Page 95 of Offside Angle

He doesn’t look away. “Drunk enough for bravery…” he says, “not drunk enough to forget.”

“Matteo…” I start, brushing my thumb over his cheekbone.

He covers my hand with his own, holding it there. “I’m serious, Santi… I want you.”

The city keeps sliding past the windows, streetlights moving across his face in brief flashes, but Matteo barely seems to notice. There’s no smirk this time, no clever little challenge waiting behind the words. He just looks at me with the same intensity I watched him carry onto the ice earlier, except now every bit of it is focused on me.

I keep my hand against his face and study him for another moment, looking for uncertainty, for the slightest sign that he’s getting ahead of himself because of the win or the alcohol.

I don’t find it.

By the time we reach my apartment, the tension between us has only gotten worse.

The hallway is quiet and dim as I unlock the door, my hand settling against the small of Matteo’s back while I guide him inside. He leans into the touch without thinking, and that tiny movement nearly does me in more than all the flirting in the cab.

Before I open the door fully, I stop and look at him under the hallway light. “Last chance to blame this on the win, cariño.”

Matteo meets my eyes immediately. “It’s not the win.”

I barely get the door shut before he turns and grabs the front of my shirt.

The kiss hits hard enough to knock whatever restraint I had left clean out of me.

Matteo kisses me with all that leftover adrenaline and frustration and want finally given somewhere to go. I catch him around the waist and pull him closer as we stumble farther into the apartment, neither of us particularly interested in moving carefully anymore.

His hands disappear into my hair while mine slide beneath the hem of his shirt, finding warm skin and the tension still running through him. He tastes faintly of tequila, and every time I deepen the kiss he follows without hesitation, pressing closer instead of pulling back.

I walk him backward toward the living room, never breaking the kiss for more than a second.

We fall onto the couch in a tangle of limbs, still kissing, the momentum carrying us down hard. Matteo ends up straddling my lap again, thighs bracketing mine and his chest pressed close, but this time there’s no panic in his eyes. No freezing. No pulling away. He settles into the position with a new kind of certainty, finally done fighting himself.

His mouth stays on mine, hungry and open, until he suddenly pulls back with a rough little sound and starts tugging impatiently at the hem of his shirt.

I catch his wrists gently. “Let me,” I whisper.

He freezes, staring at me in complete confusion. Apparently, handing over control of something this simple has never occurred to him. I hold his gaze and slowly start lifting the fabric myself, peeling it up his torso inch by inch. The soft material slides over his skin, revealing the hard lines of his stomach, the faint bruises from the game, the rise and fall of his chest as his breathing gets heavier.

I pull the shirt the rest of the way off and toss it aside, letting my hands settle on his bare waist.

Matteo is staring at me, pupils blown wide, lips parted and a little swollen from kissing.

I run my thumbs slowly along the cut of his hips and lean up to brush my mouth against his again, softer this time. “Still with me, cariño?”

He nods and immediately sinks back into the kiss, all that earlier hesitation gone.

Oh shit. Oh fuck.

It’s happening.

Santi’s fingers wrap around my thighs, strong and sure, and he pulls and twists until my back hits the couch cushions. He’s between my legs now, mouth hot and open as he kisses down my chest. My hands are buried in his hair before I even realize I’ve moved them, fingers tightening in the soft strands as a groan slips out of me. The feeling is incredible — his lips, his tongue, the scrape of his teeth every now and then. My back arches without permission, chasing the sensation.

This is weird. This is backwards. I’m supposed to be on top. I’m supposed to be the one in control. I don’t know how to… not be on top.

Santi must feel the way my body tenses because he slows down, pressing a softer kiss just below my ribs before he looks up at me. His eyes are dark, lips shiny, hair messy from my fingers. He doesn’t say anything right away. He just waits, stroking slow circles on my thighs, giving me the space to decide.

“Don’t stop,” I manage.

Santi’s smile is slow and warm. He leans down again and kisses lower, and I let my head fall back against the cushions.