Chapter 3 Nicola #2
Matteo didn’t kiss like any normal kiss, he kissed me like it was his life’s breath.
The kiss landed with the weight of something breaking open, the snap of a taut thread finally giving way.
His hand stayed cupped against my jaw, steady, grounding, fingers sliding back until they skimmed the skin behind my ear and dove right into my hair, holding on as if I’d disappear.
He kissed me like it had always been inevitable.
Like this whole time we’d been destined for this moment. My body pulsed with anticipation.
His other hand found my waist, firm and certain, fingers biting into my hip as he dragged me into his chest. The shock of it ripped a gasp from me, and I used it as an excuse to clutch him back, curling my fists in his shirt as if I’d fall if I let go.
His mouth moved against mine, greedy and sure, and I hated that I matched him, that my body betrayed every sharp word I’d ever thrown at him.
The wall caught me before I could stumble, the cool plaster pressed at my back, his body a wall of heat and strength pinning me in place. I felt caged. I felt alive.
And it should have been all wrong.
He was wrong for me. The last person I should want.
But with his mouth on mine and his hand dragging fire down my side, I couldn’t seem to conjure the list of why I shouldn’t want this.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispered against my skin, breath warm where his lips dragged down the line of my throat, then hovered and waited for my answer.
Then a door opened somewhere in the distance, the loud thrum of music and reality slammed back into me.
I pulled away, taking space and shaking my head.
I watched his eyes sadden for only a moment before I grabbed his hand and tugged him with me.
Because against all odds, I wanted Matteo DeLuca.
By the time we reached the sleek black town car waiting outside, the air between us was a live wire.
Matteo opened the door, and I slid in. The silence inside the car was thick, broken only by the sound of our breaths.
His thigh brushed mine as the driver pulled away from the curb, and I swear I stopped breathing altogether.
I didn’t look at him. Couldn’t. I just stared ahead, my pulse thrumming in places I was too proud to admit.
The ride was filled with stolen touches, as if not wanting to break the haze.
I wanted nothing but to have my lips on his again.
It was the only thought rattling around in my brain.
Kiss him again.
Again.
Again.
His knee pulled away for a moment then tapped mine, my attention immediately snapping to him.
His eyes were soft, in that tender way he reserved for big moments I’d seen him share with his inner circle of friends.
It shocked my system with warmth all over again.
He leaned in slowly, eyes on my mouth like he was giving me a chance to change my mind.
I didn’t. Our lips met in the hush of the leather seats and tinted windows.
The kiss was slow at first, like he was trying to learn every curve of my lips, every fiber of my being.
His hand brushed my knee, then up, fingers tracing the edge of my dress.
Every inch of me buzzed under his touch.
My breath hitched as his palm slid to my thigh, anchoring me to this moment.
His voice cut into the quiet, low and warm. “Kissing you is pure sin, Moretti.”
His expression was dark and heavy, fixed on me, jaw tight, his other hand curled on his knee like he’s trying to hold something back.
My heart trips over itself, and with a roll of my eyes, I said,
“Shut up.”
His eyes alight, dimples on display, he said two words, “Make me.”
I found myself wanting to prove him right.
We walked next to each other through the hotel.
Our rooms were booked across from each other as they usually were.
Ever since Lucia and Gianna joined us halfway through the season, we’d all become a bit of a unit.
My best friend’s brother being around was usually rather irritating, but now I wanted to pull him into a room and forget about that.
The stale light of the hotel was too bright above us, buzzing with anticipation.
I wanted his hands back on me, needed them on me.
His eyes darkened like storm clouds rolling in, and before I could blink, he grabbed my hand and pulled me through the quiet hallway, past the art and the velvet chairs and the hushed staff pretending not to notice.
Neither of us said a word. It was reckless, and I was completely breathless at the look of him so enthralled with me.
I could barely keep up with the thud of my heart.
We were falling now, right off the cliff.
In the elevator, he was still looking at me like he was trying to memorize this version of me—the tipsy, sparkling, unguarded one.
I giggled as I tripped out of the elevator on our shared floor and his arms enveloped my waist, steadying me immediately.
He was laughing too. I should have stopped it.
I should have pushed him away. But the headiness of kissing him had stripped my armor clean off, and under it, I was raw with want.
“This is a bad idea,” I admitted, once we were in his room.
The soft click of the door filtered through the otherwise silence of his hotel room.
I was standing in the entryway and that was the final moment we could go back, pretend it never happened, stop it before we went too far.
You don’t want that, my head argued with me.
“I know,” he agreed.
“Tomorrow, I’ll hate you for this.”
He smiled like he’d already accepted it. “You hate me already.”
I let out a sound—half laugh, half sigh.
And then I said it. The words that tipped everything off the edge.
“Fuck it.”
His hands were on my waist, then sliding up my back, then tugging the zipper of my dress with careful fingers. The fabric slipped down my arms, pooling at my feet. I should have been embarrassed. I was not. His eyes trailed over me like he was seeing something sacred.
When he touched me again, it was reverent.
Like he was there to worship me, savor every touch, every minute.
I felt the heat gather, my pulse quickening.
And I was pushing him back, onto the cool sheets and climbing on top of him.
He let me take control, let me tease him, kissing down his neck and chest, unbuttoning his own shirt as I went.
He pulled us up, me still straddling him, my legs on either side of his waist, pressed all the way into him.
I pushed off his shirt the rest of the way.
His mess of brown wavy hair was disheveled in that post-race way, and I ran my hands through it, tugging and being rewarded with a moan.
I’d never be able to look at his post-race hair the same again.
I’d think of this moment. How it was my hands that made a mess of him, how his hands felt feverishly running over me.
While all drivers were in peak athletic form, and I’d seen drivers shirtless—I’d even seen Matteo shirtless—but nothing prepared me for this version of him under the dull night lights outside the hotel making the dark room glow slightly.
I probably was drooling. I was only brought back to reality by a hand slowly caressing my cheek, and pushing back into my hair, before he tugged me to him.
He began exploring with his hands as he kissed me deeply, more harshly that time.
Exactly how I craved it. One roll of his thumb over a peaked nipple had my eyes fluttering closed, a gasp on my lips.
Then his lips left mine and he was looking at me with that same heaviness.
“You are so beautiful.” His voice was edged and strained, like he was begging.
My entire body heated. His chest was rising and falling, matching the same ragged breath that I had.
He peppered kisses from the curve of my lips, my nose, my cheeks, to behind my ear then down my neck, and I felt the mix of laugh and groan escape me.
He mapped me like a racetrack he had studied a thousand times and still found new ways to take the corners.
I arched into him, needing the friction, needing our bodies to meld together and to forget everything but the feeling of his skin against mine.
Of his name on my lips, soft and ruined.
When we were tangled in the sheets, sweat cooling on our bodies and the world gone quiet, he brushed a strand of hair from my forehead and pressed the softest kiss to my temple.
It was the gentleness that undid me—more than anything. And when I finally drifted to sleep, I didn’t think about what this would mean tomorrow.