“I’ll consider it,” Mateo says, not even bothering to ask whether or not Francesca’s into the idea. “No middle men though. If Salvatore wants to work something out, he needs to come out of hiding and meet with me himself.”
“As long as you’re open to peace, I’m sure he will.”
Mateo nods once.
Mark nods a few times, clearly uneasy. “So… I’m gonna go?”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
Mark nods, heading for the door, still a little cautious though, keeping an eye on Mateo. “Um, I kinda had to kill a guy in the parking lot of your bakery.”
Mateo sighs, tucking his gun away and pulling his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll take care of it.”
“Awesome.” Glancing at me, Mark offers an apologetic look, then he opens the door and slips outside.
“There’s no one waiting to kill him outside, right?” I ask, looking toward the window, but I can’t see out the dark curtains.
Mateo smirks, tucking his phone back into his pocket and gazing down at me. All the hardness I’ve sensed from the moment he answered the phone has fallen away, and he grips my hips, turning me to face him. He seems relieved. I stare up at him, certain organs pounding so loudly they can probably be heard in the next room over, other locations on my body inappropriately tingling. It’s a jumbled, scarlet-letter-wearing mess over here.
“No, I was going to handle that one myself,” he tells me.
“I have a lot of questions about a lot of things,” I tell him.
“I can imagine.” There’s amusement dancing in his eyes again, and this is how I like him best. There’s something about his scary side that turns me on, but it’s the playful side that stirs my heart.
God, I am a mess.
“I can’t believe you came for me,” I tell him.
“As many times as you’ve come through for me, I think I owed you one,” he informs me.
I roll my eyes lightly. “I don’t do you favors so you’ll owe me,” I say. “There’s no one keeping track.”
“I always keep track,” he responds lightly.
I want so badly to wrap my arms around his neck. I can literally feel my insides trying to close the small distance between us, like there’s a magnet inside of his body pulling at mine.
And it tears me apart. Because I have every reason to stay away. We both do. There are no reasons to close the distance, not one. There are no reasons to keep standing here with his hands on my hips like they belong there, our bodies separated by measly inches, heated memories of our bodies being much closer suddenly flooding my mind.
Then, as if similar thoughts are going through his head, he glances at the bed.
We’re in a hotel room. Alone. With a bed.
I’m so terrified—not of him this time, but myself. A little of him. Because if he so much as makes a joke about that bed, I’m going to crumble into a million pieces.
But he doesn’t joke. The amusement in his eyes dies, and he looks back at me more solemnly.
I wish I could read his mind, but I don’t even think I’d be able to handle it. This is hard enough knowing I’m alone in this torment, but when he looks at me like maybe he feels it, too….
“We should leave,” I state, before either of us can act on anything we shouldn’t.
“We should,” he agrees, but doesn’t move.
I can feel my heart beating in my throat. As if they have their own plans, my arms move slowly to his broad shoulders, creeping around his neck. He studies me, and I think I’m going to pass out from the stress. Before he can take it the wrong way—and accept or rebuff me, because I have no idea which one of those would hurt more—I lean in for a hug.
I’m allowed to have a hug, right?
Hugs are harmless. You can hug a family member.
He hugs me back, one of his hands moving up to caress my back.
Everything’s thumping. I’m so aroused and guilty and just the worst person in the whole world, but as Mateo holds me, for just a moment, I don’t care. I let go of the guilt, of the anguish over my horribly inappropriate feelings, and just enjoy the feeling of his embrace.
I want to stay here with him forever. I never want to leave this crummy hotel room.
God, I am in so much trouble.
It lasts far too long for a hug, but before it can morph into anything more, I pull back.
I swallow, but there’s a lump in my throat. It’s all too much, and I feel like I’m going to dissolve any minute—like the pressure is just too much, and my mind and body can’t handle it anymore, so they’re just going to give up.
He doesn’t let go of my hips. I go to back out of his embrace, to move away from him so I can try to gather the remains of my sanity, but his grip on me tightens, and he tugs me against him.