Emilio's breath came too fast, too shallow.
Matteo was too close, his body a solid wall of heat against him, his hands braced on either side, locking him in.
"No more running," Matteo murmured.
His voice was smoky, dark, dragging over Emilio's skin like a lazy hand.
Emilio clenched his jaw, refusing to let the shiver take him. "I wasn't running."
Matteo's smirk was wicked. "Then what do you call leaving the party without saying goodbye?"
His fingers drifted up—light, teasing, tracing the edge of Emilio's jaw.
Emilio stilled.
He hated that his skin burned where Matteo touched him. Hated that his breath caught when those deep red eyes dragged over his face, his throat, his parted lips.
"Are you scared of me, bello?" Matteo's voice was a whisper, a dare, a slow unraveling.
Emilio glared. "No."
A chuckle. "Then why are you shaking?"
His palm pressed to Emilio's throat—not squeezing, just feeling, his thumb resting over the frantic jump of his pulse.
Emilio sucked in a sharp breath. "I hate you."
Matteo's lips tilted, mocking, amused. "Liar."
His grip tightened, just enough to make Emilio's head tip back, to force him to look at him.
"Say it again." Matteo's voice was low, commanding.
Emilio's fingers dug into Matteo's suit. "I—"
Lips.
Heat.
A kiss so sudden, so deep, it knocked the breath from his lungs.
Matteo didn't ask—he took, his tongue sliding against Emilio's, his grip at his throat keeping him right there, right where he belonged.
Emilio whined, fists twisting in Matteo's shirt, torn between pushing him away and pulling him closer.
Matteo pulled back just enough to bite his lower lip, to tease.
"Still hate me?" His breath was hot, smug, knowing.
Emilio's lips were kiss-bruised, red, swollen. His chest heaved.
His body betrayed him.
And Matteo felt it all.
A smirk. "That's what I thought."