Page 56 of My Italian Love Affair

About tanned skin and dark, wavy hair pushed back from his face in a way that made him look even more infuriatingly handsome.

About the faint crease in his brow when he’d spoken to me in that hallway, when - just for a moment - he hadn’t been something other than the cocky footballer, the arrogant golden boy.

I roll onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow.

This isridiculous.

I should hate him. I should be focusing on how irritating he is.

And yet his voice echoes in my mind, all soft and sweet.

So don’t slip up.

It wasn’t said as a dismissal, nor as mockery. He’d said it as achallenge.

I just don’t understand why.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

No.I refuse to let Matteo Rossi take up space in my head.

I have bigger things to worry about. The post-match article I need to write, proving that Idobelong in this industry -

And figuring out how to deal with Mark after that nightmare conversation.

I exhale sharply and flip onto my other side, but it’s impossible.

Try as I might, my mind keeps circling back to him.

I press my face into the pillow, groaning in frustration.

This is stupid. I barely know him. I shouldn’t be thinkingabout him at all, much less likethis.

And yet the memory of him lingers.

The way his shirt stretched across his shoulders, the toned muscles of his arms flexing as he moved.

The way his voice had dropped just a little when he spoke to me, smooth and self-assured.

I shift against the sheets, suddenly too warm as my skin prickles with restless energy. My thighs squeeze together instinctively, a pulse of heat settling low in my stomach.

I shouldn’t.

Ican’t.

But when I close my eyes, all I see is him.

Matteo, standing in front of me, his gaze dark and knowing. The way his mouth twitches in amusement as he steps forward, like he knowsexactlywhat he’s doing to me.

My traitorous mind wanders as I imagine him stepping even closer, giving me no choice but to step back. He pins me against the wall, caging me in with his big, powerful body, and I gasp as his lips move to my ear. His voice drops even lower as he whispers - all teasing and wicked - with that rich Italian accent making everything sound both sinful and unbelievably sexy.

Before I can stop myself, my hand drifts lower.

My fingertips trail across my stomach and over the waistband of my underwear, and my breath catches.

Oh, but I should stop. I should think about something -anything- else.

It’s bad.Wrong,even.

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