Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
The desire to kill burns through me, but I must hold back the urge. She didn’t say his name. She just insinuated who she was referencing.
After angling her head, she studies me like she’s trying to solve a puzzle. “That’s why you made me climax, isn’t it?” she asks softly, unflinching. “To prove your point that men only want what they can’t have.”
The room goes silent as my pulse roars in my ears.
I kissed her to pull the wool over my eyes, but one swipe of my tongue against her plump lips changed the rules.
This isn’t a game. I’m not pretending. None of this is an act for me.
Proof? The thought of her with Antonio makes me physically ill.
Every time our eyes collide, I feel something I shouldn’t.
Something dangerous.
Something real.
I drench my throat with spit, hopeful that a bit of wetness will force words through the carnage.
None comes out.
If I speak the truth out loud, everything changes.
Not just between us, but the rules that govern me as well.
I don’t know whether I’m ready for that.
I don’t know if she is either.
“Don’t worry about offending me, Matt.” I grit my teeth at her horrendous nickname, but she keeps talking before I can voice my annoyance. “This is exactly what we want. Right?”
Chapter 26
Azra
As I sit in the middle of Matteo’s bed, surrounded by glossy magazines that taunt me with every perfectly lit photograph, I can’t shake the feeling that I tore open something fragile and foolish inside myself, something I should have kept locked away. It’s safer when I keep my emotions unacknowledged and buried beneath the weight of everything else I’m supposed to focus on.
I didn’t come to Sicily for Matteo.
If I weren’t feeling so stupid, I’d tell Matteo that I overheard Nico and Elio and that I’m basing every accusation on their conversation. I don’t because I hope he will tell me I’m wrong, that they’re wrong, that the idea that our connection is an act is ridiculous. He would never make me orgasm solely to help me get back with Antonio. He did it because he was desperate to learn what I taste like.
But he doesn’t say any of that.
He simply gazes at me with a stunned, hollow look, torn between wanting to reach out and running away.
The silence becomes so thick and suffocating that I drown in it.
Because I’m hurt—and angry, so very angry that I read everything so wrong—I lash out. I’ve been played, and up until ten minutes ago, I didn’t realize I act like a cow when hurt.
“I hope the paparazzi caught our best performance to date at the gym this morning.”
Matteo’s jaw tightens, and silent warnings flicker in his eyes, but I keep going because the ache in my chest is spreading like a bruise I’ll never be able to hide.
“Even if Antonio was late for his daily soy latte, he’d still have a front-row seat to our show.”
Matteo’s eyes flash with a quick, dangerous spark. For a moment, I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. Saying Antonio’s name out loud was a mistake, but I’ve crossed a dozen invisible lines I didn’t know existed until now.
It isn’t like Matteo’s threat will hold weight. He sees this as nothing more than a game, a strategy he orchestrated with the same ease he uses to breathe.
The reminder steels me enough to keep pushing.
“We might need to pump the brakes a little, though.” I flip through another magazine, even though the pages are a blur. “Gifting me an orgasm to make Antonio believe our coupling is legit was a good ploy, but it’s not my intention to seem easy. No one wants to marry a harlot.”
Again, his jaw clenches.
And once again, I pretend not to notice.
“Imagine if people mistake my face as meaning we’re more.” My forced laugh scrapes my throat raw. “That would be terrible.”
The silence that follows is full of things neither of us is brave enough to say.
Then Matteo finally speaks.
“Yeah,” he says, voice flat, “you’re right. We should slow things down.”
My heart stutters, and my lungs don’t answer a single prompt from my brain.
He agrees. Just like that. No hesitation. No confusion. No fight.
“Better to slow things down now before we get into a wreck.”
Is that what he thinks this is?
A collision waiting to happen?
He turns toward the door, and when he grips the doorknob for dear life, for a split second, I think he’s going to say something that proves I didn’t imagine everything between us.
He doesn’t.
He just leaves, the door slamming so hard it warps the hinges.
Its boom echoes through the room like a gunshot. Then it’s quiet.
For several long seconds, I stare at the door he walked through. Shock settles in my bones as the discomfort in my chest spreads until my diagnosis is terminal.
The magazines crinkle beneath me as I flop back to hide my watering eyes with my forearm. I squash my arm close to stop the sting, but the tears still come. Hot and humiliating, they slide down my cheeks unchecked.