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It’s not true. Most of the photos on the wall are overly modern. And as much as I love the view of a floor to ceiling window, it totally lacks the character of an apartment with its original fixtures.
Matteo’s place is perfect.
Like my place in Manhattan. Too bad he’ll never see it. Or see me in it. He’d look so good reading one of those slim crime novels in my bed.
His steady voice interrupts my thoughts. “We want something simple. Modest.”
“Not too modest,” I say.
He chuckles. “See. She’s such an American.” He digs his fingers into my hips, pressing the rough fabric of my dress into my skin.
Mmm. I want him again. Right here, right now. “And he’s so British.”
The realtor nods of course, despite the confusion in her eyes. She has no idea what we’re talking about. Poor girl. “Let me check our listings. I have one in mind. A beautiful place. Give me a moment." She runs to the desk and flips through a binder.
Matteo waits until the realtor is fully lost in her work, then he studies the photo of Yorgos again.
His shoulders fall, even as his jaw tightens. He shifts back into the Matteo I know. The agent who's working who knows his fellow agent is working him.
His eyes go to mine.
He gives me a moment to confess what I know about Yorgos. When I don’t, Matteo pulls me into a tight embrace.
For a moment, his breath warms my skin. Then it's the sharp brush of his teeth against my lobe.
Mmm.
"You recognize him," he says, as if he’s not hardening between my legs.
There isn't enough blood in my brain. And there’s not enough caffeine in my blood.
How the hell do I play this?
I close my eyes and call on my instincts. The truth. The concept of it. And this time, the reality of it.
"He's a freelancer," I say.
"Do you know where to find him?" Matteo asks.
I can find out, but I'm not sure if I want to loop in a federal agent. “I have a few ideas, but I think we’ll get more from the realtor.”
Matteo nods, but he doesn't release me. He presses his lips to my neck instead.
He holds me close as he kisses a line to my shoulder.
Then back up again to that spot where my ear meets my neck.
His teeth scrape my skin.
His fingers find the hem of my skirt. Then the flesh beneath it.
He runs his thumb up my thigh.
It's almost like he knows I'm trying to throw him off.
But how could that be true?
I rack my brain for an explanation. There was recognition in his eyes, too. He knows Yorgos is part of the game. Maybe he knows more than I do.
