Chapter 2 #2
“Destroying an event I organized is a strange way to flirt,” I observe dryly, arching my eyebrow. He pockets the handkerchief without looking away from me.
“Are you saying you aren’t flirting with me?” he asks, his voice husky now. “Because I think you are, and it’s working.”
Around us, the party continues, but it feels distant, muted. We’ve created our own gravity well, pulling everything inward until there’s nothing but this charged space between us. And with each word, the air between us crackles with unspoken challenges.
“Raven?” Derek’s voice breaks the spell. “The Marsh couple are asking for you.”
I don’t look away from Matteo as I answer. “Tell them I’ll be right there.”
Matteo’s lips curl with amusement. “It seems duty calls.”
“It always does.” I take a step back, reclaiming my professional persona like slipping on a coat. “Enjoy the champagne, Matteo No-Last-Name. Try not to make other guests wear it.”
As I turn to leave, his fingers catch my wrist, just for a moment. Just long enough to make my pulse jump.
“I’ll find you later, Raven,” he rumbles. Not a question. A certainty.
“You do that,” I murmur. “Feel free to watch me walk away.”
As I leave him, I sway my hips more than usual. It takes everything in me not to look back and see if he’s watching me. Oh, who am I kidding… of course he is. My ass is phenomenal, and I know it.
The party exhales its last breath around twelve-thirty, guests trickling out the door with handshakes and air kisses. I’ve spent the last hour putting out miniature fires. The champagne was running dangerously low, and a client’s daughter was taking almost-nude photos in restricted areas.
Through it all, I’ve felt him watching. A constant prickle at the back of my neck, a heat signature I can’t ignore. So, I’m not surprised when I finish thanking the string quartet and turn to find him leaning against the wall in a shadowed corner, waiting.
“Successful evening?” he asks as I approach, voice pitched low enough that only I can hear.
“By every metric.” I slip off my heels, dangling them from two fingers. My feet ache after hours of perfect posture. “Though the night’s not over yet.”
His gaze traces the movement, lingering on my bare feet, then traveling slowly up my legs. “That sounds like an invitation.”
“It sounds like a fact,” I counter, though we both know what I’m implying. “The best nights don’t end when the party does.”
We’ve migrated to an alcove, partially concealed by heavy velvet drapes. The hotel staff bustle around, breaking down tables, but here we exist in our own pocket of space. The string lights above cast his scars in sharp relief, making the burn marks look almost beautiful in their asymmetry.
“What does a woman like you do for fun in a city like Cleveland?” he asks, voice dipping just enough to feel intimate. The sleeve of his jacket brushes my bare arm.
I laugh, the sound is genuine. “A woman like me? And what kind of woman do you think I am?”
“The kind who likes adventures,” he says, unbothered by my teasing. “Am I wrong?”
“Not even close.” I tip my glass, letting the bubbles tickle my lips before lowering it again. “I collect experiences and memories.”
His mouth curves, slow and knowing. “I’m a good experience.”
I arch a brow. “I only go for great ones,” I clarify.
“Well played,” he breathes.
A silver lighter appears in his hand. He flicks it open, thumb dragging over the wheel until a flame jumps to life. The glow cuts across his features, catching the sharp edge of his jaw, then he shuts it with a soft snap and pockets it again—like he only needed the spark to make his point.
“What was your latest adventure?” he asks.
“Not counting coming here?” I tease.
“Humor me.”
“Fine.” I swirl what’s left of my champagne. “Two years in Paris. Where I learned to fake a French accent, drink too much wine, and talk my way out of a handful of speeding tickets.”
“Useful skills.” His eyes trace my mouth, lingering. “Got any random ones?”
“Random?” I echo. “Like what? Blow bubbles with my gum?”
He lets out a deep rumble of a laugh. “Sure. That counts.”
“Your turn,” I say, grinning. “What’s your most random skill?”
Matteo leans closer and rasps, “Nothing I’m good at is random.”
