Page 35 of Tempting Tessa

His face remains neutral, but something flashes in his eyes—satisfaction, maybe. He nods once. “Good.”

“Good?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, good,” he says, pushing away from the counter. “I would have hated to have to drug you just to get to sleep next to you.”

I freeze, my mouth falling open. “What the fuck did you just say?”

Matteo’s lips twitch into that infuriating smirk. “You heard me.”

“Are you—” I stare at him, trying to process what he’s saying. “That’s not fucking funny.”

“It wasn’t meant to be funny,” he says calmly, approaching me like I’m a skittish animal. “It was meant to be honest.”

Jesus Christ. I don’t know whether to be horrified or...fuck, is it weird that part of me finds this twisted possessiveness almost sweet? Like he wants me so badly he’d resort to desperate measures?

No. No, that’s fucked up. That’s Stockholm Syndrome talking. Or maybe just my pussy, which apparently has terrible judgment when it comes to this man.

“You’re a psychopath,” I tell him, but there’s less heat in my voice than there should be.

“You have to be to work for the mob,” he says, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. He said the quiet part out loud, and that’s more shocking than the drugging comment. “I’m a man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to get it.”

“By drugging women?” I challenge, though I don’t pull away from his touch.

“I didn’t drug you,” he points out, his fingers lingering on my cheek. “You chose to stay.”

Ugh, I hate his logic and the fact that I’m kind of into the psychopath.

Chapter 11

Contessa

Iwake up with my face pressed against something warm and solid—a man’s chest—and for one disorienting moment, I can’t remember where the fuck I am. Then everything comes rushing back. Matteo. The charity gala. The hallway. His bedroom. The filthy things he did to me. The filthier things I begged him to do.

The bedroom is still dark, but the faint glow of dawn seeps through the edges of the black curtains. I carefully extract myself from Matteo’s grip, freezing when he stirs. He mumbles something in Italian before rolling onto his back, one arm flung over his head. I release the breath I’ve been holding and slide out of bed.

My dress is still crumpled on the floor where I stepped out of it. I pick it up, shaking out the wrinkles before slipping it over my head. No underwear since he ripped mine to shreds—just another reason to get the fuck out of here before he wakes up.

I tiptoe around the room, gathering my heels and clutch. My thighs are sore, my pussy tender in the best possible way. Evidence of a night well spent, but not a reason to stick around for morning-after awkwardness.

Glancing back at his sleeping form, he looks different. Almost peaceful instead of predatory. The sheets are tangled around his waist, exposing his broad chest and the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the silk. For a second, I’m tempted to crawl back into bed, to feel those strong arms wrap around me again.

With those type of thoughts, I need to get the fuck out of here immediately.

The house is silent, massive, and imposing in the morning light. I make my way down the grand staircase, my bare feet silent against the polished marble.

At the bottom, I pull out my phone, opening the rideshare app. I stare at the screen for a long moment before reality sinks in. There’s no way I can call a car. He’d have my ass for giving his address to anyone.

I consider waking up his staff to ask for help, but that would just alert Matteo that I’m trying to sneak out. And something tells me he wouldn’t take that well.

I’m scrolling through my contacts, wondering if I can call someone to pick me up like fifteen minutes up the road without making it obvious I just had a one-night stand with my father’s best friend, when the hair on the back of my neck stands up. That familiar sensation that tells me I’m being watched.

I turn around and there he is, leaning over the railing, looking like some dark angel with the way the sunrise is illuminating him.

“Trying to sneak out, stellina?” His voice is rough with sleep, but his eyes are sharp and fully alert. “I’ve been awake since I felt you slip out of my bed.”

Caught red-handed. I straighten my spine, refusing to look guilty. “I was just⁠—”

“Running away?” He cuts me off, descending the stairs with predatory grace, wearing nothing but low-hanging sweatpants. His chest is on full display, making my mouth water despite myself. “Without even saying goodbye?”