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Then the small gun tucked in my purse and the needle filled with heroin.

He places everything on the ground in a neat row next to the pulpit and stands in front of me.

Without a word, I return the favor.

I run my fingers through his hair, down his neck, over his chest and stomach. His skin feels so good against my hand. So I slow down. Enjoy the pure sensory pleasure of it. The warmth of his flesh. The soft cotton fabric of his shirt. The hard muscles of his stomach beneath it.

The stiff leather belt.

He shudders as I trace the buckle, but he doesn’t give in to his desire.

I drop to knees to pat down his thighs and calves. The wool is too thick. There are too many layers between my hands and his skin. And there’s something else too.

Who the fuck wears wool in May in Rome? It’s 80 degrees and there are a million brands selling clothes that don’t wrinkle or require dry cleaning.

But that’s not Matteo.

He’s old fashioned. Not just in the way he’s stiff and scrupulous. In the way he favors classics and quality over a wardrobe stuffed with trendy pink dresses.

My stomach flutters.

I do miss him. Not just the devoted boyfriend who cooked me dinner. The complicated, wounded, obsessive, sharp man I watched for weeks.

The full person.

Yes, I want to fuck him.

But I want the rest too.

I want to lay next to him all night. Let him fix me breakfast. Laugh as we read lines from a play.

So I look up at him, letting the offer hang in the air. How about I unzip your pants? How about I take control here?

It’s funny. I never enjoyed this with other men.

With him, I couldn’t get enough. Not just because I love the way he groans, because I want to make his eyes roll back in his head, because he feels so fucking good in my mouth.

Because I want him to surrender.

But it’s not happening. Not today.

He sees through the offer. I’m not sure how, but he does. It’s all over his dark eyes.

Matteo waits, staring back at me with all the patience in the world. Your move.

Finally, I stand.

The offer fills the air again.

You can have me here.

I can have you anywhere. But I won’t. Not yet.

When I’m tired of waiting, I rise, reach into his jacket, retrieve the gun from his shoulder holster.

It’s loaded. I arch an eyebrow. Really?

“Yours isn’t?” he counters.