Page 95 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
“You don’t like that I know what you’re feeling.”
It’s not a question, which makes me feel worse. I’m beginning to think there’s nothing he doesn’t see, the damn mind reader.
I turn my head, and he rests his cheek against mine. “But you know what I’m feeling, too, so we’re even.”
I whisper, “I don’t know what you’re feeling. I don’t know anything.”
He takes my hand and flattens it over his chest. Under my palm, his heart pounds hard and fast. “Yes you do. You just don’t trust it.”
“I can’t trust it. Not only do I have questionable taste in men, we’re enemies.”
“Frenemies. With kissing benefits.”
“That’s not even a thing.”
“It is now.”
To prove his point, he kisses me.
But oh, this kiss. This kiss is different from any other we’ve shared because he goes so slowly, so carefully, his mouth skimming mine, his tongue the softest coaxing brush along the seam of my lips. He’s gentle in a way he’s never been, almost sweet, and the effect is devastatingly intimate.
I could fall for this man so easily. My heart wants nothing more than to let go and let it happen, but I can’t be blind like I was with Brad ever again.
This could be nothing more than a manipulation for Matteo, a way to have his cake and eat it, too. At this very moment, his team could be working on my designs. Despite his promise to the contrary, he could have copied every page of my sketch pad. He might have zero intention of destroying the designs before the show. He could, in fact, be counting on my crushed ego and broken heart to muddy the waters of my common sense.
I could be playing right into his hands.
He pulls away and gazes down at me, his eyes hot and dark. “You’re thinking. Stop it.”
“I just realized you haven’t given me a sketch yet. For this morning, either. You owe me two.”
“When we’re done,” he says, and takes my mouth again.
I grab on to his shirt for balance. He winds his arms around my back and pulls me close. All my senses are overwhelmed by the scent of the night and of him, by the feel of his strong body against mine,
by the dark edge of longing chipping away at my self-control. When I make a desperate noise in the back of my throat, Matteo kisses me deeper. One of his hands threads into my hair.
He must have other women. I can’t be the only one. He’s rich and famous and hot as sin, and who am I? A sad little nobody. The Jilted Dressmaker. The Cast-Away Couturier.
The woman who didn’t have enough sense to realize her fiancé would rather eat dick than her.
I push Matteo away and hold him at arm’s length with my elbows locked and my hands flattened on his chest. We stay like that for a moment as the night breathes quietly around us, until Matteo rests his hands on top of mine. His voice comes out low and rough.
“Whatever’s happening between you and your ex, remember this: I’m not him.”
God help me, he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
How am I supposed to handle this? What’s the smart thing to do? Laugh? Tell him to go to hell? I need advice.
Out of nowhere, I miss my father so fiercely I want to cry.
Matteo releases my hands. Bending down to his briefcase, he snaps open the locks, withdraws two sheets of paper, and holds them up to me.
My sketches.
Of course he came prepared. He’s always prepared for everything.
When I take them from him, he closes his briefcase and rises, grasping it in his hand.