I shiver, and the hairs on my arms rise. Oh, God. The way he just said that, I believe him. “Okay,” I whisper. “Then what’s the most random thing you know?”
He hums, tilting his head as if weighing his next words. “I know at least eighty ways to kill someone.”
My smile falters on my lips. “That’s… not random.”
“Depends who you ask.” He takes the flute from my hand, lifts it to his own mouth, and drinks without breaking eye contact. “Information’s harmless until you use it.”
I swallow, suddenly aware of how close he’s standing. “So which kind are you giving me right now?”
“The dangerous kind.”
Since I’m not into stranger-danger, that should be enough to warn me away. To make me leave and go back to working. Yet I find myself leaning closer.
“Is that so?” I barely recognize my own voice with how husky it is. It comes out like a purr.
He sets the glass aside with quiet precision. “You’re not from here,” he says, like it’s a continuation of the same thought and not a complete conversation changer.
“And you are,” I counter.
“I am,” he confirms, tilting his head so his breath ghosts across my cheek. “Born and bred. In fact, I think I was conceived somewhere in this building.”
Laughter bursts from me. “Really? Did your parents take you here and give you all the gory details?”
“Nah, I’m just messing with you,” he grins. “If we’re being honest, I have no idea where my parents did the nasty. And since they’re not around to ask, I get to make my own truth.”
That’s… wow. I open and close my mouth several times. I mean, it’s not like I don’t appreciate a good spin of the truth. Hello, anyone in PR does. But it never occurred to me to make up fantastical stories about my parents’ sex life. Ew.
“Aaaanyway,” I say, dragging the word out. “As I was saying, the night’s still young.”
“And what do you want to do for the rest of the night?” His voice drops lower, rough at the edges.
“Something that won’t bore me,” I beam.
He smiles—a real one this time, not the predatory show of teeth from earlier. It transforms his face, making the danger in him something magnetic rather than alarming. “I’ve been called many things, Raven Carter. Boring has never been one of them.”
His hand rises, one finger tracing the line of my collarbone, feather-light. Heat follows his touch, my skin prickling with awareness. I don’t flinch, don’t step away. Instead, I arch slightly into the contact, a silent challenge.
“Paris teaches you to appreciate beauty in unexpected places,” I say, watching his eyes track the movement of my lips. “In chaos and the things most people are afraid to touch.” I have no idea what made me blurt that out.
His finger continues its path, up the column of my throat, pausing at the rapid flutter of my pulse. “Is that what I am to you? A curiosity? Something dangerous to touch?”
“I don’t know what you are yet,” I admit. The honesty surprises even me. “That’s part of the appeal.”
He leans closer, his breath warm against my ear. “Come home with me. Let me show you exactly what I am.”
The invitation hangs between us, weighted with promise. The rational part of my brain catalogs the risks; a strange man with no last name. Obvious power that makes others nervous. But the part of me that likes living on the edge has already decided.
“Kiss me first,” I demand, placing a hand against his chest. His heart thunders under my palm. “I need to know if you know how to use your tongue before I go home with a stranger. Consider it an audition.” I tilt my chin up, the challenge explicit.
Something flashes across his face; amusement, respect, hunger. Without warning, he cups the back of my neck, fingers tangling in my hair, and pulls me to him.
The kiss is nothing like I expected. His mouth claims mine with absolute certainty, like he’s taking something that already belongs to him. His tongue sweeps inside, skilled and demanding, tasting of expensive champagne and darker promises.
Heat explodes low in my belly, a molten pour of desire that makes me grip his lapels for support. He kisses like he’s memorizing me, like he’s both giving and taking, and the duality makes me dizzy.
“Did I pass?” His voice is gravel, raw with restraint.
None of the men I’ve ever kissed have made me forget where I am with a single touch. But Matteo No-Last-Name has successfully done that.
“My car’s outside,” he continues when I don’t immediately answer. “Say yes, Raven.”
I find my voice, somehow make it steady. “Yes.”