Ten
Ellory
M atteo is already waiting when my car pulls up in front of the Chase Center, one hand in his pocket, the other reaching instinctively for my door.
A salty breeze rolls in from the Bay, carrying the scent of roasted garlic from nearby restaurants.
As I step out, his palm finds mine—warm, steady—and just like that, we’re in sync.
The plaza hums with energy. Duane and Richard are sticking close tonight. At least while we’re in public. People stream toward bars, restaurants, maybe a game, but Matteo doesn’t weave through the crowd. He parts it. There’s a quiet authority in the way he moves, like this city bends around him.
“Any trouble putting Amelia down?” I ask as we step inside.
He grins, and I melt a little. “She went out like a dream. Let’s just hope she stays that way. How was your afternoon?”
I laugh and tip my head back, exhaling some of the tension I’ve been carrying. “Honestly? I spent half of it trying on every outfit I own.”
He takes my coat when the hostess offers, and when I turn back around, his breath hitches.
He’s staring.
Hard.
“Wow,” he says, pulling me a little closer. “You’re absolutely radiant. I didn’t think anything would beat that red dress,” he says, eyes lingering like he’s memorizing every detail.
His eyes sweep down the curve of my camel sweater dress to my stiletto heels—rich brown leather, red soles catching the light. He doesn’t even try to hide the heat in his gaze.
“I wanted tonight to feel…special,” I say, smoothing a hand over my hip.
“It does,” he murmurs.
The restaurant hums with energy and refined, understated elegance. Candlelight flickers against sleek glass, laughter rolls gently through the space, and jazz threads through the air like silk. The hostess leads us to a curved leather banquette tucked into a more private corner.
“Mr. Marino,” she says, offering the wine list, “we’ve started decanting your wine. Melanie will be with you shortly. Would you like anything else in the meantime?”
“Thanks, Teresa,” Matteo replies smoothly.
I raise an eyebrow. “You come here often?”
“I’m a minor investor,” he says with a slight shrug. Then, with a crooked smile, he says, “Also, I heard the other hostess call her by name.”
I scan the room. Duane and Richard are stationed discreetly nearby, close enough to step in if needed, far enough to disappear.
“You nervous?” Matteo asks, his palm resting on my thigh beneath the table.
“Dinner? No.” I smirk. “After dinner? Maybe.”
His thumb draws slow circles over my knee. “We only go as far as you want. There’s no pressure.”
“Want isn’t the problem,” I say softly. It’s control. It’s history. It’s the way I never let anyone get this close. But with him? It’s like I’ve already handed him the key, and I’m just praying he doesn’t change the locks.
Melanie appears beside us with two bottles in hand. “Good evening, I’m Melanie. Still or sparkling?”
“Sparkling,” I reply.
She pours. “We’ve begun decanting the Rothschild. Would you like a cocktail while it opens up?”
“I’ll take a Johnnie Walker Blue, neat.”
Matteo smiles. “Make that two.”
Melanie nods, professional and quick. “Menus will be out shortly.”
The moment she disappears, he leans in, his voice low and deliberate. “You smell good enough to eat.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “Thank you.”
Our knees brush beneath the table. Every inch between us pulses with quiet anticipation.
“So,” he murmurs, “tell me. Why are you nervous?”
I reach for my water. Stall. He notices. Of course he does.
He leans closer, arm draped behind me, his voice threading into my ear.
“Tonight,” he says slowly, “I’m going to ravage your breasts. Wrap my mouth around those soft, light-pink nipples until they’re hard against my tongue. Then I’m going to spread you out and taste every inch of you until you’re shaking beneath me and begging for more.”
My breath catches. Every nerve in my body wakes up and stretches toward him.
He brushes a knuckle lightly along my jaw, just beneath my ear. His voice is low and reverent, not just filthy. It’s like he’s worshipping me before we’ve even touched. “Unless, of course, that’s too much.”
My voice is barely a whisper. “It’s not.”
He smiles—dark, hungry, confident. “Good. Because I plan to make you come multiple times tonight.”
And just like that, dinner becomes the foreplay.
“I promise,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough, “you’re going to sleep like a baby tonight…after all the orgasms I give you.”
My hand slides onto his thigh, my fingers brushing the edge of his zipper. He’s straining hard against his slacks, the evidence of how badly he wants me.
“I was hoping.” My voice is silk dipped in bourbon—warm, slow, dangerous. “I could return the favor—at least once.”
His pulse kicks under my touch. “Trust me, sweetheart. The second I slide into your hot, wet body, I’ll be coming hard.”
