Page 48 of Tempting Tessa

I hesitate for half a second before I grab it—his palm swallowing mine, rough and hot. He helps me up, then tucks me into his side with the kind of subtle possessiveness that makes my skin buzz.

Outside, the air is sharp and wet, the taste of rain still floating in the city lights. Matteo’s car is already waiting, a black Mercedes with windows so tinted they might as well be obsidian. He doesn’t open my door like a gentleman. He just crowds me into the back seat, climbs in after, and lets the driver pull away before he even buckles his belt.

I’m confused when I see we’re making our way back to my apartment and not his house. Why is he taking me home? Did I do something? I open my mouth to ask, and as usual he knows what I’m thinking.

“I already told you, I want The Persephone. We’re going to go get it and then yes, I’m taking you back to my place.”

Chapter 15

Matteo

We’re five minutes from Tessa’s place, city lights and rain streaking the Mercedes windows, when she jerks upright clutching her stomach and hisses, “Oh fuck, pull over. I’m gonna be sick.”

I barely have time to signal the driver before she’s pawing at the door. She’s halfway out before I can get it open, making this desperate animal noise in her throat, and then she just loses it—violently, spectacularly, all over the curb in front of a gelato place.

I slide out after her, hand catching her hair in a fist before it can dip into the mess. The other arm goes around her rib cage, steadying her as she heaves. It’s not graceful, it’s not even human.

When she finally stops, she hacks a weak laugh that devolves into coughing, and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand. I pull a handkerchief from my jacket and wipe her lips, thumb scraping the corner of her mouth, then tip her chin up so she has to look at me.

She’s mortified, any bratty bravado from dinner rinsed out of her by the contents of her stomach. “Don’t say anything,” she rasps, voice shredded. “Not one fucking word.”

She tries to stand, but her knees go soft and I have to catch her, hauling her into my chest. At least she has the decency to clutch my lapels instead of flailing around like a dying goldfish. I could get used to this, her small and shaky in my hands.

She’s burning up. Not fever-hot, more like her body’s overworked and smoking itself from the inside out. Her skin is clammy, her pulse hammering at her throat, and she’s trembling in my arms. I manhandle her back into the car, ignoring her weak protest and the fact that her knees don’t even try to lock. The scent of sick clings to her, and she sags into the seat, cheek pressed to the cool glass, eyes squeezed shut.

Could be the steak and wine, but the easier answer is the one I’ve been planning for: she’s pregnant.

“We’re not going to her place,” I inform the driver. “Drive to the house.”

Tessa jerks upright. “No, I want to go home. I just want my bed.”

“Not happening, stellina.” I hold her tighter, voice low. “You’re sick, and my place has better security.”

“I don’t want—” she starts, but her voice cracks, and I can tell she’s about three seconds from a breakdown.

I drag her into my lap. I rub her back, slow circles until she melts. “Enough, Contessa. You need rest, fluids, and someone to take care of you. If you think I’d let anyone else take care of my woman, you’re fucking delusional.”

She glares up at me, eyes shining with unshed tears and leftover humiliation. “I need my stuff. My comfy clothes—my bed, my books⁠—”

I roll my eyes. “You want a toothbrush, I’ll buy you a toothbrush. You want your purple dildo, I’ll have someone fetch it. You want your entire apartment airlifted to my house, I’ll fucking do it. But you are not spending tonight alone.”

She makes a weak attempt to wriggle away, then gives up. Exhaustion is visible in her face and body.

She gets quieter and smaller, head tucked under my chin, her hair tickling my jaw. A minute later she’s deadweight, breathing slow and deep against my chest. Good. I don’t let her go, even when my thigh goes numb. I just hold her, careful not to jostle her unsettled stomach.

She doesn’t wake up when we get to the house. Not when I lift her out of the car. Not when I carry her up the stairs, bridal style, past the front hall and up into my suite. A year ago I would have called it crazy, but now it just feels right—her body slack in my arms, her scent all over me.

I lay her down on top of the duvet and she doesn’t wake. Just sprawls and lets out a little groan, rolling until her cheek is pressed to the pillow. I stare at her, hair stuck to her forehead, dress bunched up, panties still missing from our little restaurant game. I could peel her out of that dress and fuck her right now, but she’s ill, and she needs to sleep, not get railed into the mattress.

I strip off my jacket and toss it over the chair, then shuck my shirt and unbuckle my belt. Tessa doesn’t notice a thing.

Heading to my custom walk-in closet, I go to the left side that I had cleared out and set up with anything and everything she might need or want when she’s here.

Reaching one set of built-in drawers, I pull out a light gray pair of sleep shorts and a matching tank top, then step back into my bedroom.

She’s barely moved. I could put her in anything, or nothing, and she wouldn’t know the difference until morning. I kneel on the mattress next to her and push the hair off her face.

I peel her out of the dress, slow so I don’t wake her, and slip the tank top over her head. She stirs, groggy, lets me manhandle her arms through the holes without even a token protest. I slide the shorts up her smooth thighs, and she hums like it’s a spa treatment.