Page 48 of Italy Can Bite Me

Oh.

My lips are a breath away from Matteo’s, and every nerve ending in my body short-circuits at once. I’m stretched across him, my palm now firmly gripping his thigh. The reality of our position hits me. His eyes drop to my mouth—the lust in them could trigger a nuclear meltdown.

One tiny movement and we would—

I surge forward, crashing my mouth into his. His lips are impossibly soft, parting instantly for me. My head is a whirlwind. I push closer, hungry for more, craving more. He tastes like espresso and trouble and everything I’ve spent my whole life avoiding.

The first slide of his tongue against mine makes me gasp.

Matteo’s rough exhale vibrates against my lips as he deepens the kiss. Some primal, unknown part of me takes over. My tongue strokes against his, demanding, exploring. The soft groan he makes ignites me, urging me on.

His tongue plunges hot and deep into my mouth, scraping against my teeth, and my brain completely whites out. No thoughts of Jared, no plans, no timelines. Just the overwhelming sensation of Matteo’s mouth moving against mine.

His hand grips the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair. The slight tug sends a cascade of fireworks racing through me. I arch into him, begging for more. He responds by tilting my head and nipping at my bottom lip before beginning his tongue exploration all over again.

I have to get closer. Must feel more of him. My body moves on pure instinct, breasts pressing against his solid chest. The deep moan that rumbles through him makes me throb in places that I didn’t know existed.

I want—no, need—to hear that sound again.

My fingers dive into his thick hair, gripping the strands while his mouth devours mine. I’ve never been this reckless, this out of control. This isn’t me—I’m the girl who plans out her underwear choices a week in advance. The girl with a label-maker collection. I don’t do reckless. I leave for the airport four hours early just to be safe. I don’twingit. I staple it, highlight it, and file it away.

His mouth finds a sensitive spot on my neck and he sucks hard. This embarrassing sound escapes me—half whimper, half plea. Something wild flashes in his eyes, turning them nearly black. His hand slides between us, cupping my breast through my sundress while his lips move to my ear. His finger dips beneath the fabric, rough and hot against my bare skin, and just as he brushes my hardened nipple—

We.

Have.

Stopped.

Moving.

Our rickshaw driver has paused mid-pedal and is shamelessly watching us through the rearview mirror, clearly enjoying the show.

I scramble backward so fast I nearly topple onto the street. Heat floods my face as I take in Matteo’s thoroughly ravished appearance—hair wild from my fingers, lips pink and swollen, chest heaving with each breath. The intensity of his expression makes my insides clench all over again.

“Thank you for getting that eyelash out of my eye!” The words come out strangled and high-pitched. Before he can respond, I launch myself out of the still-stationary rickshaw, my legs shaking beneath me.

Shitshitshit.

What have I done? My lips are tender from his stubble, tingling with the ghost of his kiss. My skin burns everywhere he’s touched, like he’s branded me. I’m dizzy, and there’s an ache between my thighs that has absolutely nothing to do with the rickshaw’s bumpy ride.

This is meant to be a fake relationship. Not… whatever that just was.

I cannot want this. Cannot want him. He’s merely a pawn in my master plan—a way to make Jared realize what he’s lost. He’s not supposed to make me feel things. Not supposed to kiss me like he’s been craving it for eternity. Not supposed to have me forget why I flew all the way to Italy.

One kiss. One unplanned, impulsive, breath-stealing kiss and my world has shattered like a dropped wine glass.

CHAPTER NINE

MATTEO

Morningsonregulartourdays are chaotic but on checkout days? Pure mayhem. I’ve been up since dawn, racing between the front desk and the breakfast room like a goddamn Ping-Pong ball. Thirty-two guests and their luggage is no joke.

If there’s one universal truth about senior citizens on tour, it’s that they will absolutely forget their medications in hotel rooms. Every. Single. Time.

“Last call. Anyone missing chargers, pills, or”—I spot a denture case on the floor and pick it up—“chewing equipment?”

“Those are mine!” Chester, the resident jokester, calls out with a laugh. “First they escape, next they apply for a work visa.”

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