Page 219 of My Italian Love Affair

He notices, of course.

Matteoalwaysnotices.

His hand inches higher, his thumb stroking gentle patterns on the sensitive skin just above my knee. My thighs press together instinctively.

"Matteo," I whisper, voice full of warning.

He turns his head, his mouth so close to my ear that I feel the heat of his breath.

"Sì,mi amore?"

The words along with his frustratingly delicious accent send an inadvertent shiver down my spine. I force myself to keep my gaze trained on the blurred lights outside the window.

The driver's presence feels distant and irrelevant as Matteo's fingers slide a fraction higher.

"You're doing this on purpose," I bite out.

"Of course," he says, voice rough with amusement. "I love watching you pretend you're unaffected."

I grit my teeth against the surge of desire building low in my stomach. My body hums with anticipation, every nervestretched taut as his hand continues its slow, torturous ascent.

The car turns sharply, and I suck in a breath when Matteo's thumb grazes the sensitive crease of my thigh.

The driver coughs softly, and I snap back to reality.

"You're a menace," I hiss under my breath.

"You love it," Matteo replies. He leans in close so that his lips brush against the shell of my ear, and I swear my heart actuallystutters.

The car rolls to a stop in front of Matteo's mansion, and the driver glances into the rearview mirror.

“Siamo qua.”We’re here.

I fumble for the door handle, desperate to escape the stifling heat of the car. Matteo pays the driver with infuriating calm, then steps out after me.

The cool night air should help to distract me.

It doesn't.

Matteo falls into step beside me as we cross the driveway, his hand reaching out to intertwine with mine, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body, the tension crackling like a live wire between us.

When we reach the front door, he unlocks it and steps aside to let me in. The door closes with a quietclick, and suddenly, the villa feels enormous. Silent.

Private.

I take a single step toward the staircase before Matteo's hand closes around my wrist.

"Where do you think you're going?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous.

"To bed," I manage, pulse hammering.

"Right," he says, his lips curving into a smirk as he steps in close behind me. "But I'm not done with you yet."

*

The hours that follow blur into a haze of heated skin, tangled limbs, and whispered endearments in a mixture of English and Italian.

Matteo moves with a kind of focused intensity that leaves me breathless. He doesn’t rush. Instead, he takes his time, drawing out every reaction until my body trembles beneath his touch, strung tight with anticipation.

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