Ache for You (Slow Burn Book 3)

by J. T. Geissinger

  “It’s a metaphor. But I was talking about you,” I say, staring hungrily at her mouth. “I’m the frog you have to eat. Might as well get it over with early so you don’t have to think about it for the rest of your day.”

  Her lips flatten. “You don’t get to call all the shots here. You can’t just show up unannounced, demanding kisses.”

  “Yes I can. I just did. And I’ll do it again. Give me my kiss.”

  She says frostily, “For a guy who said I’m a mediocre kisser, you’re awfully eager to shove your tongue down my throat.”

  I said it because I know there’s nothing more she thrives on than a challenge, but now I see it was a mistake. I went too far. I hurt her feelings.

  Fuck.

  “I’m sorry. That was stupid. It won’t happen again.”

  She blinks, taken aback. A shade of the hostility fades from her posture, but she’s still upset. “Why did you say it, then?”

  “I wanted to rile you up.”

  She’s beginning to look confused, worrying her lower lip with her teeth and frowning. “So . . . you don’t think I’m a bad kisser?”

  That she cares what I think makes my chest tighten and my pulse start to pound. I can’t tell her that I made myself come three times last night thinking about her mouth. Her body. The little sounds she makes when she’s wrapped up in my arms. I can’t tell her that she’s my fucking wet dream, that I can’t get her out of my head no matter what I try.

  I can’t tell her anything yet. I don’t want to scare her off or overwhelm her. Because if I told her what I really want from her, she’d run for the hills.

  She’s a woman nursing a broken heart. Though there’s nothing more I’d love to do than throw her over my shoulder, take her home with me, and make her mine, I have to tread lightly.

  Good things come to those who wait.

  So I say, “If I thought you were a bad kisser, I wouldn’t be trying so hard to kiss you, now would I?”

  She eyes me, cagey as a spy. I can’t tell if she believes me or not, but I don’t have time to ask because she blurts, “Okay, fine, let’s get this over with.”

  I take her face in my hands and take her mouth before she has time to change her mind.

  TWENTY-SIX

  KIMBER

  He doesn’t set his watch this time, so I have no idea how long we go at it, standing in the middle of the shop, macking each other’s faces off. It might’ve lasted forever if it wasn’t for the sound of someone loudly clearing her throat.

  Breathing hard, I break away from Matteo and glance over my shoulder. Clara stands at the doorway to the back of the shop, looking at us with her brows lifted and her lips pursed, one hand propped on her ample hip.

  She does not approve.

  “Clara. Uh. Whuz happenin’?”

  I can barely speak, I’m so disoriented by lust. Matteo grasps my upper arm when I teeter, chuckling in satisfaction at how thoroughly he’s crossed my wires.

  At least I think that’s why he’s chuckling. Truth be told, I’m not sure of much of anything at the moment except I’m going to need to start bringing extra panties to work if he keeps showing up like this.

  “I need your direction on the bodice of the blue gown.” She glances at Matteo, giving him one swift up-and-down look that manages to convey her grudging admiration of his beautiful suit and even more beautiful self along with her obvious irritation that I’m futzing around with a man instead of working.

  Clara believes men are good for only two things: lawn care and vehicle maintenance.

  “Oh. Uh-huh.” I nod like a bobblehead doll. “’Kay.”

  She rolls her eyes and trundles away, shaking her head.

  As soon as she’s out of sight, Matteo spins me around and comes at me.

  “Whoa! Easy, tiger!” I push him away, afraid that if I don’t I’ll soon be tearing our clothes off and mounting him like a bull. “Nope. No way. No more. Gotta get to work. Clara needs me. You heard the woman.” I giggle madly, as if I’ve recently escaped from an asylum. “Back to the trenches!”

  His smile is so beautiful it could end wars. “Are you sure you’re ready to go back to work? You seem disoriented.”

  “I am totally fine.” Except I sound drunk. I stiffen my spine and lift my chin, hoping he doesn’t notice how badly my hands are shaking from the adrenaline crashing through my veins. I feel as if I just won a Formula One race. My nervous system is popping corks and spraying champagne everywhere.

