His expression tightens, the hardness flickering. “You’re not quite in the clear yet.”
“I know.” I let my eyes dip to his mouth, then back to his. “But I want to stop feeling like I’m drowning every time I close my eyes.”
It’s the truth, twisted just enough to be useful.
He shifts, weight changing, like he’s fighting the instinct to come closer. His fingers flex against the edge of the counter. I can see him doing the math. The timing. The risk.
Perfect.
I step in, then stop just outside his reach, like I’m unsure. Like I’m hesitating. Which is mostly true.
He watches my hesitation like it’s a crack he can slide his hands into. “Cat,” he says again, lower. “What are you doing?”
I exhale softly, like I’m embarrassed. Like I’m confessing something. “I’m trying to decide.”
“Decide what?”
Whether you’ll make this easy. Whether I’ll hate myself after.
I lift my shoulders in a small shrug. “If I’m allowed to want something.”
His eyes flare, green turning molten. “You’re allowed to want anything.”
That’s the problem, Matteo.
I inch closer, letting the air go electric on purpose. Letting the shirt ride up slightly when I move, a flash of thigh I know he’ll see.
His focus snags, and his breath catches.
I feel a grim satisfaction bloom in my chest. Then, I touch his wrist, and his pulse jumps under my fingertips, fast and hard.
He goes still, fighting himself. “Cat, what are—” he starts, but the words are already fraying.
I slide my fingers up his forearm, slow enough to be innocent, steady enough to be deliberate. “It’s been a long day,” I breathe. “And I just want to forget…”
My other hand moves to the counter, casual, palm flat. His gaze drops to my hand, then to my mouth, then back to my hand again like he’s trying to anchor himself somewhere safe. He swallows. “Cat. This is… not smart.”
“I’m not asking for smart,” I say softly. “I’m asking for a minute where I don’t feel like prey.”
His jaw tightens at that. The word lands. Good. Because Matteo Rossi can’t resist being the kind of male who makes you feel safe. And if he’s focused on that, he won’t notice when I take what I need.
I step closer until the space between us collapses into heat. I let my lashes dip, let my voice go quieter. “You keep looking at me like you’re holding back,” I whisper. “Why?”
His throat works. “Because I know you’re angry with me. Because you have every damned right to be furious.”
My lips curve. “I can be angry and still… want things.”
True. Not the whole truth.
I lean in, stopping just short of his mouth, letting the tension wind tight enough to snap.
He doesn’t move. He waits, like he’s trying to give me the choice. Like he’s decent.
Decent males are the easiest to distract.
“You saved my life,” I repeat, letting the words sink in, letting them soften him. “And I haven’t said thank you.”
“You don’t owe me?—”
