Page 64 of Tempting Tessa

“Through the front door? Without telling me?”

I shrug, trying to play it casual. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”

His mouth twitches but it’s not quite a smile. “Come with me.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond, just turns and walks down the hallway toward a part of the house I haven’t explored yet. I hesitate for a second. I genuinely consider bolting out the front door just to prove a point but the memory of his hand on my throat last night makes my pussy clench in a way that’s absolutely fucking infuriating. So I follow him, because apparently my body is a traitor and my brain has decided to take a sabbatical.

He leads me past his office, which I’ve seen before—dark wood, leather, the kind of room that screams “I’m a scary man who probably orders hits over coffee.” But he doesn’t stop there. He keeps walking to a door at the end of the hallway that I’ve never noticed before. When he pushes it open and steps aside, I almost trip over my own feet.

“Holy shit,” I breathe.

The room is nothing like the rest of his house. Where everything else is dark and masculine and smells like expensive cologne and power, this room is...mine. Or at least, it’s clearly designed to be.

The desk is massive—white oak, not black leather—and it’s surrounded by three curved monitors mounted on sleek silver arms. There’s a whiteboard against the far wall, pristine and untouched, with a tray of colored markers lined up neatly beside it. A plush white chair sits behind the desk, the kind that costs more than my rent, and there’s a matching chaise lounge against the window with throw pillows in shades of deep purple.

A glass shelf along one wall holds prototypes of my toys—the Immortal collection, arranged like art pieces under soft lighting. A laptop, my notebooks, even my favorite coffee mug—the one that says “RAGING WITCH” in sparkly letters—are all sitting on the desk like they’ve always been there.

The whole room smells of apples and cinnamon. There are fresh flowers in a crystal vase on the desk—peonies, my absolute favorite—and the curtains are sheer lavender instead of the heavy black ones that dominate the rest of the house.

It’s beautiful. It’s perfect. And it’s the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen, because it means he planned this. He built me an office. In his house. Like I fucking live here.

“Welcome to the office,” Matteo says, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed. His voice is casual, but his eyes are watching me like a hawk. “You can do all your business here.”

I turn to face him, my heart hammering against my ribs. “What the fuck is this?”

“This,” he says, gesturing around the room, “is where you’ll be working from now on.”

I open my mouth, ready to unleash every ounce of outrage I possess, but he holds up a hand.

“This is not up for negotiation, Contessa.” His mouth curves into that slow, dangerous smile that makes my knees weak. “But by all means, if you want to argue with me about it, let’s. Because I love it.”

“You’re insane,” I say, but there’s no heat behind it.

“Yes,” he steps closer, close enough that I can smell his cologne. “And you’re staying here. Where I know you’re safe. Where you can work in comfort without running yourself into the ground.”

I should be furious. I should be screaming about autonomy and boundaries and the fact that he’s essentially house-arresting me under the guise of being supportive. But I’m standing in the most beautiful office I’ve ever seen, custom-built for me by a man who probably had this planned before I even knew I was pregnant, and all I can think is ‘he did this for me’.

“I hate you,” I mutter, sinking into the desk chair. It’s even more comfortable than it looks; the leather molding to my body like it was made for me. Which, technically, it was.

“No, you don’t.” He leans down, bracing his hands on the armrests, caging me in. His face is inches from mine, those hazel eyes boring into me with an intensity that makes my thighs clench. “You’re welcome, stellina.”

Before I can respond, he kisses me. His hand sliding to the back of my neck to hold me in place like a possession. I melt into it despite myself, my fingers curling into the front of his shirt.

When he pulls back, I’m breathless and flushed, my lips swollen and tingling.

“Get to work,” he says, straightening up. “I’ll bring you lunch in a few hours. And Contessa?” He pauses at the door, looking back at me with that predatory grin. “Don’t even think about sneaking out again. The front door has a new lock. Fingerprint-activated. Your prints aren’t in the system.”

My jaw drops. “You’re keeping me prisoner?”

“I’m keeping you safe.” The door clicks shut behind him, and how dare he just walk away with the last word.

I stare at the door for a full minute after he leaves before turning on the computer and watching the screens flicker to life.

I log into my email, bracing for the inevitable flood of messages that had accumulated overnight. The inbox loads, and—fuck me—there are 147 unread emails. I feel my blood pressure spike just looking at the number.

“Deep breaths, Tessa,” I whisper to myself, cracking my knuckles. “One email at a time.”

I start with the easy ones first. Material order confirmations, shipping notifications, the weekly newsletter from a sex shop that I love to use for research. Delete, archive, mark as read. The satisfying sound of emails being cleared out makes my brain tingle in the best possible way.