Emilio's back hit the wall, his breath shaky, his pulse hammering so hard it echoed in his ears.
Matteo stood in front of him, a lazy smirk curling his lips.
"You keep running," Matteo murmured, voice dark, amused. "But we both know…"
His fingers brushed Emilio's jaw—soft, teasing, dangerous.
"You want me to catch you."
Emilio shuddered. "I don't—"
Matteo's hand slid lower, fingers grazing his throat, lingering over his racing pulse.
"Liar."
His grip wasn't tight.
It wasn't forceful.
But it owned him.
Emilio's breath hitched. "I—"
Matteo tilted his chin up.
A command. A warning.
"Say it."
Emilio clenched his jaw. "No."
Matteo's smirk widened.
"You really want to play that game, pastry boy?"
His free hand skimmed down Emilio's side, barely touching, but oh, Emilio felt it.
Heat licked up his spine.
Matteo leaned in, lips brushing just over Emilio's jaw.
His voice? Low. Velvet-soft. Deadly.
"I always win."
Emilio trembled.
Matteo's fingers pressed against his hip, his other hand still curled around his throat.
A silent promise.
A wicked threat.
"I hate you," Emilio whispered.
Matteo laughed, low and sinful.
His lips traced lower.
Soft.
Teasing.
Emilio's body betrayed him.
His hands curled into fists—fighting a battle he was already losing.
Matteo felt it.
He knew.
"You can fight it all you want," Matteo murmured, his breath hot against Emilio's throat.
Then—
His teeth scraped against his skin.
Not a bite.
Not a kiss.
Just enough.
Emilio gasped.
Matteo chuckled.
"You're already mine."
And the worst part?
Emilio knew it, too.