A shiver runs through me, anticipation tightening every nerve.
Still, he slows us down. “We should get a few things out of the way first. Are you on birth control?”
I nod. “Yes. Depo shot—earlier this month.”
“I’m clean. I was tested right before Amelia was born, and I haven’t been with anyone since.”
“Same,” I admit softly. “It’s been over eighteen months for me.”
His brows lift. “Why so long?”
I shrug, trying to play it off, though the sting lingers. “I guess no one thinks I’m worth the effort. I even brought a guy to Fashion Week in New York last year. He spent the whole trip with someone else.”
He leans in and presses a kiss against my neck, lips lingering. “Then he’s a fucking idiot.”
A hum slips out of me, unguarded.
“Do you want to use a condom?” he asks gently. “I have some if that’s what you prefer.”
I smirk, teasing. “Not sure you’re all that great at putting them on, given you have a daughter.”
He laughs, deep and genuine. “Crass but fair. I always use protection. I’m guessing it broke.”
I trail a finger up the inside of his thigh, locking my gaze on his.
“I’m open to going without. It feels better, skin to skin.
” The words come out too easily, too confidently, but underneath them lurks risk.
Not just physical, but emotional. He’s never been with a woman without protection, but somehow, he trusts me, and I trust him.
My sultry smile only makes him shift hotter beside me. I’m torturing him now, and I know it.
If he weren’t so determined to do this right, he’d pay the bill, throw me over his shoulder, and take me home this second.
The server appears with perfect timing, setting our drinks down. Crystal tumblers, neat pours. He lifts his glass first.
“To an unforgettable night,” he says.
I clink mine against his, slow and deliberate. “I’ll drink to that.”
We open our menus, though my eyes barely register the words. Everything’s à la carte, artfully curated, but all I want is dessert, and he’s sitting across from me.
“Wait,” Matteo says suddenly, glancing up at me. “Do you eat meat? I should’ve asked before I made the reservation.”
Instead of answering right away, his gaze drops deliberately to my chest, then lower. Heat flares between us.
“Yes,” I purr, letting my eyes flick downward to his lap. “I eat meat. All kinds. Especially the kind that comes with dessert.” Then I look back up at him, slow and deliberate. “And I swallow, too.”
He chokes on his drink. Just a little.
The sight delights me. I watch the effect with open amusement, proud of the chaos I’ve stirred in his brain—and his body.
Our server reappears at the exact wrong—and right—moment.
“Are you ready to order?” she asks with a pleasant smile.
“I’ll have the filet, medium rare. Twice baked potato. And the broccoli rabe, please,” I say smoothly.
She repeats it back, then turns to him.
“Ribeye, medium. Loaded baked potato, sautéed mushrooms, and the grilled asparagus,” he orders, still catching his breath.
“Lovely,” she says. “Would you care to start with a salad or any appetizers?”
I catch his eye, and a dangerous gleam passes between us—playful, promising.
He shakes his head with a knowing smile. “No appetizers, thanks. We have plans this evening.”
The server nods, her eyes twinkling. “I’ll let the chef know to expedite your meals. I’ll return shortly with your wine.”
The second she’s gone, I slide closer, my fingers trailing up his thigh. “Now…where were we?”
His voice drops, gravel-rich. “You were trying to break my zipper.”
I arch a brow and cup him through his pants. He’s hard. So hard. My palm presses against the thick length of him, and I give the slightest stroke, slow and deliberate. His jaw flexes, a muscle ticking at his temple.
“You’re huge,” I whisper, heat and tease wrapped together.
He lets out a strangled laugh, tight and choked. “Keep that up and I’m going to embarrass myself in front of half of San Francisco.”
I pull my hand back with a smirk. “Fair. We’ve got the whole night. Though I’m not sure I want to risk waking Amelia.”
His eyes flash. “So…after dinner, we head to my place?”
“How about mine?”
The look he gives me could melt glass. I shift in my seat, trying to cool the heat rising between us. If we don’t rein it in, we’ll be kicked out before the wine hits the table.
“So,” he says, steering us back to business. “What did the designers think of the stones?”
I exhale since he’s pulled me back from the edge. “Antoine’s obsessed. Once they saw the range—cuts, textures, color—they started sketching on the spot. Your pitch about creating a lower-cost line with a luxury feel? Nailed it.”
“You’ve got a sharp mind for business,” he adds, his voice softer now, threaded with admiration.
I don’t deflect this time. I let it settle, warm and unfamiliar. “I’ve been living and breathing Olivier since I was old enough to stack boxes in the stockroom.”
