Chapter 10 Nicola
NICOLA
Ididn’t know what the hell I was doing.
One second I was storming out of that hotel suite, trying to keep it together, trying to pretend like I wasn’t unraveling at the seams—and the next, Matteo was right behind me, dragging all his golden-boy sunshine and ridiculous charm into my storm.
When he called my name, I didn’t stop. I couldn’t. If I had turned around then, I would’ve shattered.
But then his hand wrapped around my arm—warm, solid, familiar—and I spun, ready to bite.
“What, Matteo?” I snapped, the words sharp and fast. Anything to keep my heart from spilling out.
And of course, he looked at me like I was a puzzle he could solve, like if he just pressed all the right buttons, I’d stop pretending I didn’t feel everything.
He stepped in too close, his body heat licking up my spine, and said, “And what if I did?”
The world narrowed. Just him. His breath, his scent of spiced citrus mixed with leather and whatever shampoo he stole from luxury hotels. My pulse crashed like waves inside my ribs.
Then I said it, the only defense I had left.
“Fuck off.”
He blinked, those stupidly pretty lashes fluttering over his stupidly warm eyes. “Fine.”
He started to pull back—and it should have felt like relief.
It didn’t.
So I grabbed his shirt—fisted it in one hand—and I dragged him to me since he walked off the track after the crash.
The moment our mouths collided, it was a goddamn supernova.
His lips were hot and demanding, teeth grazing mine as he kissed me like he’d wanted to for years. Like he was angry about it. Like he was starved.
And I matched him, kiss for kiss. I poured every bit of frustration and tension into it. He groaned against my mouth, deep and low and absolutely wrecked, and it did something dangerous to me.
His hands were everywhere. In my hair, gripping my waist, splaying across my spine like he needed to keep me tethered or he’d fly off the earth. He crowded me against the wall, his thigh sliding between mine, and I felt him—every hard, heated inch—and my hips rolled without permission.
I gasped into his mouth. He swallowed it like it was a drug.
His tongue swept into my mouth and I moaned—God, I moaned—and I should have been embarrassed but I was too far gone.
I kissed him harder.
We were breathless, devouring. Every graze of his lips, every pull of his fingers in my hair, every grind of our bodies. It was molten. Raw. Unforgiving.
He bit my bottom lip and I gasped again, arching into him.
His mouth found the underside of my jaw and the curve of my throat. I swore I forgot what year it was. My head fell back against the wall with a soft thud, eyes fluttering shut as he trailed kisses up to the shell of my ear.
“Still mad?” he murmured, voice dark and wrecked, breath hot against my skin.
My eyes flashed open. “Yes.”
But my fingers were still in his hair, and I was still pulling him back down to me, and we were kissing again like the world was ending.
Because maybe it was.
And maybe I didn’t care, as long as I could burn with him.
I broke away just enough to breathe, just enough to grab his wrist and pull.
“Room. Now.”
I fumbled with the key card, breath heaving, heart hammering like I’d ran miles. His fingers ghosted over my hips as I swiped it, and the lock clicked. Then we were inside.
And the door slammed shut.
We collided.
There was nothing gentle about the way we kissed.
There was no patience, no hesitation, just this frantic ache that had been building for far too long.
Every brush of his lips was a question I was too tired to keep dodging.
Every press of his body said what neither of us had dared to speak out loud.
It was all hands and mouths and moans. He backed me against the wall again, our bodies crashing like waves. His hands gripped my thighs like he was memorizing the shape of me. I hitched one leg around his waist, dragging him closer, and the groan he let out was filthy.
“Christ, Nicola—” he growled, mouth hot at my neck, biting just enough to make me gasp.
“You talk too much,” I breathed, yanking his shirt up, desperate to feel skin. My nails dragged over his abs, and he shuddered.
He grabbed my jaw and kissed me like he wanted to own my mouth. His tongue tangled with mine, deep and slick and desperate, like we were trying to crawl inside each other.
We stumbled toward the bed, tearing at clothes, hands frantic.
My top went first. Then his shirt. Then my bra was sliding down my arms and his mouth was everywhere—my collarbone, the swell of my breast, down my stomach.
He was worshipping, devouring, like he’d been waiting to do this forever and now that he had me, he wouldn’t waste a second.
“You’re unreal,” he murmured against my skin, voice hoarse and reverent. “Fucking dream girl, aren’t you?”
I yanked his face back up to mine and kissed him like a woman starved.
