Page 91 of My Italian Love Affair

His lips are insistent and dominant as they claim mine, andall I can do is melt into him. Everything else - the gala, the ridiculousness of the night, Mark’s behaviour, our argument - vanishes.

All that’s left is him and I, and the undeniable heat between us.

Matteo’s mouth moves firmly against mine, rough and demanding as every ounce of frustration, every lingering stare, every sharp-edged comment explodes into something reckless and consuming. His warm, large hands slide down, tracing the line of my arms and pulling me flush against him.

I barely have time to gasp before his tongue sweeps against mine; coaxing, taking,devouring.

A low, primal sound rumbles from his chest as his thick fingers dig into my hips, pulling me harder against his body while simultaneously moving us backwards. The bare skin of my back meets the cool surface of the wall behind as he presses in, his body slotting against mine, heat radiating from him in waves.

I should stop this. I should push him away.

But his hands grip me like he can’t bear to let go, and all rational thought vanishes.

I arch into him, my fingers threading into his dark hair, tugging just enough to earn a sharp inhale from him. His hands roam over the fabric of my dress until his fingers press into my lower back, digging into my bare skin and molding me to him.

My breath stutters, and he takes advantage of the moment, tilting his head and deepening the kiss until it’s nothing but pure, unfiltered need.

One of his hands moves to skim along my side before sliding up. His palm traces the curve of my ribs, and his touch setsmy skin ablaze even through the fabric of my dress.

His mouth leaves mine only to trail along my jaw, his breath hot against my skin as he grazes his lips along my throat.

A sharp gasp escapes me when he nips at the sensitive spot just below my ear, his stubble scraping deliciously against my skin.

“You drive me fuckinginsane,” he groans, his voice thick and breathless as it vibrates against the column of my throat.

I don’t even know if he means it as an insult or a confession, but I don’t care.

Because I feel it too.

This impossible, almost unbearable tension that has been pulling us together from the start.

My hands move of their own accord, sliding down his chest and feeling the heat of his body beneath his shirt. He hums in pleasure when my nails lightly scrape against the fabric, his hips pressing into mine, and suddenly I feeleverything.

His strength. His heat.

Hisneed.

It’s overwhelming and undeniable, and god, I wantmore.

His lips find mine again, rougher this time, more desperate.

Like he’s trying to prove a point and show me exactly what’s been simmering beneath the surface all this time.

Matteo’s hands roam my body like he’s been starving for this.

Like he’s been starving forme.

And maybe I’ve been starving for it too, because now, I don’t hesitate, don’t second-guess, don’t so much as stop to think. I just pull him closer, kissing him harder and deeper, pouring every ounce of frustration and need into the way our mouthsmove together.

My fingers slip beneath the lapels of his jacket, curling into the fabric as I yank him impossibly closer.

He’s everywhere - surrounding me,consumingme - and I let him.

Because for the first time, I don’t want to fight it.

I just want him.

I don't know who moves first, but suddenly, we’re stumbling back, still locked in a desperate, heated kiss.

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