Chapter 19
Raven
The first time Matteo shows up at my door with coffee and breakfast, I nearly slam it in his face. It’s seven in the morning, and I’m in no mood to play girlfriend or nice.
But the smell of coffee hits me like salvation, rich and dark and precisely what my sleep-addled brain is screaming for.
“What are you doing here?” I manage to croak, voice still rusty with sleep.
Matteo strolls past me like he owns the place, setting the bag on my kitchen counter. “I said I’d bring breakfast.”
“I thought that was just… I don’t know, dirty talk.” Clearing my throat, I correct that assumption. “I mean, I thought you’d turn up at a normal time. Not in the middle of the night.”
He looks at me then, his eyes crinkling with amusement. “Do you consider breakfast talk dirty? Or was it the thought of what we could do with said food?”
I roll my eyes and use my hand to cover a yawn. It’s way too early to think about licking syrup off his impressive body. Way. Too. Early.
The food turns out to be an egg white omelet with spinach and feta for him, which smells as boring as it looks. Nothing like the French toast with berries he brought for me. I eye the syrup-drenched masterpiece suspiciously.
“How did you know I like French toast?”
He shrugs, already cutting into his health-conscious monstrosity. “Lucky guess,” he replies.
I want to question him more, but the first bite melts on my tongue, and suddenly I don’t care how he knows my breakfast preferences. I’m too busy trying not to make inappropriate noises while shoving food into my face.
We eat in relative silence, the only sounds being the clink of forks against plates and my occasional moan of appreciation. I’m not a morning person, and he doesn’t seem like a small talk kind of guy, so it works.
When he leaves forty minutes later, I’m still trying to figure out what the hell just happened.
The second time he shows up, I’m slightly more prepared. I’ve at least brushed my hair, though I’m still in sleep shorts and an oversized tee when his sharp knock rattles my doorframe.
“This isn’t going to be a thing,” I tell him as I accept the coffee he thrusts into my hands.
“Of course not,” he agrees, placing a bag of what smells like blueberry muffins on my counter. His tone makes it clear he thinks it’s absolutely going to be a thing.
When his knock comes by the fifth morning, I call out, “The door’s open,” and I’m already sitting at my kitchen island waiting for my breakfast.
Matteo brings bagels this time—an everything bagel with lox for me, plain with egg whites for him. The man’s breakfast habits are as predictable as his suit color choices.
“Do you ever eat anything fun?” I ask, watching him eat the egg whites.
“Define fun.”
“I don’t know, something with sugar? Carbs? A hint of joy?”
His mouth quirks. “I had a lot of fun eating your pussy. Are you offering?”
The way his gaze slides over me makes it clear he’d do it if I said yes. Nope. Not happening.
I need extra pins. Stat.
The sixth and seventh mornings blur together in a haze of caffeine and carbs. Between the breakfast burrito and waffles, I start to notice things about him in the mornings that I don’t see at night.
Like how his hair is slightly damp after his shower, curling at the nape of his neck before he styles it. How he always checks his phone exactly twice during breakfast—once when he sits down, once before he leaves.
I think my favorite thing is the way he stirs his coffee counterclockwise, never clockwise, with precise movements of his wrist. It’s such a small thing, but it’s him.
“Ugh, I’m going to have to start doing something terrible like running if I want to keep fitting into my clothes,” I whine, patting my stomach after I finish my waffles.
Matteo just snorts. “No one said you had to eat all three,” he deadpans.
“You did,” I volley. “By bringing them into my home and refusing as much as a bite, you said I had to eat them.”
“Did I?” he asks, clearly amused.
I nod exaggeratedly. “Really, I had to. Food waste is such a big problem, and you know me. I’m not going to contribute to global issues. I’m all about—”
“Shut up,” he laughs, leaning close enough to lick the corner of my mouth. “There, now not a drop of syrup’s wasted.”
My breath hitches, and I instinctively turn my head, brushing my lips across his. “Are you sure you got it all?” I breathe.
“You’re trouble,” Matteo groans, his breath hitting my skin in small puffs.
Closing the very limited distance between us, I fuse our lips together. His hands immediately tangle in my hair, tilting my head just so for better access. Like everything he does, it isn’t sweet. But neither is the way I purposefully scrape my teeth across his bottom lip.
“Kiss me properly,” I gasp into his mouth.
