Page 126 of Matteo

“We can leave any time we want.” We slip into another wet and lazy kiss, which makes my cock stiffen. She moans against my mouth, and I know exactly how tonight will end. Just like every other night, and the mornings, when we're unable to get out of bed to go to work.

“Matteo.” She finally pulls away. “I need to know! I have to go home and pack.”

“We can leave at any time you want.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? What time do we take off?”

“You can pick a time, because I’m taking the private jet.” I wait for her reaction, because I’m unsure of what to expect.

“You’re doing what?”

“I thought it would be easier to take the private jet,” I say carefully. This isn’t me trying to impress her—not too much. It’s more that it would make it easier for us to spend more time together.

She almost splutters in disgust. “How? Why? When did you decide this?”

I suddenly find myself in the awkward position of having to explain a surprise I assumed she’d love.

“It will be easier, for one thing. I have to go to Soave, after the wedding, and this way we get to spend more time together instead of wasting it at airports.” That's the main reason why. I don't like taking the private jet. It's not my vibe, but I honestly thought this would just make things easier for us.

She stares at me blankly.

“It means we can go to the wedding together,” I say, not liking her reaction, “and then I can fly to visit my mom, and return to Dubrovnik the next day. It means less flying and more time together.”

In that instant it hits me. She told me I didn’t need to wine and dine her, but this, taking the jet, was purely for timing and ease.

Elizabeth presses her lips together, saying nothing, but shaking her head like she’s so mad she can barely articulate her words. My heart sinks as I realize I've messed up. I try to justify my actions again. “We get to spend more time together this way. I thought you'd be pleased.”

“No, Matteo.” She swivels the stool, turning away from me, and I feel the distance between us, emotionally, not just physically.

“It’s too much, isn't it?” I say, reluctantly.

“You don't need to impress me.”

“I'm not doing it to impress you. I didn't think I needed to. I thought it would help, that's all.”

She pauses for a second, then, “It doesn’t.”

Stony silence fills the room.

“Fine then. No private jet,” I say, trying to keep my voice level. “I'll book the flights.”

“You don't have to. I can get my own ticket—”

“I'll get the flights,” I say, determined to not let her punish me in that way. She made her point, and I get it. But she looks as if she’s about to protest. “You insisted on taking care of the hotel, so I’ll book the flights,” I insist. “At least we get to sit together.”

She folds her arms, like it's difficult for her to agree to this. “I also don't do first class, so don't go booking that for me, either.”

That’s going to be a pain in the butt for me, but I relent. “Understood. No first class.” I stride towards her. She’s still defensive, arms still folded like a shield. I lean towards her, cupping her face gently, my thumb swiping her lips.

“Are we arguing?” I ask, softly, because I hate it when we do.

She slowly loosens her arms. “We're not arguing.”

“Are you still angry with me?”

“No. I wasn’t angry, just … irritated.” Then, after a beat, “Thank you.”

“For not taking the jet?”