Page 161 of My Italian Love Affair

“Despite your assumptions, Icanread.”

I scan the spines, noting a mix of sports biographies, classic Italian literature, and -

“Matteo.” I turn, holding up an Italian copy ofPride and Prejudice. “Explain.”

His grin turns lazy.

“What? I like Mr. Darcy.”

I stare at him.

“You’ve readPride and Prejudice?”

He shrugs as though it’s obvious, and I laugh as I shake my head.

“Unbelievable.”

“Are you impressed?” he asks as he steps closer, his voice dipping lower, his hands coming to rest on my waist.

I tilt my chin up, feigning contemplation as I place the book back down.

“Mildly.”

His fingers tighten, pulling me in.

“I’ll take it.”

His lips brush mine, and I let myself sink into him.

Standing here, in his impossibly perfect house with the warmth of his body against mine and the soft hum of the night outside, it’s dangerously easy to forget that I don’t belong here.

That I’ll be leaving before I know it.

But Matteo doesn’t kiss me like he cares about any of that.

And honestly, right now, neither do I.

His kiss deepens, and I find myself pressing closer, my fingers curling into the soft fabric of his oversized white tee.

The tension that's been building between us dissolves into something else entirely - something molten and magnetic.

He breaks away, but only to trail kisses down my neck.

"You drive me crazy, you know that?" he murmurs against my skin, his accent thicker than usual. “That dress -fuck.Looking so sweet, so innocent - when I know that you’re anything but.”

I should come up with some witty retort. After all, that’s what we do, it’s how we work.

But his hands are sliding down my waist, and the way he's looking at me makes it hard to remember my own name, never mind remember why I ever found him arrogant in the first place.

With a grace that no doubt comes from years of athletic training, he guides us backwards, towards the couch. He sits first, pulling me with him until I'm perched on his knee, my dress riding up slightly.

"Better?" he asks, that infuriating smirk playing on his lips - the same one that used to make me want to throw my notepad at him during press conferences, but that now just makes me want to kiss him senseless.

So I do.

His hands tangle in my hair as I lean into him, and I can feel his smile against my mouth as our tongues brush together.

"You’re eager tonight," he teases.

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