Page 101 of Offside Angle

I step in closer and take over, gently rolling the sleeve up for him. My fingers brush against the inside of his forearm as I work. When I glance up, he’s not looking at the coffee at all anymore.

He’s watching me.

The second sleeve gets the same treatment. I take my time with it, smoothing the fabric, making sure it sits right. When I’m done I let my hands linger on his wrists for a moment longer than necessary.

“There,” I murmur.

Matteo’s mouth curves into that cocky little smirk I’m already addicted to.

“You were staring again,” he says, tilting his head. “And I look good in your clothes, don’t I? Admit it.”

I let my eyes drag slowly down his body, taking my time, then meet his gaze again with a smile.

“You look better out of them,” I tease. “But yeah… you look good in mine too. Dangerous, even. Like you’re trying to start something you can’t finish before we have to leave.”

Matteo’s smirk falters for half a second, a faint flush creeping up his neck. I don’t give him time to recover.

I step in close, one hand sliding around his waist as I turn him toward the door.

“Shoes on,” I murmur near his ear. “And grab your phone before you forget it again.”

He scoffs, but he moves, reaching for his. “You’re bossy in the morning,” he mutters, but there’s no real complaint in it.

I smile and hand him his coffee again.

“Only when I have to get a certain Rivera out the door on time,” I say, already reaching for my own keys. “Now move, guapo. Damian’s waiting.”

He shoots me a look over his shoulder but he puts his shoes on without arguing.

Matteo tries to play it cool as we head outside, but I can see the little spark of defiance in his eyes.

“You know,” he says, walking a little faster, trying to take the lead, “just because you got me out of bed and into your shirt doesn’t mean you get to order me around all morning.”

I raise an eyebrow, amused. “Oh? And here I thought you liked it when I told you what to do.”

He shoots me a look over his shoulder, that cocky smirk back in place. “Only sometimes. And only when I’m the one letting you.”

I watch as he starts heading toward his own car parked a few spots down.

Wrong direction.

I reach out and hook two fingers into one of his belt loops, giving it a tug. He stumbles half a step before I steer him toward my car instead.

“Wrong car, Rivera.”

“You know I have my own car, right?” he says as we reach mine. “Perfectly good one. Runs and everything.”

“I know,” I say, reaching past him to open the passenger door. “But you’re coming with me.”

He stops.

Stares at the open door.

Then at me.

Then back at the open door.

I lean my shoulder against it, one hand resting on the frame, and wait.