A Hunger for the Forbidden - By Maisey Yates Page 0,28

…”

“What other times?”

“You didn’t used to look at me that way.”

“How did I look at you?” she asked, her chest tightening, her stomach pulling in on itself.

“When you were a girl? With curiosity. At the hotel? Like you were hungry.”

“You looked at me the same way.”

“And how do you think I look at you now?”

“You don’t,” she whispered. “When you can help it, you don’t look at me at all.”

He moved his other hand up to cup her cheek, his thumb still stroking her lower lip. “I’m looking at you now.”

And there was heat in his eyes. Heat like there had been their night together, the night that had started all of this. The night that had changed the course of her life.

“Because you have to,” she said. “For the guests.”

“Oh, yes, the guests,” he said.

Suddenly, a flash pierced the dim light, interrupting their moment. They both looked in the direction of the photographer, who was still snapping pictures in spite of the fact that the moment was completely broken.

“Shall we go in?” he asked. Any evidence of frayed control was gone now, the rawness, the intensity, covered by a mask. And now her husband was replaced with a smooth, cool stranger.

She’d love to say it wasn’t the man she’d married, but this was exactly the man she’d married. This guarded man with more layers of artifice than anyone she’d ever met. She had been so convinced she’d seen the man behind the fiction, that the night in the hotel she’d seen the real Matteo. That in those stolen glances they’d shared when they were young, she’d seen the truth.

That in the moment of unrestrained violence, when he’d put himself in harm’s way to keep her from getting hurt, she’d seen the real man.

Now she realized what small moments those were in the entirety of Matteo’s life. And for the first time, she wondered if she was simply wrong about him.

A feeling that settled sickly in her stomach, a leaden weight, as they continued up the stairs and into the entrance to the hotel’s main ballroom.

There were more photographers inside, capturing photographs of the well-dressed crème de la crème of Sicilian society. And Alessia did her best to keep a smile on her face. This was her strength, being happy no matter what was going on. Keeping a smile glued to her face at whatever event she was at on behalf of her father, making sure she showed her brothers and sisters she was okay even if she’d just taken a slap to the face from their father.

But this wasn’t so simple. She was having a harder time finding a place to go to inside of herself. Having a harder time finding that false feeling of hope that she’d become so good at creating for herself to help preserve her sanity.

No one could live in total hopelessness, so she’d spent her life creating hope inside of herself. She’d managed to do it through so many difficult scenarios. Why was it so hard now? So hard with Matteo?

She knew she’d already answered that question. It was too hard to retreat to a much-loved fantasy when that much-loved fantasy was standing beside you, the source of most of your angst.

Though she couldn’t blame it all on Matteo. The night of her bachelorette party was the first night she’d stopped trying to find solace in herself, had stopped just trying to be happy no matter what, and had gone for what she wanted, in spite of possible consequences.

She spent the night with Matteo’s arm wrapped around her waist, his touch keeping her entire body strung tight, on a slow burn. She also turned down champagne more times than she could count. Was she normally offered alcohol so much at a party? She’d never been conscious of it when she was allowed to drink it. Right now it just seemed a cruelty, since she could use the haze, but couldn’t take the chance with her baby’s health.

Anyway, for some reason it all smelled sour and spoiled to her now. The pregnancy was making her nose do weird things.

Although Matteo smelled just as good as he ever had. The thought made her draw a little closer to him, breathe in the scent of him, some sort of spicy cologne mingling with the scent of his skin. She was especially tuned into the scent of his skin now, the scent of his sweat.

Dio, even his sweat turned her on. Because it reminded her of his bare