“Yes, Lara. We’ve met.” I wring my fingers in my lap, unsure if I should say what’s on my mind. But in the end, my self-restraint loses the battle. “She mentioned a rose delivery to the west wing.”
Just like that, Matteo’s gaze snaps up. “Did she, now?”
Too late, I realize I might be getting her into trouble. “It was just a slip! I kind of hounded her into it, honestly,” I lie. “I was just curious where they went, since I never see them around here.” Matteo’s eyes are hard as stone now, and I reach desperately for a joke to lighten the mood. “Whatever lucky woman’s getting all those bouquets must be very happy.”
It doesn’t come out as a joke. It comes out sad, and desperate, and everything I feel I am.
God, how pathetic.
As expected, Matteo doesn’t laugh. But he does something else that I did not expect.
He stands.
I move back without realizing it. Somehow we end up near the shelves, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his body even though he isn’t touching me.
“There’s no woman.” His voice is rough and warm, hot coals licked by flame.
“I… I see.” I swallow hard. And then, because I can’t shut up for the life of me, “That’s good, I guess.”
“Is it?” His hand lifts and rests against the bookcase near my head. “Good?”
This time, I bite my lip hard. Anything is better than digging this hole deeper.
But my silence doesn’t seem to satisfy him. “You should be careful,” he rumbles, “not to involve yourself too deeply with a man like me, Miss Brown.”
My breath shudders out of me.
And for once, I feel it. A hot, sharp need stinging between my ribs and down my core, the kind of sensation I’m used to repressing because there’s no point to it.
Longing.
No—greed.
Even though I’m not the kind of person who gets her wishes granted. Even though I’m a nobody and not nearly good enough.
I want this.
I wanthim.
“Maybe I want to,” I whisper. “Maybe I’m glad there’s no woman behind the west wing door.”
His gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes, conflict shadowing his expression.
“This isn’t a good idea,” he says, but doesn’t step away.
We hover in that space between sense and gravity, between caution and something that feels dangerously like the first spark of a wildfire.
“Then tell me to go,” I whisper.
We wait in the semi-darkness as the seconds tick by. As the silence thickens between us like hot, liquid need.
Then he grabs my jaw and pries my lips open with his.
12
MATTEO
My lips crash against hers, demanding, tasting the surprise that melts into hunger as she responds. Her hands come up to my chest, fingers curling into my shirt, pulling me closer.
