The space beside me is empty, probably has been for a while. After sharing a bed with him for almost a month now, I know one thing: Matteo is an early riser, and a grumpy one at that. The few times I managed to drag myself out of bed early because I couldn’t sleep anymore, or needed something from the kitchen, he pretty much glared at me from over the rim of his coffee cup. Which suits me just fine, since I don’t even want to be awake at that ungodly hour.
I stretch in all possible directions, enjoying the way the tension leaves my body and how it softens my muscles. Then I throw back the blanket, cursing the much cooler temperatures outside my fluffy heaven, and swing my legs over the edge, my feet landing on the soft rug.
Following a quick bathroom break to pee and brush my teeth, I trudge into the kitchen.
What awaits me there stops me mid-step.
Matteo’s behind the kitchen island, a spatula in one hand and a pan in the other. His naked upper body is on full display, hisglisteningskin fully capturing my attention. His tattoos are breathtaking, and every time I see them, I notice something new that must have escaped me every other time.
The tribal art on his pec and shoulder is stunning, and the wings tattoo that wraps around his other shoulder and bicep is my favorite, I think, but there is also something that keeps drawing me to the large dragon eye right below the wings. Maybe because it feels like it’s always staring at me, like nothing can take its focus off me.
Is it wrong to like that? Is it wrong to want to be this man’s focal point?
Or maybe my anxiety is screwing with my brain, and my fear over what today’s meeting with my dad will bring is taking over. Or it could also be the fact that I’ve never felt as free as I have been with Matteo.
At the same time, if I’m honest with myself, that feeling sprouted the second he touched me in that dim hotel room on my wedding day. The second Ilethim touch me on my wedding day, even though he wasn’t my new husband. Far from it.
Whatever he unlocked from deep within me doesn’t feel as foreign as it maybe should. That might be the scariest part of all of this. While it feels a little strange, it also feels familiar, like it was a part of me this whole time and I just wasn’t aware of it. I just needed the right person to help me find it.
“Are you hungry?” His gaze hikes up slowly. He stares down at my legs then my torso, and I’m highly aware of the tiny pajamas I’m wearing. If you can even call the silky spaghetti-strap top and boy shorts pajamas.
This is the first time I’m wearing this little while we’re not in bed or ripping our clothes off elsewhere.
His gaze finally reaches my face, and the corners of my mouth lift the tiniest amount.
“Yes, please. I’m starving.” I have to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, but somehow, I manage to make my way over to him. I pause on the other side of the island, peeking at the eggs and vegetables he’s cooking in the two pans. “It smells delicious.”
“Thanks.” He shifts his attention back to the food, which allows me to watch him some more.
Despite having no issue getting in my face, and having a fairly large presence and frame, he’s also rather composed and reserved. He doesn’t talk because he likes the sound of his voice or because he thinks everyone should constantly listen to him like my father does. He’s quiet, only talking when he really has to, like he knows every single one of his words matter.
I grab one of the barstools opposite him and watch him while he works. “Where did you learn how to cook?”
“My mom.”
I remember our conversations about her and how she got sick during his teenage years. “She taught you how to cook when you were younger?”
He nods. “She did. She said it was important that Luna and I knew how to be self-sufficient.”
The opposite of me. Everything was done for me, especially after my mom died, no matter how often I asked my dad if I could learn how to cook. The only thing he taught me was how to manage the kitchen staff since that would be one of my responsibilities as a wife. He said he didn’t want me to get my hands dirty, but I assumed he was trying to make things easier for me. Now I see that it was just another way of controlling me, of keeping me dependent on him.
Matteo turns off the pan with the vegetables and tosses them into the egg mixture, his lips curving in a smile. “Honestly, I think she just didn’t want us to be spoiled. She was a very hands-on woman and didn’t like to have too many people help around the house.”
“I wish I could have met her.” The words slip out of my mouth without thought, but they’re true.
Matteo sprinkles cheese over the scrambled eggs and vegetables before raising his gaze to meet mine. “She would have liked you.”
His words settle in my chest, depressing yet soothing, as he pushes one of the plates over to me and hands me a fork.
Since I’m practically salivating, I take a big bite. The food hits my tongue, and while it’s still way too hot, the flavors explode in my mouth. “Oh my gosh, this is so good.”
“Thank you.”
A low chuckle comes from his direction, but I’m too busy eating. Now that I’m shoveling food in my mouth, I actually can’t remember the last time I ate. So much has happened so fast that I’ve been losing track of time. Everything meshes together into one big block of time with Matteo. That’s how I’ll remember it when I’m not with him anymore. An escape from real life, my own personal bubble of freedom and peace.
The notion is sobering, the looming possibility of not being with him anymore suddenly unpleasant. Or maybe it’s not so sudden? Didn’t I just acknowledge that he unlocked something inside me the very first time we met? The moment where he wiped the blood from my skin and sucked it off his finger. Who does something like that? And who likes a guy who does it?
“You’re thinking way too hard again.” He points at my plate with his fork, at the food I abandoned mid-chew, because my brain got too loud. “Eat.”