Eleven
Ellory
M atteo signals to the server. “Can I get the bill for both tables?”
“Right away,” she says with a smile.
As soon as she’s gone, he leans in, voice low and electric. “I’m ready to hear you scream.”
A shiver rolls through me—part anticipation, part nerves, all fire. My pulse is already racing.
On the ride to Matteo’s, it’s all heat and hands, like we’re teenagers sneaking around. His fingers slip between my thighs, rubbing the seam of my silk panties like he has every right to be there.
“You’re soaked,” he murmurs, more reverent than surprised. His voice is hushed, like he’s discovering something sacred instead of something expected. And that reverence? It undoes me more than his hands.
When the car stops in front of his building, I smooth my dress over my thighs, trying to calm the rush of nerves. Out of the corner of my eye, Matteo adjusts himself, shameless in the small space between us. His eyes lock on mine. I nod, a silent yes. I’m ready.
The sidewalk is quiet except for Duane and the doorman holding the door open. I stand, and Duane tells me he and Richard will be here waiting. Matteo slips out first and offers his hand. My pulse jumps as I take it, and we walk into the building together.
At the elevators, Matteo presses the button, then backs me against the wall, his mouth finding the curve of my neck. Heat flares through me, and I bite back a gasp just as the elevator dings its arrival. He catches my hand and pulls me inside, only to stop short.
An older woman stands inside, her lips pursed so tight she looks like she’s been sucking lemons. Matteo straightens instantly. “Mrs. Powell,” he says smoothly, “this is Ellory Matisse.”
Her eyes sharpen. “Matisse? Are you related to Olivier Matisse?”
“My father,” I answer evenly.
She snorts. “And you’ve chosen him?” Her gaze flicks over Matteo with open disdain. “I knew your mother—refined, intelligent, discerning. She must be horrified to see her daughter wasting time on a man like this.”
Heat pricks at my cheeks, but I keep my voice steady. “She’s living in Los Angeles. She loves the weather,” I reply, keeping my voice calm even as irritation coils low in my belly.
Mrs. Powell gives a brittle laugh. “Los Angeles. Of course. That explains it. No wonder you’d fall for someone like him.” She glares at Matteo, as if he’s dirt under her shoe. “You can do better, Miss Matisse. Far better.”
The doors slide open on her floor, and she sweeps out without another word, leaving her judgment hanging heavy in the air.
The doors close. Matteo exhales and shakes his head. “Sorry. My neighbor. She’s still upset I renovated her unit.”
“You renovated her unit?”
“Her husband renovated the building and then lived in my unit. After he died, she downgraded to one on the fifth floor. She told me she didn’t want to see me renovate it, but it was dated and not my taste. She tried to stop it with our HOA, but they all understood, and she’s hated me ever since.”
“She sold the unit. It doesn’t belong to her anymore.”
He leans in and kisses me. “No, it doesn’t.”
When the elevator reaches his floor, he pulls me out and presses me against the wall, his mouth claiming mine in a kiss that steals my breath. His hands are already tugging at my sweater dress, peeling it away inch by inch, as if he can’t bear another barrier between us.
I drag down his zipper and, with his help, free his cock. My breath catches. He’s big. Like, actually big-big. I wrap my fingers around him, and he thickens even more in my grip.
“I don’t know if that’s going to fit,” I whisper, half teasing, half terrified.
He brushes his mouth along my neck, kissing, nipping, making me ache. “I’ll make sure you’re ready,” he promises, voice like velvet over gravel.
By the time we stumble inside, we’re shedding clothes in the hallway. In his bedroom, he doesn’t hesitate.
“Sit,” he says, pointing to the chair by the window. “Spread your legs. Show me how you touch yourself.”
His voice short-circuits my brain. I should be embarrassed, but I’m not.
With anyone else, this would feel performative.
Not with him. With him, it feels like freedom.
I’m not posing. I’m unraveling. And he’s watching every second of it, like he’s memorizing a map.
With Matteo, I want to be seen. Wanted. Owned.
I slide my fingers between my thighs, circling my clit as his eyes lock on mine. He strokes himself, slow and deliberate, gaze dark and hungry.
“God, you’re beautiful,” he breathes.
I flush. “You really like watching me do this? It’s not…too much? Slutty even?”
He groans. “Ellory, you’re not too much. And slutty?” He smirks. “That’s a compliment in the bedroom.”
“I bet you like dirty talk too.”
His jaw flexes. He’s so hard it looks painful. “Tell me what you want.”
I meet his eyes, steady and burning. “I want all of you. Every filthy, perfect inch.”
He chuckles, dark, wicked. “You don’t have to beg, sweetheart. But make no mistake, there will be strings. Because once? Won’t be enough.”
I launch out of the chair and wrap my arms around his neck. “Then shut up and kiss me.”
He does—fierce and starving. His hands tangle in my hair as his mouth claims mine. I melt into him, already unraveling.
He lifts me effortlessly and tosses me onto the bed. I squeal, then moan as he crawls over me, pinning my wrists above my head with one strong hand.
His mouth crashes into mine again, hot and wild and perfect. I arch beneath him, needing more.
I reach for his cock, wrapping my hand around the hard length of him, stroking slow. His breath stutters, his eyes going darker.
