
Matteo was laying on his back, one arm tucked behind his head, staring at the ceiling like it held all the answers he didn’t have. His other hand was curled loosely around mine, resting between us on the sheets. Our fingers were barely touching, like even in this post-everything haze, we were still testing the weight of the moment.
I stared at the ceiling too, pretending like I wasn’t turning this into a whole thing in my head.
But I was.
God, Isowas.
I swallowed, voice low. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
It wasn’t.
