Page 2 of Final Reckoning

“There was no way to get my coat without attracting attention.” I somehow manage to keep my voice level.

“You’ve done your good deed. Go back inside.”

“No.” It’s the only possible answer ... both because I can’t let him push me around, and because I can’t stay away from him.

He swears, and then he’s in front of me, whipping off his leather jacket to drape it around my shoulders. I study him in the moonlight, my hands holding the coat close so I won’t give in to the yearning to touch him.

He looks like a god, this man, one who’s fallen to earth and disguised himself as a biker. Six foot five at least, and powerfully built, his biceps and thighs straining the fabric of his long-sleeved black t-shirt and faded denim jeans. Jeans that fit him far too well, seeing as I’m currently at eye level with his crotch.

I force my gaze upward. Just because Matteo seems rude and uncivilized most of the time doesn’t mean I should ogle his junk ... no matter how enticing it is.

Thick, dark hair falls to just above his broad shoulders. His face is pure male sensual beauty, not marred at all by the scar that starts above one eye and continues beneath it, curving toward his cheek. He’s standing with his hands on his hips, scowling down at me, and I want to smile because being near him – feasting my eyes on him – is nothing but pleasure.

He’ll make me leave him soon, or else he’ll leave me. I want him to eat the food, to have at least that tiny part of Thanksgiving, so I need go to back in the house and leave him alone. But I can’t bear to do it quite yet.

Say something. “Lando and Bree just got engaged.” His eyes narrow, and I realize too late that it sounds like a leading remark. I force myself to hitch a shoulder up. “Thought you’d want to know.”

“Congratulations to the happy couple.” He says it with heavy sarcasm, almost anger. I want to tell him that I understand his feelings, but I’m pretty sure sympathy would make things worse.

The Adamos are all about family, and Matteo hasn’t seen most of his relatives in over two years. My gut says the only way he can protect himself from the pain of that separation is to act like it doesn’t matter. Like he doesn’t care.

But if that were true, he wouldn’t keep taking risks to warn us. “Thank you,” I tell him. “For letting us know about Santiago – again.”

“Not that it made any difference.”

“Of course it did,” I say gently. “If everyone hadn’t been on high alert--”

The next instant, Matteo snatches his coat away. I shudder, wrapping my arms around myself as the cold attacks me. “Visiting time’s over,” he grits out.

I hesitate, casting around for any topic, no matter how ridiculous, to prolong my time with him. He’s not having it. Stepping aside to clear my path, he points to the door. “Get in the fucking house.”

I’m not the cranky, argumentative type; Zen master is more my natural style. Matteo upsets my equilibrium without even trying. “Go to hell,” I mutter, rubbing my hands over the goosebumps on my arms.

He swears, then yanks me to my feet and shoves me toward the back door. My inner five-year-old awakens with a vengeance; I plant my feet, which leaves him forcing me forward with his front against my back.

The contact makes the sensitive flesh between my legs throb. I’m no match for his strength, and seconds later we’re at the door. He hauls it open and aims me inside … and then sees me off with one sharp smack on my ass.

My self-control, usually enough for any ten people, shreds.

In a flash, I turn and launch myself at him. No doubt if I were a man, he’d deck me faster than I could move; but he doesn’t want to hurt me. So when I hurl myself into the air, like the world’s most awkward gymnast, he doesn’t move back and let me fall or shove me away.

He catches me.

I wrap myself around him.

And then my back is up against the side of the house, Matteo’s hands are gripping my ass, and he’s kissing me with a mix of raw hunger and absolute fury.

My blood heats to flashpoint in seconds. I tunnel my fingers into his hair, grabbing handfuls of it, holding him to me. His hips move, grinding his erection against my clit.

It’s a violent, almost punishing kiss, more an onslaught than a seduction. It doesn’t matter; I want more.

My senses are full of him, his strength, his heat, his scent. The potent mix of spicy soap and male musk soaks into my pores.

Sensation boils through me, tightening in my core. I arch against him and whimper frantically into his mouth.

Next to us, the door opens. Matteo jerks away from me so fast he almost drops me. My feet hit the ground and I lean back against the house, dizzy.

Kosta’s standing there. “Cugino,” he says quietly, his eyes on his cousin. “It’s good to see you. Come inside and have some dinner.”

Matteo steps back like Kosta’s just offered him a nice live rattlesnake to hold. But he’s glaring at me – as if it were my fault.

Asshole.

“I wasn’t here,” he growls. Vaulting the stone wall, he disappears into the night.

The plate of food sits on the ledge, untouched.

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