Page 24 of Tempting Tessa

My heart pounds against my ribs. “I’ve been ignoring you for a reason.”

“Yes, because you’re scared.” His voice drops to that dangerous velvet tone that makes my clit throb. “Not of me, stellina. Of yourself. Of how badly you want me.”

“You’re delusional.” But even as I say it, my body betrays me.

The bartender slides two tumblers of amber liquid across the marble. I grab mine before Matteo can even think about reaching for it.

“Excuse me, I have people to talk to.” I knock back half the whiskey in one burning gulp, feeling it scorch my throat all the way down.

His eyes darken as I brush past him, my shoulder deliberately bumping his. The contact sends a shiver through my body that I refuse to acknowledge.

I spot a group of tech investors huddled near the east windows and make my way over toward them. These are exactly the kind of people I need in my corner.

“Gentlemen,” I say, sliding into their circle with practiced ease. “Contessa Gallo. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure.”

The oldest of the group—silver-haired with a face that’s had more work done than my vibrator molds—extends his hand. “Richard Phelps. Phelps Ventures.”

I shake his hand, letting my touch linger just a second too long. “I’ve heard wonderful things about your portfolio. Especially your interest in female-founded startups.”

His eyes light up, and I can practically see dollar signs reflecting in them. “Always on the lookout for the next big thing. What’s your venture, Ms. Gallo?”

“Please call me Contessa.” I lean in slightly, giving him a better view down my dress. “I run Contessa Luxury Intimate Products. We’re revolutionizing the female pleasure market with high-end, tech-integrated toys.”

Another investor perks up. “Sex toys? Isn’t that market saturated?”

I laugh, tossing my purple hair over one shoulder. “About as saturated as the smartphone market was after Apple. There’s always room for innovation when you understand what women really want.”

For the next twenty minutes, I work the room like the professional I am. I move from group to group, dropping my business card into eager hands, making sure they all know my name—Contessa, not just Gallo. I can feel Matteo’s eyes on me the entire time, tracking my movements like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to pounce.

I spot Eleanor Chambers, CEO of a major distribution company that could get my products into high-end boutiques across the country. Perfect. I approach with a confident smile, pushing thoughts of Matteo to the back of my mind.

“Eleanor! I’ve been hoping to run into you tonight.”

She turns, her perfectly coiffed silver bob swinging. “Contessa Gallo, what a surprise! Your father mentioned you might be here.”

Of course he did. I keep my smile fixed in place. “I’ve been wanting to discuss a potential partnership.”

For the next twenty minutes, I charm the pants off Eleanor, showing her product photos on my phone and making her laugh with carefully chosen innuendos. By the time I excuse myself, she’s promised a meeting with her and sent my contact info to her assistant.

I work the room methodically, moving from one potential connection to the next. Richard Hargrove, whose boutique hotel chain caters to the ultra-wealthy. Sophia Lin, whose lifestyle blog reaches millions of sexually adventurous millennials.

“So what exactly do you sell, Ms. Gallo?” asks Thomas Wilson, an older man with wandering eyes and too much cologne.

I lean in slightly, giving him just enough of a view down my dress to keep his attention. “Luxury pleasure products for the discerning woman, Mr. Wilson.” I lower my voice. “Or the discerning couple.”

His eyes widen, then narrow with interest. “Is that so? And what makes your…products special?”

“Quality, design, discretion.” I run my finger around the rim of my empty glass. “We understand that pleasure should be an experience, not just a function.”

“Fascinating.” His hand brushes my arm. “Perhaps we could discuss this further in private.”

I smile, knowing exactly what he’s suggesting. “Unfortunately, my products speak for themselves. They don’t need my personal endorsement.”

“That’s not quite how business works around here,” a deep voice directly behind me says, so close I can feel hot breath against my neck.

Mr. Wilson’s face drains of color so fast I swear I can hear the blood rushing from his head. His eyes widen, darting from me to whoever is standing behind me, though I already know exactly who it is.

“M-Mr. Marino,” Wilson stammers. “I was just⁠—”