“No.” His voice is blunt, raw. “Only the ones who make me forget I shouldn’t touch them.”
The tension is tight between us, like a wire ready to snap.
I reach up, fingers brushing the edge of his jaw. His bruise has bloomed there, dark and raw. My thumb lingers near it. He doesn’t move.
“Does it hurt?” I ask.
He laughs softly. “Not enough.”
His hand slides to my waist, tugging me forward until I taste his breath, warm and sharp between us.
“Say stop,” he whispers.
I don’t.
And his mouth claims mine.
Not soft.
Not sweet.
But steady. Controlled. Like he’s trying to hold himself together with every second his mouth is on mine.
My fingers fist in the fabric of his shirt. My knife is still in my hand, and for a moment, the storm forgets how to rage.
We stand there in silence. Breathing each other in. The rooftop is alive with the promise of something we both shouldn’t want.
But we do.
The kiss doesn’t end; it detonates.
His mouth crashes back onto mine, and the sky tears open with it. Thunder splits the night, shaking through my chest, lightning slashing white fire above Blackstone.
Is it a warning?
Wind whips around us like it wants to tear us apart, but Matteo holds me steady. Or maybe I’m the one holding him.
His hands are in my hair, at my waist, everywhere at once. The kiss isn’t sweet. It’s consuming. It’s teeth and tongue and the kind of hunger that’s starved for too long.
My back hits the wall, stone biting cold against my spine, his heat burning everywhere else. The knife slips from my grip, clattering to the rooftop, lost between lust and madness.
His body crushes me against the wall, heat pouring off him in waves. He groans into my mouth when my nails rake down his shoulders.
“I should stop,” he breathes, lips brushing mine.
“Then stop,” I whisper back.
He doesn’t.
Because we both know, he won’t and I won’t let him.
His hands tear at my clothes, frantic, as if fabric itself is an enemy. His mouth drags down my throat, tongue pressing against the pulse hammering there, beating louder than the storm. Wind slams against us, rain spitting across our skin, but the cold doesn’t reach. Heat burns too deep to touch.
His hands drag down my leggings and panties in one rough pull, lips never leaving my throat. He breaks away just longenough to strip them off. His mouth crashes back onto mine, harder than before.
Not pulling away, I feel him pulling his trousers down, and once free, he pulls away, and slides on a condom. Then he lifts me, pressing me tighter against the wall, I wrap my legs around him like I was built to be there. I can feel him, hard, pulsing, ready.
He doesn’t tease.
