Fifteen
Ellory
M y part-time chef left me a plant-based burrito in the fridge.
It sounded good when she suggested it, but now that it’s steaming on a plate, I’m skeptical.
I lean in and sniff—cumin, heat, something vaguely promising.
She even left fresh pico de gallo on the side, so I spoon it on top, grab my e-reader, and settle in at the kitchen table.
Wild Saturday night, I know. But today was…a lot.
It’s not the burrito I’m trying to digest. It’s everything I felt at that party. The weight of being around them . Around him .
I keep thinking about Matteo and his brothers.
The way they move around each other. Effortless.
Loyal. A unit. It makes something twist in my chest. I didn’t grow up with that.
Just me and Papa. We used to regularly meet for dinner on a weekend night, but those stopped when Heather came along. He has his life. I have mine.
I take a bite. It’s…fine. The vegan cheese is trying too hard.
Pushing the plate aside, I grab my wine and head into the living room. My favorite chair is calling my name.
Then the doorbell rings.
I freeze. Who shows up unannounced on a Saturday night?
I check the camera. My breath catches. I don’t know what I expect. But it isn’t him. Not tonight. Not when I left without a goodbye.
Matteo.
He’s standing on the porch, looking casually devastating, and I’m in men’s boxers, an ancient T-shirt, and not a single stitch of makeup.
To hell with it.
I press the intercom. “Be right there.”
I open the door wide.
“Sorry to drop in,” he says, eyes sweeping over me. But there’s no judgment in them, only heat.
“Did something happen after I left the party?” I ask, suddenly wary.
He exhales. “Yeah. Amelia was upset you didn’t say goodbye.”
My brow pulls. “She left before I did.”
He meets my eyes. “I was upset you didn’t say goodbye.”
Something softens in my chest. “You had your brothers. And Willow… made it pretty clear I’m not exactly welcome.”
My chest tightens. Why did I say that? Sure, it’s true, but really, it’s more about my own insecurities.
“Willow doesn’t get to decide what I do.”
“No, but as Amelia’s mom, she does get a say in what Amelia does.” I step back. “Do you want to come in? Drink? Food?”
“If you don’t mind. I just… I needed to see you. Sorry for interrupting your night.”
“It’s fine. I was in the middle of ditching a tragic burrito and debating takeout. Have you eaten?”
He smiles, and it’s like the clouds parting. “I could eat.”
“We can order from someplace that Skip the Dishes delivers to. Pick something. I’m going to put on real clothes.”
“Don’t,” he says quickly. “Please. I like you like this. I don’t care what we do—talk, read, sit in silence—I just want to be with you.”
Something in his voice disarms me. I nod. “Okay. Let’s figure out dinner.”
I grab my phone and look through the app at our options. “What are you in the mood for?”
He steps closer, his scent curling around me—spicy, clean, male. My skin prickles.
“I’ll eat anything,” he murmurs.
“So you’ve proved,” I tease.
His eyes darken. “I didn’t want to assume, but…I can stay. If you want me to. Trixie has Amelia tonight. They’ve got a morning playdate.”
Tension coils in his shoulders, his fingers flexing like he needs to release it. That makes two of us.
“Chinese? Italian? Greek? Lebanese?” I hand him my phone.
He scrolls and then hands me the phone. It’s Mr. Chows. A small place that has the best Szechuan chicken. “This looks good. You like it spicy?”
“Enough to feel it. Not enough to regret it.”
He grins. “Good. I definitely want to taste you.”
The spark in my belly flares. Suddenly, food is the last thing on my mind.
We settle on our order, and I order it through the app. It will be here in forty minutes.
I pour him a glass of bourbon and lead him to the couch. There’s a tremor in his hand when he takes the glass. He’s still, but not calm. That twitch in his hand, the way his throat works. He’s still nervous. Just like me.
That’s a relief. I’m coming apart inside.
He sets the drink down and watches me. “You’ve been in my head all day.”
My heart trips. “You’ve been in mine too.” Every hour, every moment, I’ve been replaying the way he looked at me. Like I was his. Like I mattered.
The silence stretches. And then I move.
I flick open the button on his jeans, lower the zipper, and tug them down. His cock strains against the fabric—hard, ready, beautiful.
I sink to my knees.
His jeans pool around his ankles. My hand wraps around the base of him, and my mouth waters.