He nods. “Same for us. When our parents died, the company stopped being a business. It became a mission. We weren’t just protecting a legacy. We were building on it.”
The way he says it—with reverence, like it’s sacred—makes something twist in my chest. Because I know that feeling. I’ve carried Olivier in my veins since childhood.
There’s a subtle shift in his expression, a flicker of grief anchored in purpose. It settles something deeper between us.
“And Amelia?” I ask, my voice gentler now. “It sounds like you’re building a really beautiful life with her.”
“I’m trying,” he says, and there’s a warmth in his smile. “I’m actually planning her first birthday party. Thinking of flying her mom in, putting her up at the Fairmont for a few days. I want her to have the chance to see Amelia… Maybe she’ll even want to be part of her life.”
There’s something fragile in his voice. Not regret. Not longing. Just…hope. Or maybe responsibility.
“Would you ever want to get back together with her?” I ask, careful.
His head snaps up, eyes wide. “Romantically? No. God, no. She gave me the most amazing little girl, but what I really want is for her to give up any claim to custody. I can’t trust her.
Not only did she not tell me about Amelia, but she just left Amelia with the doorman.
And someday, Amelia’s going to inherit more money than either of us can count. ”
I nod slowly, my voice quiet. “That makes sense. Have you spoken to her at all?”
He shakes his head. “I let our family lawyer handle it. She hasn’t reached out, not even once. She’s never asked about her or for even a picture.”
Before I can respond, our meals arrive. The scent of seared meat, garlic butter, and roasted vegetables curls around us like a promise. Across the restaurant, I clock Duane and Richard getting their food too, always in position, always discreet.
Matteo slices into his steak, juices pooling on the plate. “So… what do you like to do when you’re not running one of the most exclusive jewelry houses in the world?”
I smile and set my fork down. “I don’t watch much TV. Usually, I pour a glass of wine, run a hot bath, and read until I look like a raisin.”
His eyes light up. “What kind of books?”
I hesitate, then laugh. “Romance.”
“Sweet or steamy?”
“Steamy.”
His grin goes wolfish. “Tropes?”
I swirl my wine. “Enemies to lovers. Forced proximity. Secret identity. And if there’s a forbidden love angle?” I sigh dreamily. “Game over.”
“Good to know,” he says, his voice like smoke and sin. “Because I think we’re about to star in all of the above.”
I take a sip of my wine.
“My aunt Rebecca’s into romance, too,” he adds, a teasing glint in his eye. “Firemen, doctors, billionaires—the steamier, the better.”
I grin. “I think I’d like your Aunt Rebecca.”
“You should send me your favorite books,” he says, half-playful but fully sincere. “Highlight your favorite parts.”
I nearly choke on my wine. “That would basically hand you a GPS to my darkest fantasies.”
His voice lowers as he leans in. “That’s exactly what I want. I want to know what turns you on.”
I meet his gaze, steady and unflinching. “You turn me on.” I’ve never said that to someone before, not like this. Not while looking them in the eye and meaning every syllable.
The effect is immediate. His pupils dilate. His fingers tighten around his glass. The air between us shifts, dense with heat, with possibility.
He tries to laugh it off, but it’s quiet, breathless. Like I’ve knocked the wind out of him and he’s still recovering.
I let the moment linger before I ask, “What about you? What do you do when you’re not charming every eligible woman in the Bay Area?”
He smirks. “That’s wildly exaggerated.”
I lift a brow. “Is it, though?”
He chuckles, then shrugs. “I hang out with my brothers. We try to play golf when the weather cooperates. We do this guys’ trip to Alaska every year—salmon fishing, no cell service, terrible food. Heaven.” He pauses, then softens. “But lately, it’s all about Amelia. She’s my whole world.”
Something shifts in my chest. A quiet, warm ache. “What are you planning for her birthday?”
He exhales like the question carries weight. “Honestly? I handed it off to my aunt and Trixie. I think they’re planning a circus-level blowout in Golden Gate Park. I’ve been told my only job is to show up on time and try not to cry.”
“That sounds chaotic…and adorable.” I smile, cutting into my steak.
“She’s going to be overwhelmed. When she first showed up, one of our funders bought out an entire children’s boutique in Pacific Heights. She brought over every single thing I would ever need. And the worst part? We actually use all of it.”
I laugh—loud and unguarded—and something in his expression cracks wide open. His eyes catch mine like he’s just found the rarest thing on earth.
He leans across the table and kisses me. Soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that says: I see you. I want you. I could fall so hard for you.
When he pulls back, his lips brush against mine as he murmurs, “I love your laugh.”