  “Fine?” He watches me, those laser beam hawk’s eyes shining with mirth. “I’ll have to do better next time.”

  If he does any better, I might explode. I think I just spontaneously ovulated.

  “We need to set a schedule,” I say sternly, attempting to sound like a rational human being and not a woman whose clitoris has its own heartbeat. “I can’t have you showing up like this, interrupting me whenever you feel like it.”

  He nods solemnly, but I suspect he’s trying not to break out into laughter. “That’s reasonable. How about after dinner every night? Say, eight o’clock? I’ll drop by the house.”

  That seems late, and contradicts what he said earlier about eating the morning frog or whatever it was, but I’m in no condition to negotiate, so I mutter, “Okay. Good. See you then. Bye.”

  I spin on my heel, but he calls after me, “Why was your ex here?”

  I slowly turn back to him. The laughter has died in his eyes. He’s back to that dangerous look he had when he first came in, dark thunderclouds churning over his head.

  Is he jealous?

  Halo glowing, a little cartoon angel materializes on my left shoulder. “Tell him the truth,” she whispers, gently flapping her wings. “Tell him Brad is gay and there’s nothing going on between you.”

  A red cartoon devil pops up on my right. “Drag this smug asshole over the coals,” he growls, spitting fire. “You think you’re the only broad he’s makin’ a run for? Don’t be naive. He’s got tail all over town. You can’t be this stupid again. And by the way, dipshit, you’re supposed to be thinking with your brain, not your vagina, remember?”

  After a brief hiatus to consider my mental health, I decide to go for the gray area between truth and fiction that admits nothing, but also makes nothing up.

  “I asked him to come.”

  Matteo takes a step closer, bringing his thunderclouds with him. “Why?”

  “We have unfinished business.”

  A few more steps and he’s invading my personal space again, frazzling my nerves and cracking my atoms. “Unfinished business,” he repeats, demanding more of an explanation with his eyes.

  A fight breaks out between the angel and the devil. It’s a complete bloodbath—the devil wins without even breaking a sweat.

  “He’s begged me to forgive him. He’s apologized, and I believe he’s truly sorry. And now . . . we’re working it out.”

  Matteo’s cheeks turn ruddy. His nostrils flare. He seems to expand somehow, like he’s filling with air, and I’m an evil bitch because that makes me happier than I’ve been in quite some time.

  He says, “What exactly are you working out?”

  I know a bargaining chip when I see one and don’t hesitate to use it. “Give me all my sketches back and I’ll tell you.”

  When a dark mood settles over him like a fog, I send him what I hope is a spectacular smile. “You sure are crabby all of a sudden, Count. Are you feeling okay? You seem disoriented.”

  A low noise rumbles through his chest, and his mouth takes on the hard line that means he’s about to say something I’ll want to smack him for.

  He leans in and whispers gruffly, “Not as disoriented as you were a moment ago, bella. I could’ve pushed you against the wall and taken you standing up, you were so ready for it.”

  Of course it’s the truth, but hell if I’m going to admit it. I simply shrug, like Maybe I was and maybe I wasn’t, and politely stifle a yawn.

  His lips curve into a smile that gives me goos
e bumps, it’s so dangerous. “Challenge accepted. See you at eight.”

  He watches me gulp, smirks, then turns and saunters out the door.

  I go back to work and spend the rest of the day trying not to count the minutes until I see him again and telling myself it’s all just a game.

  The problem with games is that there’s always a loser.

  I work straight through dinner and arrive at the house at the same time Matteo does. He’s getting out of his car as my taxi pulls to a stop in front of the door. I pay the driver, gather my handbag and my courage, and step out.

  Matteo watches the taxi drive off with a look of consternation. “Do you not know how to drive?”

  “You people drive like psychos. I don’t want to get into an accident.”

  He strolls nearer, carrying his briefcase in one hand, smiling like he finds me amusing. “I’m happy to drive you to and from work. All you have to do is ask.”