I’ve never been wild in bed. Safe. Vanilla. But nothing about Matteo feels safe. And maybe that’s what I’ve needed all along. Someone who makes me feel more. Wanted. Craved. Seen.
I lick him slowly, tracing the tip before taking him into my mouth. His groan is instant, deep and rough, and I know I’ve already undone him.
His fingers slide into my hair, holding me gently as I explore him with my mouth, tasting, teasing, learning what makes him shake.
But then, suddenly, he pulls me back.
I look up, lips parted in question.
His eyes are black with heat. He lifts me to my feet, drops onto the couch, and guides me onto his lap.
“I need to be inside you,” he growls, raw and rough. “Now.”
“I was happy to finish—”
“I need to feel you come on my cock first.”
My breath catches, heat pooling low. God, I’m already trembling.
He strokes himself slowly, deliberately, his gaze locked on mine like he owns me. “Get naked.”
The command shreds my control. My thighs clench, my skin prickles, and I’m tearing off my clothes, throwing them aside like they’re burning me alive.
The instant I’m bare, he yanks me into his lap, fingers sliding through my slick folds. “Fuck, you’re soaked.”
A ragged gasp escapes me as my hips buck against his hand, desperate for more. I don’t just want him. I need him, all of him, filling every aching inch of me.
He grips himself and guides me down, stretching me open, thick and unrelenting, until he’s buried to the hilt. My lungs forget how to work. My forehead drops to his shoulder, the burn of the stretch colliding with the dizzy rush of being completely possessed.
Wrapped in his arms, I’ve never felt so safe. So owned. So helplessly wanted.
His thumb circles my clit—slow, teasing, cruel. My whimper breaks into a plea as my body arches, desperate, strung so tight I could snap.
He takes my breast into his mouth, sucking hard, tongue flicking mercilessly while his thumb keeps tormenting me. I shatter inch by inch, need consuming me until I can’t think, can’t breathe, can only ache.
“Please,” I whisper, broken and begging. “I need to move. I need to come.”
His voice is dark silk against my ear. “Are you asking me for permission?”
I nod frantically, too far gone, every nerve screaming for release.
A wicked smile curves his lips against my skin. “Then come for me.”
He presses firmly, and I shatter. My orgasm crashes over me in waves—hot, hard, endless.
Before I can recover, he flips me onto my back, thrusting deep and fast, driving me into the cushions as pleasure builds again, fiercer this time, raw and overwhelming.
My body clamps down around him, and he grunts my name like a prayer. “Ellory.”
He follows me over the edge, spilling into me with a broken groan.
We collapse, tangled, flushed, gasping. The room smells like sex and sweat, the air heavy and humid, our bodies a knot of heat.
He rolls to his back, pulling me on top of him, my cheek pressed against his chest, his heartbeat wild and uneven under my ear. Limbs tangled, we feel fused, like we’ve always belonged this way.
“I should get up,” I murmur, though my voice betrays me, soft and lazy. I don’t move. I don’t want to. I want to stay wrapped around him, soaking in the safety of his arms, the ownership in his touch.
He chuckles, low and rough. “That was only round one.”
My stomach flips, anticipation sparking like fire under my skin. I don’t know if it’s a threat or a promise, but either way, I’m in.
The doorbell rings.
Matteo groans, dragging a hand through his hair before grabbing his jeans and wallet.
“I already paid,” I call after him, laughter in my voice but still breathless.
He throws me a crooked grin over his shoulder. “I still would’ve bought you dinner.”
“You always buy,” I shoot back. “Tonight, you’re my guest.”
He disappears down the stairs to the front door, and I hear the muted rumble of his voice at the door.
“Thanks, man,” the kid says, the sound of a sack shifting. I can tell Matteo gave him a generous tip by the way his voice lifts, surprised. “Have a great night.”
The door shuts, footsteps returning.
“I already am,” Matteo murmurs as he climbs the stairs, his voice softer, meant only for me.
When his eyes find me stretched out across the cushions—naked, flushed, still his—something raw flickers in his gaze. Possession. Want. Maybe even more.
He sets the box aside without looking at it, like food is the last thing on his mind.
Then he stalks toward me, slow and deliberate, his eyes locked on mine. Like I’m not just dessert. Like I’m the prize.
And for the first time in a long time, I let myself believe it.