He presses his lips together. “Why do you think something’s wrong with me?”
One, don’t kill him. Two, don’t kill him. Three, don’t kill him.
Nope, I don’t think three breaths will do for this man.
Not sure anything will.
I clench and unclench my hands in my lap. “I can’t believe you have the fucking nerve to talk to me about marrying my cousin considering what we just did together.”
Maybe I should find an empty room somewhere and do some push-ups or something to release some of this energy. Someone will notice soon that I’m not my cool, well-behaved self.
Remember how that empty room worked out last time?
Ah crap, never mind.
No more empty rooms for me.
Matteo lifts his glass to his mouth again, and my traitorous eyes follow every single movement, like they’re addicted to him and don’t want to miss even the most miniscule motion he makes.
Like the way his lips mold around the rim of the glass, or how his Adam’s apple bobs every time he swallows the drink. And let’s not forget the way he licks his lips next to catch the errant drop that’s escaped.
What would it feel like if I licked up his throat to catch it? Would he feel warm under my tongue?
What the hell?
One orgasm, and this man holds my body and brain hostage.
This is just . . . no. Not on my watch.
He sets his glass down and turns around to face the room, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Well, he most definitely doesn’t look like he’s getting stabbed with a hundred imaginary knives like he is in my head. Which is a real shame, even more so when he says, “So does that mean there’s no second round then?”
He did not just say that, did he?
Imusthave imagined that.
After a minute, he says, “I thought you’d be up for more.”
The audacity of this guy. I just want to punch that sexy mouth of his.
“Fuck you, Matteo.”
“That’s what I was hoping for.”
I jump off my stool and get as close to him as I can without raising any suspicion. Well, not any more than our conversation might already have raised anyway. “There’s a special kind of hell for people like you, and I hope you’re going to rot in it.”
“You wouldn’t be the first one.”
“I hope you get hit by a truck.”
“Been there, done that.”
My jaw is so tight, I’m seriously afraid I might break a tooth or two.
“Gemma.”
I freeze at the voice, turning in the direction of where it came from and attempting to hide the sigh. “Frederico, hey.”
My cousin—who’s like a third cousin twice removed or something obnoxious like that—walks toward us, stopping in front of me. He takes my face in his hands and kisses me twice on the cheek. First left, then right. “Ciao, bellissima.”