Page 400 of Rosetti Family New York
Those words are in English, rough with sleep and something deeper. I surface slowly, clinging to the safety of those arms, the steady rhythm of breathing beneath my cheek. Reality filters back piece by piece. The scent of his cologne. The warmth of his skin. The solid weight of his presence. Morning light filters through the curtains, casting everything in gold. The scent of expensive cologne and something uniquely masculine fills my lungs, and I realize where I am.
Matteo's chest rises and falls beneath my cheek, his heartbeat steady and strong. One arm is wrapped around my waist, holding me close, while his other hand rests in my hair. As if he's been stroking it while I slept.
As if he's been comforting me.
The realization hits me like cold water. I lie perfectly still, processing the fragments of memory floating through my mind. A gentle touch in the darkness. Soft words in Italian. The feeling of being held while dreams turned to nightmares.
He's done this before.
The memory surfaces unbidden—waking briefly in the middle of the night, strong arms around me, someone whispering that everything was okay. I'd thought it was part of the dream, my subconscious creating the comfort I needed. But the pillow beside me is slightly dented, and there's a glass of water on the nightstand that wasn't there when I went to sleep.
How many nights has he come to me? How many times has he held me through the terrors my mind creates?
I try to shift away without waking him, but his arm tightens around me immediately. His breathing changes, becomes more alert, and I realize he's been awake the whole time.
"You're okay," he murmurs, his voice rough with sleep but his eyes sharp when they meet mine.
"You've been doing this." The words come out as a whisper. "Every night."
He doesn't deny it, doesn't try to make excuses. Just looks at me with those dark eyes that see too much. "You cry in your sleep."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"Would it have mattered?" His hand moves to cup my face, thumb tracing the line of my cheekbone. "You were suffering. I fixed it."
The simple words break something loose in my chest. He didn't do it for credit or gratitude. He did it because I was in pain, and he couldn't stand to watch.
"I don't understand you," I whisper.
"What's not to understand?" His thumb moves to trace my bottom lip, and I feel that familiar heat start to build. "You're mine. I take care of what's mine."
The possessiveness in his voice should anger me. Should make me pull away, remind him that I belong to myself. Instead, it sends electricity through my veins, makes me press closer to the warmth of his body.
"You saw every broken part of me," I say, the admission scraped raw from my throat. "And you stayed."
"Of course I fucking stayed." The words are fierce, certain. "Did you think I'd run because you have bad dreams?"
Something cracks inside me at the rough honesty in his voice. All the walls I've built, all the careful distance I've maintained, crumbles in the face of his steady presence. He's seen me at myweakest, most vulnerable moments, and he didn't leave. Didn't use it against me.
He just held me.
"Matteo." His name comes out broken, needy.
"I know, bella." His forehead touches mine, and I can feel his breath warm against my lips. "I know."
This time, when he kisses me, there's no desperation. No claiming or conquest. Just tenderness that makes my chest ache and my eyes burn with unshed tears. His mouth moves against mine like he's memorizing the taste, the feel, the way I respond to his touch.
My hands fist in his hair, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound deep in his throat that goes straight to my core. The kiss deepens, becomes something hungry and desperate and real. Not about power or control, but about connection. About two people who've found something in each other they didn't know they were looking for.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. His dark eyes search my face, looking for something I'm not sure I know how to give.
"Don't stop looking at me," I whisper, the words slipping out before I can stop them.
His pupils dilate, and suddenly his mouth is on mine again, harder this time. More demanding. His hands slide down my body, and I arch into his touch like I'm starving for it.
"You don't even know what you do to me," he growls against my throat, his voice rough with want. "Walking around in my clothes, looking at me like you're not sure whether you want to run or let me fuck you senseless."
The crude words send heat straight to my core. My breath catches, and I feel my body respond in ways that should embarrass me but only make me want more.
