Kiss that burns
663 Words
The ledger lay between them like a live wire.
Elira’s breath came shallow as Matteo stepped into the dim cellar, his gaze heavy on her face—not the book, not the secrets, but her.
"You promised my father you'd protect me?" she asked, her voice laced with disbelief and something more dangerous—curiosity.
He nodded once, his voice low. “He saved my life once. When I was a boy. Before he saw me as a threat, he saw me as someone worth saving. I owed him everything.”
Her chest tightened. She hadn’t expected warmth in his voice. Not from him.
“But you’re De Luca,” she said, as if naming the darkness would keep it away. “You don't protect people. You burn them down.”
Matteo smiled, but there was no humor in it.
“I burn what tries to hurt the ones I care about.”
That word—care—hung in the air like a challenge.
“And I’m one of those people now?” she asked, searching his face.
“I don’t think I have a choice.”
The silence grew taut. The air was thick with heat, despite the cool stone surrounding them.
“Why are you really here, Matteo?” she whispered.
He stepped closer until her back brushed the wall. His hands didn’t touch her—yet—but his presence curled around her like smoke.
“You think I haven’t tried to forget your face?” he said, his voice like velvet and steel. “I saw you once. Five years ago. At a wedding. You wore red. You looked like you didn’t belong there, but you stayed anyway. I watched you dance, Elira, and I knew—someday, I’d find you again.”
Her lips parted in stunned silence.
“I wanted to forget,” he said, his voice roughening. “Because I don’t do soft. I don’t do... this.”
Then his hand lifted—slowly, as if afraid she’d shatter—and brushed her cheek.
Her skin lit up at the touch.
“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, eyes locked on hers. “And I will.”
But she didn’t.
Instead, she leaned into his touch, her body betraying everything her mind warned against. His hand cupped her jaw, thumb stroking her lower lip.
Then he kissed her.
It wasn’t gentle. It was claiming.
Like he’d waited years for this.
Elira melted into him as heat surged through her body. Her hands clutched at his suit, needing to feel the hard muscle beneath, the dangerous man beneath the surface. He tasted like smoke and rain and the promise of ruin.
When they finally broke apart, her breath caught against his mouth.
“I should hate you,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said. “You still can. Just not tonight.”
They didn’t go back upstairs.
He brought her into his arms again, this time slower, more deliberate.
His jacket was the first to fall, and then his tie.
Elira's hands trembled as she slid her fingers over the buttons of his shirt, exposing the smooth, scarred skin of a man who had earned every wound. When he kissed her neck, her knees weakened. He caught her against the wall, one arm bracing above her head.
“I’ll be gentle,” he murmured against her throat.
“No,” she whispered, pulling him closer. “Don’t be.”
Their mouths met again, tongues tangling, breath hitching. She’d never been kissed like this—like he needed it more than air. His hands were reverent and possessive, gripping her waist, her hips, as if memorizing every inch.
Her blouse slipped off her shoulders, and his eyes darkened as he took her in. But it wasn’t lust—it was awe. As if this moment, this woman, was sacred.
“You’re going to ruin me,” he whispered.
“Then let’s burn together.”
- Writer
