Page 34 of Tempting Tessa

His back muscles flex beneath the robe as he stirs the pasta, and I hate that I can still appreciate how fucking hot he is even as panic rises in my throat.

“You’re overthinking,” Matteo says without turning around, like he can somehow read my mind. “I can hear the gears grinding from here.”

“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” I snap, defensive.

“Your face is an open book, stellina.” He glances over his shoulder, his hazel eyes seeing too much. “You’re wondering if you should make a run for it. You’re wondering what your father would think. You’re wondering if you’ve made a terrible mistake.”

Fuck him for being right. I cross my arms over my chest, feeling exposed in a way that has nothing to do with being nearly naked.

“Maybe I am. So what?”

He doesn’t answer immediately, focused on draining the pasta and combining it with the cheese and pepper sauce he’s prepared. The rich, comforting smell fills the kitchen, making my mouth water despite my inner turmoil.

“So nothing,” he finally says, plating the pasta with the precision of a chef. “Your thoughts are your own. But your body—” he looks up, his eyes darkening as they sweep over me “—that belongs to me now. Whether you run or not.”

A shiver runs down my spine at his words.

Matteo sets a steaming plate in front of me, the pasta perfectly coated in a creamy cheese sauce, black pepper scattered across the top like delicate confetti. Next to it, he places a wine glass filled not with wine, but with ice-cold water, condensation already forming on the crystal.

“Fuel and hydration,” he says, nodding at the plate and glass. “Eat.”

It’s not a request. It’s a command, delivered in that same tone he used when he ordered me to spread my legs for him.

I want to flip him off and leave the pasta untouched, just to show him I don’t follow orders. But the smell is intoxicating, and my stomach is practically eating itself. Pride versus pasta—and pasta is winning this round.

The first bite hits my tongue and I can’t help the moan that escapes me. It’s damn near perfect. The pepper sharp against the salty richness of the cheese, the pasta cooked to that ideal al dente texture.

“Good?” Matteo asks, sliding onto the stool next to me with his own plate. His thigh presses against mine, warm through the thin silk of our robes.

“It’s adequate,” I lie, already shoving another forkful into my mouth.

He chuckles, a deep rumble that I feel more than hear. “Your face says otherwise.”

I ignore him, focusing on the food instead. Each bite is better than the last, and I find myself making little appreciative sounds that I can’t quite control. It’s been so long since I’ve had a home-cooked meal. Most nights it’s takeout at my desk as I work on designs or business plans.

Matteo eats more slowly, methodically, his eyes never leaving me. It should be uncomfortable being watched like this, but after everything we’ve done tonight, being observed eating pasta seems pretty tame.

I scrape the last bit of cheese sauce from my plate, embarrassed at how quickly I’ve devoured the food but too satisfied to really care. My body feels better already. Still pleasantly sore from our fucking, but no longer weak from hunger.

Matteo finishes his own plate more sedately, then takes both empty dishes to the sink. He rinses them quickly before turning back to me, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.

“You have two choices,” he says, his voice calm and matter-of-fact. “We can go upstairs, climb into my big bed and sleep, or you can get dressed and I can drive you home.”

I blink at him, surprised by the ultimatum. The fact that he’s giving me an out makes me instantly suspicious.

“That’s it? No third option where you bend me over this fancy island?”

His lips twitch, but he doesn’t take the bait.

The silence between us stretches, becoming its own presence in the room. The clock on the wall ticks steadily, marking each passing moment. One minute. Five. Ten.

Matteo doesn’t push. Doesn’t try to convince me one way or the other. He just waits, giving me space to think even as his presence fills the entire kitchen.

My mind races through all the reasons I should leave—my father, the age gap, the power imbalance, the fact that he’s my fucking investor. But then I think about going back to my empty apartment, crawling into my cold bed alone, and waking up tomorrow pretending none of this happened.

Fuck it. If I’m going to make bad decisions, I might as well commit fully.

“I’ll stay,” I finally say, looking up to meet his eyes. “For the night.”