CH 10

**Isabella's POV**

 

The spa smelled like eucalyptus and expensive candles. Soft music played somewhere overhead while a woman with gentle hands massaged warm oil into my face, neck, and shoulders. Mateo had booked the full facial without asking-had simply told the receptionist "everything for her" and then disappeared into a private suite for his own treatment.

 

I lay there with cucumber slices over my eyes, trying not to melt into the table, but my mind kept drifting back to the car. To the way he'd kissed me like the world could end any second. To the desperate edge in his voice when he said "Come here, Angioletto." I still didn't know what the word meant, but the way it rolled off his tongue-low, possessive, almost reverent-made my thighs clench every time I replayed it.

 

What would my father do if he knew? His best friend's mouth on mine. His best friend's hands guiding me. His best friend making me ache in ways I'd never felt before.

 

Did Mateo feel the same? Or was this just... convenience? A pretty distraction while he fulfilled some old promise to Nathan? Or just for the fun? Well, it seem to happen we both be sexual whenever we are close.

 

We left the spa glowing-my skin felt tighter, softer, luminous. I caught my reflection in the elevator mirror and barely recognized the woman staring back. No more tired shadows under my eyes. No more dullness. Just me, but polished. I wished I'd asked for a full-body massage too-the prices were insane, but I promised myself I'd save for it one day.

 

In the car, I fought the urge to stare at him. His profile was devastating: sharp jaw, strong throat working as he swallowed, dark hair still slightly damp from whatever steam room he'd been in. I wanted to reach over, trace the line of his jaw, press my thumb to the faint stubble there, see if he had any hidden imperfections I could obsess over.

 

"You nearly caused an accident," he said suddenly, voice rough with amusement.

 

My cheeks burned. The memory of his mouth on mine, seat belt buckled, horns blaring-my dress had ridden up, thighs slick with arousal even then. I'd been soaked. Still was, just thinking about it.

 

"Come here."

 

The command hit low in my belly. My body obeyed before my brain caught up.

 

"Come here, Angioletto," he repeated, softer this time. Almost pleading.

 

I leaned across the console. He met me halfway. His lips crashed into mine-hungry, unapologetic. Tongue sliding against mine in slow, filthy strokes. One hand cupped the back of my neck, holding me exactly where he wanted. The other gripped my thigh, fingers digging in just hard enough to make me whimper into his mouth.

 

He tasted like mint and sin. I kissed him back desperately, fingers threading into his hair, tugging lightly. A low growl rumbled in his chest. His hand slid higher-under the hem of my dress, thumb brushing the damp lace between my thighs.

 

I gasped. Broke the kiss just enough to breathe.

 

"Mateo..."

 

He didn't stop. Just pressed harder, circling my clit through the fabric in slow, deliberate strokes. My hips bucked. Wetness flooded the lace. I was dripping for him-again.

 

"Your lips," he murmured against my mouth, voice gravel. "I could kiss them for hours. Bite them. Suck them until they're swollen and red."

 

Heat exploded low in my stomach. I moaned-loud, shameless.

 

"But we can't risk it here," he added, almost regretful. "Not yet."

 

He pulled his hand away. I nearly cried out at the loss.

 

He started the car and drove off. One thing we learned was not to make out in the road. Soon, he parked outside a high-end salon. He killed the engine. Turned to me.

 

"Your lips are so fucking kissable," he said, eyes dark. "I'll forgive the 'bag-dial' from the other night."

 

I wanted to die of embarrassment. And arousal. Mostly arousal.

 

He got out, circled the car, opened my door like a gentleman. Offered his hand.

 

I took it. Squeezed tight.

 

Inside the salon, heads turned. Whispers followed us. Mateo was clearly known here-stylists straightened, the receptionist flushed. He ignored them all. Led me straight to a private station.

 

"Do whatever you want to her hair," he told the stylist. Then he leaned down, lips brushing my ear. "But keep it long. I like pulling it when I fuck you."

 

The words were so quiet only I heard them. My knees nearly buckled.

 

I sat in the chair staring at my reflection while the stylist washed, trimmed split ends, deep-conditioned, and styled my hair into long, glossy waves that fell past my shoulders. When she finished, I looked... expensive. Radiant. Like someone Mateo would want on his arm.

 

I didn't hug him. Didn't thank him the way I wanted to. Just met his eyes in the mirror and mouthed, "Thank you."

 

He smirked. Paid without blinking.

 

Next stop: a boutique so exclusive the door was locked until the saleswoman recognized him. We spent over an hour there. I tried on dress after dress-silk, satin, lace-trimmed, body-hugging. Each time I stepped out of the changing room, his gaze devoured me.

 

One black dress in particular: low back, thigh-high slit, plunging neckline. When I turned for him, he adjusted himself openly. No shame. Just raw hunger.

 

"That one," he said. Voice thick. "Wear it tomorrow night."

 

We left with bags full. He drove me home. Parked. Walked me to my door.

 

I barely got inside and locked it before my phone rang.

 

"Hello?"

 

"I'm taking you out tomorrow," Mateo said without preamble. "Get ready. Wear the black dress. And Isabella?"

 

"Yes?"

 

"No panties."

 

The line went dead.

 

I stood there-hair perfect, skin glowing, body already aching-staring at the phone like it had burned me.

 

Tomorrow couldn't come fast enough.