Resisting Mateo (Morelli Family 5)

“I don’t want to do this anymore, Mia,” he says, simply.

I can’t swallow down the lump in my throat this time. I try three times, but it won’t leave. The sting behind my eyes isn’t a sting anymore; there are tears there. He’s really going to do this. He’s really going to throw me away. He took everything from me, and I’m not meeting his expectations, so he’s just going to cast me aside. I have nothing to go back to. Nothing. I have no friends left from my life before them. I spend all my time with his family—I’ve only seen mine a handful of times since I moved in with Vince. And Vince. He took Vince from me so he could have me, and now he doesn’t want me anymore? Vince may have been a lot of things, but he never would’ve done this.

“Don’t do this,” I say, grabbing his shirt again, tugging him closer. “You do want this. You wanted it ten minutes ago. You wanted it last night. You can’t just turn it off like that.”

“I can,” he says, almost sympathetically.

Desperation claws at me now, because I don’t know if he can or not. That might be true. He doesn’t operate on the same emotional level as me. I couldn’t, but maybe he can.

I can’t plead with him, so I do the only thing I can think of—I pull him close and give him the kiss I denied him moments ago. He doesn’t respond. It makes me even more frantic. I hate when he does this. I hate when he won’t kiss me back.

But he probably does, too. I’ve done it to him, too.

“Kiss me back, goddammit,” I murmur, pushing myself up higher, pulling him close. “Fuck me.”

“You want me to fuck you?” he murmurs lowly.

“Yes. Please.”

“Why? So you can refuse to kiss me afterward?”

“I won’t do that,” I promise.

“Maybe not today,” he says, with disinterest. “But you will tomorrow, or the next day.”

“I won’t. I’m sorry. I won’t do that anymore.”

Something unsettlingly predatory crosses his face, but it’s gone in a flash. “I’m not playing these games with you anymore, Mia.”

“It’s not a game,” I promise, tugging him closer. “I just want you to stay.”

“I don’t know.” His words say he doesn’t know, but his gaze moves over my naked body, and I know he’s interested. I refuse to believe he isn’t.

“Come on,” I say, attempting to coax instead of beg. “It’ll be fun.”

“But it won’t be,” he says seriously. “It isn’t fun to want something from you that you can’t give me, Mia. That isn’t fun.”

“I’ll give it to you,” I tell him, even as my heart sinks.

That look’s in his eye again, the gleam he gets when I’m about to sell him a piece of my soul. I’ve seen it before, and it should be more of a turn-off, but it’s just… it’s just a part of him. And I love all the parts of him, even the dirty, rotten, evil ones.

I swore I wouldn’t, but I do.

I swore I’d deny us both, but I didn’t account for this. I didn’t count on him trying to throw me away.

He might be playing me, but he might not be. The stakes are too high. I can’t afford to lose him. I can’t envision a trajectory for my life anymore that doesn’t include sitting at his goddamn dinner table, or ever falling asleep with his strong arms wrapped around me, trapping me in the most sensual prison imaginable.

“Stay.”

Chapter Twenty Seven

Mia

I feel like he’s been standing here, debating whether or not to fuck me, for an eternity. It shouldn’t take this long.

Deciding he needs a little more incentive, I sink back on the bed and lie down, letting my hand wander between my legs, my other hand moving to my breast. His heated gaze moves from one hand to the other. It lingers on the one covering my pussy, my finger playing where his had just a few minutes ago.

“I need your hands on me,” I tell him.

“These hands?” he asks, holding them up briefly, holding my gaze, before easing onto the bed, crawling toward me.

Relief swells up inside me. I nod, holding his gaze. “I love your hands.”

“Yeah?” he murmurs, climbing on top of me. “What else do you love?”

My heart hammers in my chest as he moves my hand from between my legs, replacing it with his. I’m tempted to keep it physical. I’m tempted to tell him I love his shoulders or his eyes or his hair or his cock—any of those would be true. But I know what he wants to hear. I know what he has to hear.

“You,” I say, quietly. My heart sinks instead of filling up, like it did when I loved him before. I’m no longer proud to offer him my love. It doesn’t fill me up to love him now—it subtracts from me. He’s going to take from me now, and it’s going to be hard. But it’s the only way I get to keep him, so I’ll do it.