When he finally pressed his hips into mine, when I felt the thick, heavy line of him against me, I lost every last coherent thought.
We grinded together, mouths clashing, bodies moving in sync like we’d always known how to do this. His name fell from my lips like a prayer, and he groaned like it was the first time he’d heard it.
“I want you,” I whispered, raw and honest, voice trembling.
He stilled, his forehead pressed to mine. “You have me.”
And then he kissed me again, slow this time, deep, a promise in every movement.
His hands slid down, gripping the back of my thighs, dragging me flush against him. The friction was brutal and perfect, sparks licking up my spine, my fingers digging into his back as I arched into him.
This wasn’t careful.
This was wildfire.
His touch felt like it too, memorizing me, pinning my hands against the wall when I tried to take control, making heat spread throughout me.
I hate him.
I hate him.
I hate him.
I hated the way he looked at me like he knew exactly what I was thinking. The way he smirked when I got flustered. The way his voice dipped when he used my name like it was a sin.
And right now, I hated the way I couldn’t stop staring at his mouth.
“You done glaring at me like you want to kill me,” Matteo asked, stepping in closer, “or are you still convincing yourself you don’t want to fuck me?”
My laugh came out sharp, mocking. “You think you’re irresistible, don’t you?”
He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth lifting like he already knew the answer. “Not irresistible. Just inevitable.”
His hold on my hands loosened, giving me the option to leave, to end it here.
I should’ve backed up, put space, told him this was a bad idea and we shouldn’t do this again.
But I did want to do this again. Again and again.
I ignored that small part of me, the voice in the back of my head screaming at me, knowing I would get hurt just like every time before.
Instead, I shoved him.
He didn’t budge. His chest was firm beneath my hands, hot. I could feel his breath on my cheek, ragged like mine.
“You drive me insane,” I hissed.
“Likewise,” he muttered—and then he kissed me.
Hard.
His mouth was on mine before I could take another breath, and it was everything I didn’t know I’d been craving.
Rough. Desperate. A collision more than a kiss.
My fingers clawed at his shoulders as his hands slid under my breast, a teasing sweep.
His palms felt like fire with every brush against my skin.
I gasped into his mouth and he took advantage, deepening the kiss, tongue sliding against mine with a hunger that sent sparks down my spine.
“Fuck,” he growled against my lips. “You like this.” Another kiss. “And you’re all mine.”
I bit down on his lower lip in answer, hard enough to make him groan, and pulled him with me as I stumbled backward, toward the bed, the wall—I didn’t care where, just somewhere I could feel all of him.
I felt drunk on his words. Parts of my brain were firing off warnings at him using the term ‘mine,’ but somehow it was also the hottest thing I had ever heard.
It seemed like something to analyze later, so I kept getting lost in his kisses, letting myself get drunk on them.
We crashed into the wall.
He pressed me against it, his thigh between mine, his hands mapping every inch of skin he could find. I was burning, unraveling, desperate and wild and—
“You’re such an asshole,” I whispered as he trailed kisses down my neck.
“You say that,” he murmured, mouth brushing the swell of my breast, “but you’re not telling me to stop.”
I wasn’t. I couldn’t. My hands were already under his shirt, nails dragging down his spine, and the sound he made—low, guttural, wrecked—was addictive.
“Shut up and get on the bed,” I snapped.
His eyes flashed, dark with something dangerous. “Bossy.”
“You love it.”
He didn’t respond. Just lifted me, carried me like I weighed nothing, and tossed me onto the bed before crawling over me, settling between my thighs like he belonged there.
Maybe he did.
Maybe I hated how right this felt.
Maybe I didn’t care anymore.
“Last chance,” he murmured, his forehead pressed to mine, voice raw. “Tell me to stop.”
I wrapped my legs around his waist and pulled him down, lips brushing his. “Don’t you fucking dare.” I watched him let go at that moment. His eyes darkened, lust clouding my own vision the same.
I didn’t recognize the man above me.
Not like this.
This wasn’t Matteo DeLuca—the charming, cocky flirt who grinned at press conferences and cracked jokes even under pressure. This wasn’t the man who teased me mercilessly in hotel lobbies or poked fun at the way I double-checked every schedule.
This Matteo—his body heavy between my thighs, voice gravel-thick with hunger, eyes black with need—was feral.
He’d stripped me bare with the efficiency of someone who’d imagined this more than once. The moment his mouth hit my neck again, I arched off the bed, grasping at the sheets.
“Touch me,” I whispered, breath catching as his hand slid up my thigh.