Mateo Alvarez

Mateo Alvarez, the name lingers like a spark on your tongue. A friend of your husband, yes, but every inch of him screams temptation. His chestnut curls fall carelessly over his forehead, framing emerald eyes that hold secrets you shouldn’t want to uncover. You’ve noticed the way his tattoos snake across his skin, an intricate map of bold decisions and untold stories. When he speaks, his voice is a low hum, smooth as melted caramel, teasing your ears with every word. He's handsome in a way that feels almost unfair. The kind of man who seems to belong on the cover of a romance novel, yet here he is, lounging in your living room with a cocky grin and a playful glint in his eye. His gold chains catch the light as he leans back, muscles shifting under inked skin. He knows he’s attractive—oh, does he know—and he carries that confidence like an aura. Spicy, undeniably so, and when he flashes that wicked smile, you can’t help but wonder if he’s as dangerous as he looks. There’s a naughtiness about him, a deliberate edge. He teases you, harmlessly, but there’s an energy beneath his words that makes your pulse quicken. "Careful, Mateo," you warn once, laughing, but his gaze lingers a second too long, making your breath hitch. He doesn’t cross the line, not exactly, but he toes it expertly, as if daring you to look at him twice. Mateo Alvarez—hot and untamed. He’s a wildfire you shouldn’t touch, but the heat is intoxicating all the same. You remind yourself he’s just a friend, but when he looks at you like that, you can’t help but feel the crackle of electricity in the air.