  “So you can spy on me and see what new designs I’m creating? No thanks.”

  His smile turns into a scowl. “Is that why you think I came by this morning? To spy on you?”

  “I find it hard to believe you’d go to all this trouble just to kiss me.”

  He stops a foot away, his scowl softening as he glances at my mouth. When he looks into my eyes, the air between us crackles. “It’s no trouble.”

  My pulse ticks up a notch. We stare at each other for a moment as a warm breeze whispers through the trees, bringing the scent of jasmine and freshly baked bread with it. I tell myself my mouth is watering because of the bread and not the man standing in front of me.

  “All right,” I say, all business. “Let’s get this over with.” I sling my handbag over my shoulder, straighten my spine, and lift my chin.

  Watching me steel myself for his kiss, Matteo smiles again. “Let’s go inside. I haven’t eaten yet.”

  “I haven’t, either, but this isn’t a dinner date.”

  He steps closer so I feel the warmth of his body and smell his skin. In a low voice, he says, “What is it, then?”

  “A business deal.”

  As far as my hormones are concerned, it’s more like foreplay, but I have to find a way to get through the next twenty-something kisses with my dignity intact, so I’m going with nonchalance.

  “You want to conduct business in the driveway?” He glances meaningfully at the front windows of the house that are spilling golden light onto the gravel where we’re standing.

  I form an uncomfortable mental image of his mother watching in horror as we kiss, and decide he’s right. “We can’t do it inside, either.”

  He understands without me having to explain and suggests an alternative. “The garden.”

  I picture us sharing a passionate kiss under the moonlight beside the fountain of Aphrodite, picture Matteo pushing me down onto the grass and pushing himself between my naked thighs, and my nipples harden. Between my legs, there’s a hollow ache, howling to be filled.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  “It’s only a kiss,” murmurs Matteo, watching my face heat. “Two minutes. I’ll time it again so you’ll be safe.”

  I have an awful feeling I’ll never be safe from him, but I swallow my fear and nod, then turn and head toward the garden without looking back.

  I don’t have to look to feel him following. I’m as aware of his presence as I am of my own crashing pulse. All the years I was with Brad, all the times he kissed me, I never felt this kind of anticipation. Or is it dread?

  It’s probably both. I want him but I hate myself for it, for letting him get under my skin.

  For all the ways he can unravel me with nothing more than a look.

  Moonlight filters through the boughs of the trees as I wind my way down the stone path through the garden that leads to the fountain. The crickets are out in full force, chirping away in cheerful oblivion as we pass. The air is warm but my skin is warmer. I’m all flushed and out of breath.

  I stop abruptly and turn to him, convinced this bargain we’ve struck is a huge mistake.

  My heart is already broken. I’d be a fool all over again to expect Matteo will do anything but shatter it for good.

  “I can’t do this,” I say, looking at his shoes. They’re leather, black, gleaming, and infinitely less dangerous than his eyes. I watch his feet approach, until his shoes and mine are touching at the tips.

  He sets his briefcase on the ground, then slides my handbag off my shoulder and sets that down, too. Then he puts his thumb under my chin and tilts up my head.

  He’s quiet for a moment, examining my face, thoughtfully stroking his finger along the curve of my jaw. I stand trembling, wishing I were anywhere but here, wishing I were the kind of woman my father thought I was, strong and brave and capable.

  But I’m not. I don’t think I ever was, or ever will be. I’m just a girl who sees stars every time a handsome man pays her attention, and if that’s not pathetic I don’t know what is.

  Matteo says softly, “Is it me you don’t trust or yourself?”

  I swallow and close my eyes, gutted by how easily he reads me. Three years with Brad and I’d have to chisel my feelings on a stone tablet for him to get a clue what I was thinking, but Matteo somehow correctly interprets every nuance of my expression.

  I suppose it’s because he’s always looking so closely.

  “Both,” I admit, miserable.

  Big warm hands wrap around my jaw. “Thank you for being honest,” he whispers, and lightly touches his mouth to mine.

  Electricity jolts through me, as if I’ve been plugged into a socket. I suck in a startled breath. My eyes fly open, and I stare up at him in a panic.

