Page 36 of Tempting Tessa

“I didn’t want to wake you,” I lie, clutching my heels and clutch tighter.

He reaches the bottom step, towering over me with that infuriating smirk. “Bullshit.”

My face heats because he’s absolutely right. “I have work to do.”

Matteo studies me for a long moment, his eyes traveling from my tangled purple hair to my wrinkled dress to my bare feet. Then he sighs, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.

“Go to the kitchen. Have some coffee. Then we’ll leave.” His tone makes it clear that this isn’t a suggestion.

“I can call Nat⁠—”

“No.” The single word cuts through the air like a knife. “I’ll drive you. But coffee first.”

I want to argue, to tell him to fuck off with his commands, but my head is pounding and the promise of caffeine is too tempting to resist. “Fine.”

I follow Matteo to the kitchen, trying not to stare at his back muscles flexing with each movement. The morning light streams through the massive windows, illuminating the high-end appliances that probably cost more than my rent.

“Sit,” he commands, pointing to one of the barstools at the island.

I roll my eyes but comply, dropping my heels and clutch on the counter. “Yes, sir,” I mutter sarcastically.

He ignores my tone, moving to a professional-grade espresso machine that takes up half the counter space. Of course he has a fucking espresso machine. Probably imported directly from Italy, with gold-plated fixtures and blessed by the Pope himself.

I watch as his hands move with practiced precision, grinding beans, tamping them down, adjusting settings. The muscles in his back ripple beneath his skin with each movement—tensing, releasing, shifting beneath the surface. I can’t help but wonder if that’s what they looked like last night when he was above me, inside me, his body working with the same intensity. There’s something hypnotic about watching his large, capable hands—the same hands that spanked my ass raw—performing such a delicate task.

“How do you take it?” he asks, not looking up from his work.

“Black, like my soul,” I reply, because I’m still feeling bitchy about being caught trying to sneak out.

He chuckles, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Cappuccino it is.”

“I said black.”

“And I said cappuccino.” His tone tells me he knows I don’t drink black coffee and I’m just being difficult on purpose.

It’s almost mesmerizing as he steams my milk to perfection, creating a microfoam like a professional. When he finally sets a perfectly crafted cappuccino in front of me, complete with a little heart design in the foam, I’m torn between being impressed and irritated.

Picking up the cup, I take a sip. It’s fucking delicious, which only irritates me more.

He makes himself a straight espresso, downing it in one swift motion before leaning against the counter opposite me.

The domesticity of the moment hits me like a freight train. Here I am, sitting in Matteo Marino’s kitchen, drinking coffee he made especially for me, after a night of mind-blowing sex. If I didn’t know better, we could be any normal couple.

Except we’re not normal. He’s literally older than my father. He IS my father’s best friend. I used to call him “Uncle Matteo” when I was younger, for fuck’s sake. And now I’ve seen his dick and had it inside me in ways that would make even the most experienced porn star blush.

Not to mention the small detail that he’s basically a mob boss or whatever the fuck they call themselves these days. “Businessman,” my ass.

“I’ve been thinking,” he says finally, his voice deceptively casual. “About last night.”

“It was fun,” I say quickly, already sensing where this is going. “A one-time thing we can both move on from.”

His eyebrow arches. “Is that what you think it was?”

“That’s what it was,” I insist, ignoring the way my pulse quickens under his steady gaze. “A hookup. Amazing sex. The end.”

“Hmm.” The sound rumbles from his chest, noncommittal but somehow threatening at the same time. “But what if it wasn’t?”

I freeze with my cup halfway to my lips. “What do you mean?”