“What do you like?” I whisper, guiding him toward my mouth.
The stretch makes my jaw ache, but I groan through it, pleasure overriding everything. I swirl my tongue around his tip, dip into the slit, savoring every inch of him. When I glance up, his head is tipped back, eyes nearly shut, mouth parted in a silent curse.
I take him deeper, worshipping him with lips and tongue, letting the taste of him flood my senses. He grips my hair, not forcing—just holding, watching. His gaze never leaves mine. It’s not dominance. It’s devotion. Like he can’t believe I’m real.
“Ellory, if you don’t stop, I’m going to come,” he warns, voice strangled. “And if I come now, it’s going to slow down my plans for tonight.”
I pull back with a wicked smile. “Then stop wasting time and fuck me.”
Matteo’s hands are on me in an instant—lifting, claiming, pulling me flush against him. His cock presses hot and hard against my belly, but his touch shifts—fingers gliding up my spine, his nose brushing the curve of my neck. There’s tenderness in it, unexpected and breathtaking.
The sweetness steals my breath. There’s still fire between us, blistering and wild, but there’s something more, something that sinks deeper than lust.
I’ve never felt so wanted. So desired. So completely seen.
And I know, without a doubt, that this isn’t just one night. It could never be just one night.
My hands roam his chest, tracing the ink across his skin. Every tattoo feels like a secret he hasn’t told yet, and I want to know them all. I flick my tongue over one of his nipples, smiling when he inhales sharply. His cock jerks against me, and I feel drunk on the power of it.
He nudges me back until my knees hit the edge of the bed. I move to climb on, but he stops me with a firm hand on my hip. His grip is confident, possessive, enough to send a fresh wave of heat pulsing through me.
He pulls me closer, dragging me to the edge of the mattress before slipping a pillow beneath my hips, tilting me just how he wants me.
Then he leans in and kisses me—slow, aching, tender.
No rush. No demand. Just the brush of his lips against mine, coaxing soft sounds from my throat and melting me into the mattress.
I’ve never been touched like this, like every part of me matters.
Like every sigh is something he wants to hear again.
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, desperate for more. “Matteo…please. I need you.”
His mouth curves into a wicked smile. “You’re not having any fun?” he teases, lips brushing over my nipple before he draws it into his mouth with a gentle tug.
“Please,” I gasp, arching up to meet him.
He kisses his way down my body, tongue blazing a trail until he reaches the ache between my thighs. His mouth closes over me, hot and unrelenting.
“Oh—God.” My hips lift off the bed as he licks and sucks, tongue circling my clit and driving me higher with every stroke. “Right there—don’t stop. Matteo, yes…yes…baby, please—”
Pleasure crashes over me in a blinding rush, stealing the breath from my lungs.
I’m still trembling when I pant, “Fuck me. Now. Please.”
Matteo rises, eyes dark and wild as they rake over me.
“Roll over,” he growls.
I obey, heart pounding. He grips my ass, spreading me open, and I freeze for a second until he leans close and whispers, voice like sin, “Your ass is art, baby. And I plan to worship it. But not yet. I want to fuck you from behind, hold these cheeks while I watch you fall apart. But that’s later.
Right now, I want to make sure you’re ready. ”
His fingers slide inside me—slow, skilled, curling just right. The only sounds are the wet rhythm of his hand and the breathy moans slipping from my lips.
Then he lies back on the bed and taps his thigh. “Come here. Take your time.”
I straddle him, carefully lowering myself. The stretch makes me pause. I rise, breathe, try again. Inch by inch, I take him, until he’s fully seated inside me.
“You okay?” he asks, voice tight with restraint.
I nod, breathless. “Yes.”
His hands grip my hips, guiding me into a rhythm that has me gasping. Each thrust drives deeper, hitting a spot that sends stars across my vision. My body clamps around him just as he groans his release, and we collapse together in a tangle of limbs, sweat, and tangled sheets.
“That was…” I try to catch my breath. “I think I blacked out for a second. I’ve never come like that in my life.”
My limbs feel boneless, my skin still humming from every place he touched. I don’t just feel satisfied. I feel rewired. I roll beside him, dazed and glowing. “I hope I didn’t break you.”
Matteo laughs, running his fingers through my hair. His heart thunders beneath my cheek.
“I’m sorry, I can’t stay,” I murmur, though my body betrays me by not moving.
His arm tightens around me, and I press a soft kiss to his chest, memorizing the steady beat beneath my lips. “It’s okay,” he says, though there’s something unspoken in his voice.
I linger, stretching every moment, as if I can trick time into slowing down. Minutes blur into hours, and still, I don’t pull away. It’s nearly midnight before I finally force myself up. At the elevator, he kisses me goodbye…but doesn’t say a word.
The second the doors close behind me, the silence presses in. I miss him already.
I could unravel, wonder if my leaving changes anything, question if he’ll want to see me again, but I don’t. Instead, I hold on to the memory of his hands on me, the reverence in his touch, the way he made me feel like I mattered. Like I was more than I let myself believe.
I tell myself not to want more. Not to hope. But the truth is already there, lodged deep. Even if this is the only night…it’s unforgettable.
And for now, that has to be enough.