A Hunger for the Forbidden - By Maisey Yates Page 0,33

care. She wasn’t embarrassed at all.

Because this was Matteo. The man she’d always wanted. Wanted enough to break out of what was expected of her for the first time in her life. The man who had saved her, the man who made her angry and hurt her, the man who made her feel things she’d never felt before.

Matteo scared her. He confused her. He made her feel more than anyone else ever had.

And right now he was driving her to a point she’d never even imagined, to the edge of a cliff so high she couldn’t see the bottom of the chasm below.

She was afraid to fall, afraid to let the pleasure that was building in her break, because she didn’t know what would greet her on the other side. Didn’t know what would happen. And something would happen. Something would change. There was no question. None at all.

And then he looked at her, those dark eyes meeting hers, and she saw him. Not the mask, the man. Raw need, desperation and a fear that mirrored her own.

He lowered his head, his lips pressing against her neck, his thrusts losing their measured rhythm. And something in her broke, released. And she was falling, falling into that endless chasm. But she wasn’t afraid anymore.

Release rolled through her in waves, stealing every breath, every thought, everything but the moment.

And when she finally did reach bottom, Matteo was there, his strong arms around her. He was breathing hard, too, sweat on his brow, the back of his shirt damp, his heartbeat raging, so hard that, with his body pressed so tightly against hers, she could feel it against her own chest.

He stepped away from her slowly, running his hand over his hair, erasing the evidence that she’d ever speared her fingers through it. That she’d messed with his well-ordered control.

He adjusted his pants. Bent and collected his jacket, putting his phone back into his pocket. And she just stood there, her back to the wall, her dress still pushed partway up around her hips, the top resting at her waist, her underwear on the floor by her feet.

Matteo put his tie around his neck and started straightening it, too, before he looked at her. “Get dressed,” he said.

“What?”

“Get dressed,” he said. “We have to go back to the party.”

“W-we do?”

“It’s my charity,” he said. “I have a speech to make.” He checked his wristwatch. “And it seems I’m not too late for it so I really should try to manage it.”

“I …”

“Turn around,” he ordered, his voice harsh. She did as he asked. He put her straps back into place, zipped the dress back up. “My bra …”

“You don’t need it,” he said.

“What should I do with it?”

He opened up his jacket and indicated his inner pocket. She bent and scooped up her bra and panties and handed them to him, and he put both tiny garments into his pocket.

“Solved,” he said.

She looked down at her chest, cupped her breasts for a moment. “I’m sagging.”

“You are not.”

He hit the button on the elevator and it started moving again, the doors sliding open. Then he hit the button for the first floor and they waited for the doors to close again.

Alessia felt … used. No, not even that. She just felt sad. Angry, because he was able to do that with her and then go back to his purely unruffled self.

Maybe she’d been making more out of them, and the sex, than she should have. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it didn’t mean anything to him. Nothing more than just sex, anyway, and a man like Matteo surely had it quite a bit.

They rode in silence, and the doors opened again. The photographer was still out there, wandering the halls. Looking for a photo op, no doubt.

Matteo put his arm around her waist and led her through the hall, that false smile back on his face. They started back toward the ballroom and she had the strangest feeling of déjà vu. Like they were back at the beginning of the night. Like their interlude in the elevator hadn’t happened at all. But it had. She knew it had.

The photographer snapped a picture. And Alessia didn’t bother to smile.

CHAPTER EIGHT

MATTEO WASN’T SURE how he managed to get up and speak in front of the large crowd of people. Not when he could see Alessia in the audience, her face smooth, serene, her dark eyes the only window to the storm that lurked beneath.

A storm he