Chapter 3 - The Broken MaskMatteo reached out his hand.
He didn't grab her. He gently, reverently laid his broad, warm fingers against her cheek, his thumb brushing over her cheekbone with a delicate, trembling precision that completely contradicted his six-foot-two, terrifying presence.
"When I saw that mark on your neck this morning, Elena," Matteo confessed, his storm-gray eyes softening into an agonizing, raw vulnerability, "I wanted to find the man who touched you and tear his life apart."
Elena’s lips parted, a soft gasp escaping her chest as his warm thumb slid down her jawline, resting gently over the high collar of her wool sweater.
"He meant nothing to me, Matteo," Elena whispered, her hazel eyes holding his with an absolute, unshakeable truth that lit up the dark office. "It was a blind date my friend set up. He kissed my neck, I pulled away immediately, and I sent him home."
Matteo went completely still, his fingers pausing against her skin. "You pulled away?"
"Yes," Elena admitted, tears of confusion and long-suppressed emotion stinging her eyes. "Because while he was kissing me... I was wishing it was someone else."
Matteo’s breath caught sharply in his throat.
His hand slid beneath her dark hair, his broad fingers cupping the nape of her neck, gently tilting her head up until her lips were inches from his.
"Who were you wishing for, Elena?" Matteo rasped out, his baritone thick with an intense, unyielding hope. "Tell me."
"You," Elena whispered, the single word breaking from her chest like a confession she had guarded with her life. "It has always been you."
Matteo let out a low, guttural groan—a sound of pure, weightless surrender—and closed the remaining distance between them.
His lips met hers in a deep, fierce, and unhurried kiss that instantly burned away eighteen months of professional boundaries, quiet longing, and silent, aching restraint.
Elena dropped her leather tablet flat onto the Persian rug, her hands coming up to wrap around his broad shoulders, her fingers tangling in his dark hair as she pulled his body flush against hers.
He didn't kiss her like a corporate boss. He kissed her like a Don who had finally claimed his queen—his broad arm wrapping around her waist, lifting her five-foot-five frame until her toes barely touched the floorboards, pulling her so close she could feel the thunderous, frantic beating of his heart against her chest.
When he finally pulled back half an inch, his forehead resting against hers, both of them breathing heavily in the dim amber light, his gray eyes were shining with an unbroken, eternal covenant.
"You are never going on another blind date, Elena," Matteo declared, his voice low, velvet, and absolute. "You are never letting another man touch your skin."
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Elena offered a soft, breathless laugh, her hands resting against his solid, warm chest. "Is that an order, Mr. Duca?"
"It's a promise, my love," Matteo whispered, pressing a sweet, lingering kiss against the exact spot on her collarbone beneath her sweater. "It's a promise."
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