Page 139 of My Italian Love Affair

Her lips press together, her eyes flickering down to my mouth before she catches herself.

I should let this go.

I don’t.

Instead, I step in fully, caging her in with nothing but my presence, my body. Her back barely brushes against one of the benches, and I brace a hand beside her, making sure she knows she’s not going anywhere unlessIlet her.

“You know,” I murmur, my breath ghosting over her cheek, “if you wanted to touch me, all you had to do was ask.”

I expect her to shove me away, to laugh it off, to roll her eyes and pretend I don’t get under her skin.

But she doesn’t.

She just looks up at me, her green eyes wide, her chest rising and falling just a little too fast.

And then -merda- she actually does it.

Her fingers brush the fabric of my hoodie. Light. Barely there.

Butfuckif it doesn’t feel like a spark shooting through me.

My stomach tightens, and I lift my hand, tracing my fingers along the sharp line of her jaw, tilting her chin up just enough to force her to look at me properly.

Her lashes flutter, her breath shaky, and I swallow.

She wants this.

She wantsme.

The thought nearly undoes me.

My other hand finds her waist, my fingers pressing into the soft fabric of her blouse.

She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t pull away.

No: she leans in.

Fuck.

I’m a dead man.

I dip my head lower, my mouth so close to hers that I can almost taste her.

“Still want to pretend you don’t want this?” I murmur.

I don’t think.

I just do.

And the moment my lips crash against hers, I know I’ve made the right fucking call.

Becausedio, I’ve missed this. Missed her taste, missed the way she melts into me, missed the way my entire body reacts to hers like she’s the only thing I’ve ever craved.

I kiss her like I play: bold, confident, with no room for hesitation. I don’t hold back, don’t give her space to overthink.

I just take what I want, and she lets me.

At least, until she doesn’t.

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