  “Don’t run away.”

  I groan. “That you knew I was about to makes it even harder to stay put!”

  “You don’t like that I know what you’re feeling.”

  It’s not a question, which makes me feel worse. I’m beginning to think there’s nothing he doesn’t see, the damn mind reader.

  I turn my head, and he rests his cheek against mine. “But you know what I’m feeling, too, so we’re even.”

  I whisper, “I don’t know what you’re feeling. I don’t know anything.”

  He takes my hand and flattens it over his chest. Under my palm, his heart pounds hard and fast. “Yes you do. You just don’t trust it.”

  “I can’t trust it. Not only do I have questionable taste in men, we’re enemies.”

  “Frenemies. With kissing benefits.”

  “That’s not even a thing.”

  “It is now.”

  To prove his point, he kisses me.

  But oh, this kiss. This kiss is different from any other we’ve shared because he goes so slowly, so carefully, his mouth skimming mine, his tongue the softest coaxing brush along the seam of my lips. He’s gentle in a way he’s never been, almost sweet, and the effect is devastatingly intimate.

  I could fall for this man so easily. My heart wants nothing more than to let go and let it happen, but I can’t be blind like I was with Brad ever again.

  This could be nothing more than a manipulation for Matteo, a way to have his cake and eat it, too. At this very moment, his team could be working on my designs. Despite his promise to the contrary, he could have copied every page of my sketch pad. He might have zero intention of destroying the designs before the show. He could, in fact, be counting on my crushed ego and broken heart to muddy the waters of my common sense.

  I could be playing right into his hands.

  He pulls away and gazes down at me, his eyes hot and dark. “You’re thinking. Stop it.”

  “I just realized you haven’t given me a sketch yet. For this morning, either. You owe me two.”

  “When we’re done,” he says, and takes my mouth again.

  I grab on to his shirt for balance. He winds his arms around my back and pulls me close. All my senses are overwhelmed by the scent of the night and of him, by the feel of his strong body against mine,
by the dark edge of longing chipping away at my self-control. When I make a desperate noise in the back of my throat, Matteo kisses me deeper. One of his hands threads into my hair.

  He must have other women. I can’t be the only one. He’s rich and famous and hot as sin, and who am I? A sad little nobody. The Jilted Dressmaker. The Cast-Away Couturier.

  The woman who didn’t have enough sense to realize her fiancé would rather eat dick than her.

  I push Matteo away and hold him at arm’s length with my elbows locked and my hands flattened on his chest. We stay like that for a moment as the night breathes quietly around us, until Matteo rests his hands on top of mine. His voice comes out low and rough.

  “Whatever’s happening between you and your ex, remember this: I’m not him.”

  God help me, he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  How am I supposed to handle this? What’s the smart thing to do? Laugh? Tell him to go to hell? I need advice.

  Out of nowhere, I miss my father so fiercely I want to cry.

  Matteo releases my hands. Bending down to his briefcase, he snaps open the locks, withdraws two sheets of paper, and holds them up to me.

  My sketches.

  Of course he came prepared. He’s always prepared for everything.

  When I take them from him, he closes his briefcase and rises, grasping it in his hand.

  “Tomorrow, then. Eight o’clock.”

  He turns and disappears into the night, leaving me to wonder if he knew I was about to tell him I want to call the whole thing off.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I walk into my bedroom to find a disaster zone.

  Dragged from the open suitcase in the corner, my clothes are strewn all over the floor, shredded into pieces. In shock, I pick up a T-shirt and inspect the damage. Judging by the size of the rips and tears in the fabric, it was attacked by a rabid animal with small claws and tiny razor-sharp teeth.

  “Beans,” I mutter, fuming.

  Evidently Matteo isn’t the only member of the Moretti family I’m at war with.

  I clean up the mess, fantasizing about capturing Beans and shaving her coat to resemble a poodle’s. Cornelia is nowhere to be seen. I’m guessing she doesn’t want to get in trouble for her sister’s bad behavior.