And Matteo doesn’t disappoint. His mouth slants over mine, taking control of the kiss with a dominance that makes my toes curl against the kitchen tile. His tongue slides against mine, tasting of coffee and promises I’m not sure either of us should be making.
When he pulls away, I’m breathless and dizzy, my hands somehow fisted in his perfectly pressed shirt.
“I should go,” he murmurs against my lips, but makes no move to release me.
“You should,” I agree, even as I lean in for another taste.
This kiss is slower, deeper, and I feel it all the way down to my core. My body arches toward him like it has a mind of its own, seeking more contact, more heat. His hands slide down my back to cup my ass, lifting me onto the table in one smooth motion that reminds me exactly how strong he is.
“Work,” he growls between kisses, trailing his lips down my neck. “I have to—”
“Yeah,” I breathe, tilting my head to give him better access. “Me too.”
But neither of us stops. His hands are everywhere, leaving trails of fire across my skin. My legs wrap around his waist, pulling him closer until I can feel him hard against me through our clothes.
This is madness—pure, delicious madness. I’m perched on my kitchen table with a dangerous man between my thighs, and all I can think about is how badly I want him to tear my clothes off and take me right here.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my collarbone, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there. “Tell me this isn’t what you want.”
But I can’t lie, not when his hands are sliding under my sleep shirt, not when his thumbs brush the undersides of my breasts. “Don’t you dare stop,” I gasp, arching into his touch.
“Fuck,” he groans. “I’ve been thinking about these since the moment I saw them.”
My hips roll against his instinctively, seeking friction. “Hurry up and get to the good part,” I demand, my voice breathless.
His laugh is dark and satisfied against my skin. He pulls back just enough to look at me, his eyes studying my face with an intensity that makes me squirm.
“The good part, huh?” His fingers find my nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger until I’m biting my lip to keep from moaning. “And what part is that, exactly?”
His phone buzzes in his pocket, vibrating against my inner thigh in a way that’s frustratingly distracting. Matteo ignores it, focusing instead on sliding my shirt up and over my head in one fluid motion.
The cool morning air hits my bare skin, but I don’t have time to feel exposed before his mouth is on my breast, tongue flicking against the metal bar through my nipple.The sensation shoots straight between my legs, making me moan his name.
His phone buzzes again. And again. And again.
“Fuck,” he growls, resting his forehead against my sternum. “I have to take this.”
I try not to whimper at the loss when he pulls away, fishing the phone from his pocket with obvious reluctance. His expression darkens as he reads whatever message has interrupted us.
“Problem?” I ask, making no move to cover myself. Let him suffer a little.
His eye flicks up, taking in my disheveled state with a hunger that makes me clench my thighs together. “Business,” he says shortly, thumbs flying over his screen in response. “I need to go.”
Disappointment floods me, but I mask it with a shrug, reaching for my discarded shirt. “Duty calls. People to threaten, kneecaps to break?” I cringe at the last part. Mostly because I tend to chicken out and make up stories in my head about him being a florist.
Okay, I don’t actually do that. But I do bury my head in the proverbial sand. Like with the guy he had to talk to. Have I asked if he’s still breathing? Nope. Am I going to ask? Also nope.
“Something like that.” He catches my wrist before I can pull the shirt on, his grip gentle but firm. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?” I ask, feigning innocence.
“Don’t cover up.” His voice drops to a register that makes my stomach flip. “I want the image of you like this to haunt me all day.”
Heat floods my cheeks, and I drop the shirt. “Is that an order, Matty?”
“Would you follow it if it was?” He steps closer again, his body heat enveloping me as he crowds me against the counter.
“Probably not,” I admit with a smirk. “I’m not very good at taking orders.”
Before leaving, he claims my lips in one more all-consuming kiss. One that lingers in the recesses of my mind while I shower, get ready, and it’s still there when I arrive at Holston’s for my meeting with the Kearney brothers.
Work becomes a blur after the first meeting of the day. Emails, calls, edits, Holston hovering like a stressed-out pigeon, and one intern that shouldn’t be allowed near any of my projects. The whole time, Matteo’s morning kiss keeps replaying like a glitch I can’t reset.
Hours slip by, and I barely notice it’s almost three in the afternoon when my phone rings, and Mom’s name flashes across the screen with the photo I took last Christmas. She has tinsel in her hair, laughing so hard her eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Hey, Mom,” I answer, unable to keep the smile from my voice.