Page 172 of My Italian Love Affair

And for the first time, I don’t want to run.

But after a few moments of blissful,easyquiet, Matteo turns his head and smirks at me.

“So. It’s still just my dick you like, huh?”

I laugh weakly, swatting his chest.

“Shut up, Rossi.”

“Never.”

He kisses me again, slower this time, and I melt into himdespite myself.

And as I drift into a hazy bliss, one thought lingers:

How the hell did I ever think I hated him?

Chapter Forty-Three

Daphne

Spending the night at Matteo Rossi’s home was never on my agenda.

Nor was riding him the next morning, his hands gripping my hips so tightly as he lifted his hips to meet my thrusts - almost as if he was afraid I'd disappear if he didn’t physically hold me down.

Neither was being bent over the counter of his expansive kitchen island, my palms pressed flat against the cool marble while his deep, gravelly voice whispered filthy promises in my ear as the sun streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Promises that made my knees weak and my mind fuzzy, like, "I’m not stopping until your legs fuckingshake," and, "You're going to think about this every time you set foot in a kitchen, bella."

Annoyingly, he’s probably right.

But here I am, standing in said kitchen a few hours later, sipping a cup of coffee while wearing his shirt and last night's makeup, wondering how exactly I got here.

Matteo, ever the smug bastard, is lounging across from me on one of the bar stools, shirtless and grinning like he’s wonsome sort of prize.

"You look good in my shirt, you know," he drawls, raking a hand through his messy hair.

"Don’t get used to it," I shoot back, though my heart stumbles in my chest when his eyes darken with amusement.

My shoulders sag a little as I look over at the clock hanging on the wall.

"I should probably get going."

"Mmm," he hums, taking a lazy sip from his own mug. "But you haven’t ridden me on the sofa yet."

I practically choke on my coffee, cheeks burning as I set the mug down.

"You’re such an ass."

"And yet," he smirks, standing and sauntering toward me, "you’re still here."

He’s right, and I hate it.

I should be gone by now. Hell, I should have been gonehoursago.

But there’s something magnetic about Matteo Rossi, and despite his arrogance, I can’t tear myself away from him.

"I really do need to go," I insist, stepping back as he cages me against the counter.

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