Page 110 of The Cupid Chronicles

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” I say, because honestly, I need to know.

“I don’t want to think,” he says. “And I don’t want to talk anymore.”

I swear I hear the distant tinkle of chimes from somewhere faraway as the world turns in slow motion. He moves toward me, eyes intense and flush with a desire that matches my own. He reaches for me, and when his hand lands on the back of my neck, I go completely still, except for the cartwheels turning in my stomach.

His eyes search mine as he moves even closer until our faces are only inches apart. He pauses, silently asking for permission to give in to whatever it is that’s happening between us right now.

Once he’s got it, it’s like the dam breaks—like whatever had been holding his desire back simply disappears.

The second his lips are on mine, my body rises to meet his.

I lean back against the arm of the couch, and he follows, hovering over me as I wrap my arms up around his neck and fully give in to this kiss.

He deepens the kiss, and my head spins, swirling with thoughts I couldn’t articulate if I tried. I’m sure of one thing, though—Matteo Morgan knows how to kiss.

His lips are so soft yet so firm, and I inhale slowly so I can engage every one of my senses. He’s so in control, and while I sense the urgency in the kiss, there’s gentleness too.

Is this really happening?Am I actuallykissingMatteo?

I clear the mental clutter and focus on the only thing that matters in that moment—him. I shudder when his tongue brushes across my lower lip, sensing the urgency in his shallow breaths, still knowing he’s in full control.

And I feel myself slipping deeper. Heat rushes to every nerve in my body, pulsing with a kind of desire that makes me want to ignore reason, to embrace reckless abandon.

In my mind, every past hurt falls away. None of them matter because they all led me here—to him. Which is exactly where I want to be.

He pulls back suddenly, and my stomach sinks.

He searches my eyes. “What are we doing?” His voice is low and breathless, his forehead pressed to mine.

I inch back and squint at him. “Do you really want me to explain it to you?”

He smirks, but his expression turns serious. “I want to be straight with you,” he says. “I really don’t know what I want . . .” His shoulders slump ever so slightly, and he looks away. “I promised myself I wouldn’t let myself feel this way again.”

It’s the open door I’ve wanted to walk through. I want to know why. Only now that it’s here, my feet are like cinder blocks holding me in place.

“I don’t need promises,” I say quietly, mustering the courage. “I know that neither one of us can predict the future. But . . .” I wait until he looks at me. “I do want to know the truth.”

He looks away, and I feel the weight of whatever it is he’s carrying.

“But only if you’re ready to tell me.” I pause. “Fair warning, though. I’m not very patient.”

His smile is fleeting. “Honestly, I kind of like that you don’t know.”

I frown as my brain tries to fill in the blanks of what it is he isn’t willing to talk about, running through a list of worst-case scenarios that start with a felony record and end with a secret identity. “Why?”

He stands, his hand lingering in mine for a moment, and then he walks into the kitchen, pulls open the refrigerator, and takes out two bottles of water.

I follow him, wanting to give him space but also wanting him to know I’m not going anywhere. I take the water when he offers it, open the bottle and take a drink. I get the sense he needs to process this moment in silence, so that’s what I give him.

“I was married,” he says.

I’m mid-drink when he says this, and it catches me so off-guard, I forget how to swallow.

He doesn’t elaborate.

After a beat, I finally say, “A lot of marriages end. I hope you know I would never judge you for getting divorced . . .” Though I am a little surprised nobody mentioned it until now, especially at the restaurant.

But then, he shakes his head, looking at me behind slightly glassy eyes. “Not divorced.”

---