Page 112 of Phantom Mine

Two.

Three—

“Just because I wasn’t by your side doesn’t mean I haven’t had eyes on you every second since we last saw each other.”

I wrap my arms around myself and look back out into the rain. It’s really pouring now, thick strands of water that look like pieces of rope cut from the cloth of the sky.

When did I come to think of the momentswithoutMatteo by my side as uncommon and unwanted, and not the other way around?

“You’re not asking me why I’m sitting in the rain.”

“You’ll tell me when you’re ready,” Matteo says. “Pretend I’m not here and keep crying if you need to, but stay dry. Or stay as wet as you already are.”

I’m embarrassed to be crying in front of him again, but he doesn’t flinch, he doesn’t falter. He accepts the raw emotion like it’s his to carry.

He doesn't ask me to trust him again.

Not in so many words.

Not with words at all.

His body language screams it at me. It’s in the tightness of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders, the lethal grip of his hand on the umbrella, his knuckles white from the pressure. It’s in the unbending determination in his gaze, the way his thigh presses into me, lending me his warmth. The way he orients his body towards me, providing support without a word, without forcing it on me but just by letting me know it’s there instead.

I so badly want to tell him everything—who I am, where I’m from, who my family is—but I can’t bear the thought of him hating me.

I can’t bear the thought of losing him.

He doesn’t twitch when a clap of lightning brightens the dark sky above us, he doesn’t move as ten more minutes tick by, he just sits there, still as a statue, until my tears have dried.

I’m starting to think he intends to spend the night sitting there beside me, until I cough.

And then his entire demeanor changes.

Matteo’s head whips around so quickly, he startles me. He jerks abruptly to his feet, moving his big body with surprising speed.

“I’m taking you home.”

His voice brooks no discussion. He gathers everything back into the bag, then reaches down and grabs my hand, using it to tug me to my feet.

“And I’m holding your hand,” he announces, eyes daring me to disagree. “Don’t argue with me.”

Looking down at where our hands are joined, I slowly intertwine our fingers together. “Okay,” I say.

Matteo’s eyes follow mine. He makes a quiet noise of pure male satisfaction and squeezes my hand in his much larger palm. He takes me to his car, a G wagon and not the Maserati I was expecting, opens the door for me, wraps his hands around my waist and lifts me into the passenger seat. Then he walks to the back of the car, leaving my door open.

Knowing how he’s reacted every other time I’ve made an attempt at touching my door, I don’t try to close it myself.

He’s back less than ten seconds later, carrying a large cotton t-shirt and a fluffy looking blanket. Matteo looks over his left shoulder, then his right, scouring every inch of our surroundings before reaching for my drenched shirt and ripping it off me. He covers me with his large body, shielding my half naked torso from potentially prying eyes, even as his own reveal every inappropriate, uncivilized thing he wants to do to me. My legs quiver and my pussy throbs the harder he stares.

He doesn’t let his obvious arousal take control, his concern for me coming out the winner in that battle. He drops the fresh shirt over my head and helps me push my arms through the short sleeves. He reaches beneath the fabric and skilled fingers dance up my spine to unhook the band of my bra. He draws the straps down my arms and removes the equally drenched lingerie from me.

When I sneeze, his eyes stroke over my face. “Where’s your umbrella?” he questions, his jaw flexing.

I give him a sheepish look. “I forgot to check the weather.”

A harsh scowl twists his features. He wraps the blanket around my shoulders, closing it tightly over my chest.

“What?” I ask.

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