Page 229 of Merciless Desires

“What will you make me?” Matteo turned and leaned against the gigantic island counter, drawing me forward.

I didn’t want to like the way he touched me with a gentle firmness, the way he had strategically angled his bent knee so it would be between my legs, or the way he tilted his head as he waited for my response.

Cazzo.

I needed to have some sort of control over this stupid situation. I wasn’t going to be putty that he could mold exactly how he wanted me. Each time he pushed, I had to push back.

So I leaned into him, grinning coyly when he stopped breathing. “What do you want me to make you?”

Matteo’s hands pressed into my back, bringing me closer, and I dug my nails into his chest. “Make me your favorite breakfast.”

I chuckled. “That would take hours.”

“I have time.”

“Is that so?”

“I’ll always have time for you.”

I pushed away from him. I had to.

“Look who is being such a caring captor. My favorite breakfast is strawberry granita and brioche, so I’ll make you the brioche.”

“Then I’ll make the granita.” Matteo swept past me and opened a door to the largest pantry I had ever seen.

Every single dry ingredient imaginable filled the organized shelves. Matteo grabbed sugar and yeast and placed them on the island. He unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. Slowly. Because I was watching the motion, wondering why the hell such a simple act could be so attractive.

Maybe it was just him. Maybe it was because everything he did was attractive, and it wasn’t fair. He was so put-together, so imperfectly perfect, that I seriously needed to up my game to be on his arm.

I was wearing a light green dress covered in tiny white flowers that Gisella had picked out for me because I’d had a feeling Matteo would like me in dresses. And by the way his gaze slipped across my chest and down to my legs, I knew I was right.

I couldn’t lift my gaze from the tattoos that wrapped around his forearms. Roses blended into snakes and scorpions, the beauty in the brutality.

“What do you need, amorina?”

I needed Silvia’s recipe for brioche.

Silvia was from Sicily. When I was eight, she’d told me that when she was a child, she had a different flavor of granita for breakfast every morning. I hadn’t believed her, and the next morning I was greeted with strawberry granita and fresh brioche. She made me a different flavor of granita every day that week.

“My recipe.”

Matteo nodded once and bent to grab a bowl from the cabinet behind him. I took a moment to admire his ass before I went back upstairs to get the recipe book I kept in the top drawer of my nightstand.

It had been Mamma’s book, and I wanted to keep it safe, so I kept it close.

Returning to the kitchen, I skidded to a stop at the sight of Matteo. Shirtless. At the stove.

He glanced over his shoulder at me, and a slick grin cracked across his lips. “Didn’t want to get dirty, amorina.”

Liar.

More ink that had been mercilessly hidden by his shirt covered his chest, back, torso, and arms. He was covered in tattoos of skulls and script and daggers, a mash of everything that made him.

Matteo and I moved around the kitchen clumsily, almost as if we were both intentionally trying to touch the other. As I pulled milk from the fridge, Matteo was directly behind me, our chests colliding. When he bent to grab a pan for me, I stood so close that he practically slid up the entire length of my body with intent.

Neither of us spoke. There were no words needed. We were simply cooking together…

The brioche buns were barely cooled when Matteo snatched one from the pan and pulled the smaller top bun off the bottom bun. Steam poured from the warm pastry, but that didn’t stop him. He popped the smaller bun in his mouth and chewed.

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