But she’s still here. Still waiting. So I try.
“I don’t know how to let someone in.” My gaze drops to her collarbone. Easier than her eyes. “You were trying to help, and I couldn’t—I didn’t know how to let you.”
The tension in her shoulders eases. Just a fraction. Just enough.
“Santino dying shook me.” I swallow hard. “I was there. I couldn’t stop it. He was—” I stop. Try again. “He mattered. And I’ve been carrying that. I didn’t want to put it on you, too. Not with everything you’re already dealing with.”
“Matteo.” Her hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my cheekbone. “You don’t have to carry things alone anymore.”
I want to believe that. I want to lean into her touch and let her share the weight I’ve been dragging around my whole life.
But old habits die hard.
“We’ll talk,” I say, my voice raw. “After. I’ll tell you everything. But I need you first, Sierra.” I press my hips forward, letting her feel what she does to me. “I need you now.”
She searches my face. I don’t know what she’s looking for, but whatever it is, she must find it.
“Okay,” she whispers. “But then we talk. Really talk. After.”
I nod. I’ll give her whatever she wants. Everything she wants.
Later.
I kiss her again, slower this time, tasting her properly. She makes a soft sound against my mouth, and my control slips another notch. My hands find the hem of her shirt, sliding beneath to touch bare skin. She’s warm. So fucking warm.
“Matteo.” My name comes out breathless. Needy.
I pull back just enough to meet her eyes. “Tell me to stop.”
She doesn’t.
Instead, she reaches for my belt.
35
SIERRA
We should talk first.I know we should. But when Matteo’s fingers find the button of my jeans, every rational thought dissolves into static.
His hands are rough and urgent against my skin, that coiled tension in him finally snapping loose. I’ve seen him like this before, all that controlled energy breaking free, and it makes me feel powerful in a way I’m still getting used to. Wanted in a way that borders on overwhelming. And God, I want him too. The need is physical, a clenching low in my core that almost hurts.
He shoves his hand down the front of my pants, cupping me, and I forget how to breathe. His mouth drags down my neck, teeth grazing my shoulder before biting down just hard enough to sting.
“Matteo.” His name tears out of me. “I need you.”
I reach for his shirt, yanking it over his head with more enthusiasm than finesse. My hands are mapping the familiar terrain of his chest when I freeze.
There’s a bandage on his side. Fresh gauze, taped neatly below his ribs.
“What the hell is this?”
He catches my wrist before I can touch it. “It’s nothing. I’ll tell you later, I promise. Right now I just need...”
I open my mouth to argue, but then his finger sinks into me, and every thought scatters like birds from a gunshot. My knees buckle. His arm locks around my waist, holding me upright, holding me together.
He kisses me deep and slow while his finger works in and out at a pace that’s clearly designed to drive me out of my mind. I can feel him against my hip—hard and thick through his jeans—and I need more than this. I don’t just want the fullness, though I definitely want that, too. I want the connection. That feeling of being completely, overwhelmingly his.
“Fuck me,” I gasp against his mouth. “Please.”
