Isabella takes her sweet time looking me up and down. I can see the mischief starting to play out in her eyes.
“And what happens if I want an option three?” she asks breathily.
I give her a dangerous smirk, because I knew she would be a brat and try to push my buttons. So I came prepared.
“Glad you asked. Because there is no option three. But there is a strike three on the table.” I don’t let the shock on her face fester as I continue. “You remember when I told you those previous strikes were more about me than you?” She nods slightly in my hold. “Well, you see, the times you earned strikes weren’t because you were failing at your job. They were because I was failing at mine. At not wanting you, at not keeping you at arm’slength.” I lean down her neck, inhaling her sweet scent as my breath tickles under her ear. “That first strike wasn’t because you were rummaging through my kitchen in the middle of the night. It was because I wanted to bend you over the counter and take you right then and there at the sight of you wearing pajamas that were begging to be ripped apart by my teeth.”
I almost stop talking and get us moving at the sound of her soft moan. But if we’re going to do this, I need to get it all out. “The second strike wasn’t because you made a mess of my kitchen. It was because you so seamlessly wove yourself into my family, making it hard to imagine a day where I come home and you’re not right there, standing next to my daughter.”
I lift myself slightly to meet her big, beautiful brown eyes again. “And strike three, tesoro?”
“What happens after strike three?” she whispers, her face inching closer to mine.
I let my hand travel from her chin to the back of her neck, giving her a slight squeeze as I say, “Strike three, and you’re mine, Isabella.”
I watch my words wash over her face as her eyes flutter closed momentarily. When she opens them fully, she bypasses my awaiting lips and whispers into my ear, setting my world on fire. “I’m calling strikeout.”
thirty-three
The car is filledwith sexual tension as we drive through busy Friday-night traffic.
Mateo maintains a firm grip on my bare upper thigh, as if he’s unconvinced that I’m actually here and not going anywhere.
He maneuvers his Mercedes G-Wagon with ease, using only one hand to drive.
I’m tempted to make a joke and break the tension. Ever since he discreetly got us out of that lounge by only using subtle eye contact and chin lifts with the bouncers, he’s been quiet.
But a part of me, the part that has some form of self-preservation, knows now is not the time to poke the beast that lies beneath the surface.
I called strikeout.
And now I sit and impatiently wait for what comes next.
We pull into the garage, and he parks in a spot I’ve never noticed before. “Stay here,” he says as he slides out of his seatand closes his door. I take off my seat belt, and in the next moment, he’s there, opening my door. I take his offered hand and hop down. He makes no attempts to move when I do, putting us chest to chest.
He gives me one final heated look before he’s leading to the elevators. Once inside, I start to break. I don’t think I’ve ever been quiet this long in my entire life. “Mateo—”
He stops me from continuing as he points to the camera at the top corner of the elevator.
Damn.
The man has thought of everything. I wonder if that’s what it’s like being him. Having to know where all the possible media leaks may be. Not even being able to have open conversations in your own elevator.
The doors open, and he guides me inside with a secure hand on my lower back. The farther we get into the apartment, the farther that hand seems to travel south until it’s firmly planted on my ass.
I turn my head with a smirk on my face. Never thought I’d see the day when Mateo gets handsy with me.
As we reach the kitchen, he stops abruptly. Before I know it, his hands are on my waist, and I’m being lifted. I land softly on the kitchen island. Mateo quickly stepping into the space between my legs as I let out a small squeak.
One hand gently digs into the back of my head, intertwining with the loose curls, while the other finds its happy place once again on my upper thigh. “Did he kiss you?” His tone brooks no argument and has me shaking my head.
He hesitates momentarily. “Can I?” His eyes dig deep into my soul. For a moment, the lust dissipates, and in its place is pure devotion.
“Yes,” I whisper, desperate for him to finally kiss me and put me out of my misery.
He shifts closer between my legs, forcing them to open more to accommodate his size. The grip in my hair tightens slightly as he maneuvers me toward his lips. I’m mesmerized by the sight of his tongue swiping quickly over his bottom lip. So much so that I’m taken by surprise when he finally says, “Strike three, tesoro.”
Then his lips crash onto mine, devouring me.
