I’m already there, already climbing, the tension coiling tighter with every stroke, every press of his thumb, every filthy word he murmurs against my neck. The leather seat is slick beneath my bare thighs. I can smell him everywhere, motor oil and sweat and something warm and male that makes me want to bury my face in his neck and never come up for air.
My thighs shake. My fingers dig into his shoulders hard enough to bruise. The bike keeps shifting with every movement, adding another layer of sensation, another reminder of where I am; spread out on his Harley like an offering, completely at his mercy.
“Matteo, I’m—I’m gonna?—”
He speeds up, harder, faster, his palm grinding against my clit while his fingers hit that spot over and over, and I’m right there, rightthere, teetering on the edge?—
A car door slams outside.
We both freeze.
His fingers are still inside me. His breath is ragged against my throat. Neither of us moves.
The pizza.Ugh.
I could scream.
Matteo looks at me. I can see him thinking about it. Ignoring the food. Going back to what we were doing. My whole body aches for him to make that choice.
Please. Please ignore it.
For a second, I think he’s going to. I think he’s going to sayfuck the pizzaand make me come right here on this motorcycle.
Then he exhales slowly and pulls his hand from my panties.
I whimper at the loss. He steps back, chest heaving, and I watch as he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean. His eyes never leave mine.
“That’s not fair,” I manage.
“I need to feed you,” he says, voice rough.
I slump against the handlebars, my legs too weak to close, the bike still warm and solid beneath me.
“I’m going to kill that delivery driver,” I manage.
With a wry smile, he turns and walks toward the driveway, adjusting himself as he goes.
Noble. Responsible.Infuriating.
I sit up slowly, my whole body still thrumming. I try to pull myself together. I tug my bra back into place, pull my jeans up, and smooth my hair. But my hands are shaking and my breath won’t steady, and I’m still sitting on this motorcycle so wound up I could scream.
He comes back with the pizza and nods toward the house. “We should eat inside.”
I slide off the bike on unsteady legs and follow him, frustration coiling tight in my belly.
That delivery driver has the worst timing in the history of mankind.
And from the tension in Matteo’s shoulders as he walks ahead of me, I don’t think I’m the only one who feels that way.
15
MATTEO
The construction sitelooks like a skeleton in the dark. Steel bones reaching toward nothing, concrete half-poured, building materials stacked in neat rows that won’t exist by sunrise.
Balaclavas down, we cut the chain-link fence at the back of the lot where the streetlights don’t reach. Kozlov’s crew has been working this job for three months, and they’ve made decent progress. Foundation laid. Framing up. Supplies for insulation and exterior walls waiting in organized piles.
All of it about to become a very expensive problem.
