Matteo
Breakfast lasts longer than I expected.
A lot longer.
I thought Azra would sit stiffly, barely speak, and glare at everyone the way she glares at me when I piss her off. Instead, she settles in effortlessly, as if she’s had a seat at the table for years instead of minutes.
Even Camille warms to her.
That confession shocks me the most.
Up until last week, Camille hadn’t spoken a word in six months. Not since she arrived on our doorstep on the hip of her “mother.”
Don’t burn Lucia at the stake just yet. She wasn’t lying when she said their story was long. Azra heard some of it during breakfast, but it will take months to fully unravel the web of betrayal that Dante, Lucia, and Camille faced just one week ago.
Yet Camille sits beside Azra as if everything she knew wasn’t turned upside down only days ago, showing her drawing with a shy pride I haven’t seen in a long time.
Azra doesn’t treat her like she’s a fragile toy that might break at the slightest provocation.
She treats her as if she’s capable. Like she’s normal.
She even shows Camille how to make the metal pole the kid insists on drawing in every picture appear real. She adds shine with an array of different light-colored pencils and blends the edges.
Camille’s mouth gapes as if she’s witnessing magic.
Maybe she is.
I feel like I’m stuck in a fantasy, so a kid who still believes in fairy tales doesn’t stand a chance.
By the time we stand to leave, the staff has cleared the buffet table, and Camille is fighting not to cry. Dante tries not to notice her tears, but the twitching of his jaw is extremely telling.
Azra says goodbye to everyone, as if mornings like this won’t happen again.
I don’t like how that sits in my chest, but I push aside my unease when her farewell occurs without the usual taunting I bring to each gathering. None of my brothers pretend to feel her up when she hugs them, and her legs remain hump-free.
For a second, it has me reconsidering my stance on how I farewell Valentina and Lucia, but can I really call myself the dreaded middle child if I don’t rub my schlong along my future sisters-in-law’s legs?
With Giovanni reaching for his gun and Dante on the verge of a coronary, I scoop Azra’s hand in mine and lead her to the main entrance so she can put on her shoes. “Come on. Slutty dresses aren’t going to buy themselves.”
Once her pink-painted toenails are covered, I direct her toward the garage instead of the SUVs lined up out front.
Azra stiffens. “Why are we going this way?”
Maintaining my lengthy strides, I answer, “We’re taking my motorcycle to town.”
When she halts, my hand slips from her back. “No. Absolutely not.”
Needing to hide the pulse fluttering in my neck from her angry stare, I clutch her wrist and drag her down the gravel driveway. “It’s faster.”
“I don’t care if it’s faster. I’d rather walk.”
“It’s a forty-minute walk to town.”
“Perfect. Great. I love walking.”
Still striding forward, I crank my neck to face her. “Those shoes weren’t designed for hiking.” They’re only suitable for scratching my back while your thighs hug my ears.
“I don’t care.” After maneuvering free from my grip, she folds her arms under her fantastic tits, worsening my already deviant thoughts. “I’m not getting on that death trap.”
“It’s not a death trap.”
“It has two wheels.”
“That’s how bikes work.”
“It doesn’t have any doors.”
“You don’t need doors.”
“It doesn’t have a roof.”
“You don’t need a roof either.”
“It doesn’t have—”
“Azra,” I cut in, “you’re getting on my fucking bike whether you like it or not.”
While struggling to choose between stabbing me and then running or just running, she narrows her eyes at me.
I don’t give her the chance to choose either option.
After fetching a helmet off a shelf in the garage, I lower it over her sultry dark locks, hopeful the visor will stop her from seeing how hard her fury makes me.
I’ve never been more aroused.
Usually, I bark orders, and people jump to my command.
It’s nice to finally mix things up.
“Are you hard of hearing? You’re seriously…” A gag chops up her words. “Why does your helmet smell like stinky gym socks?”
Grinning, I fasten the strap under her chin.
She swats at my hands. “I can do it myself!”
“You weren’t doing it.”
“Because I wasn’t planning to wear it!”
I swing a leg over my bike and straddle the seat. “Too fucking bad. You don’t have a choice.”
“Wanna bet?”
Helmet slightly crooked, she pivots on a dime, her heels kicking up dust. Again, I snatch up her wrist before she can get two steps away and then pull her back until her ass heats the leather in front of me and her panicked breaths batter my lips.
Azra gasps when our crotches align. It’s probably in fright, but my fucked-up head doesn’t hear it that way. My cock’s head knocks at my zipper as pre-cum oils the zipper.
With one push of a button, both the engine of my custom motorcycle and Azra roar to life.
“Matteo!”
“Hold on.”
“I’m not—”
She goes as still as a board when I put the bike in gear and nudge it forward. When we exit the garage, a sound that’s definitely not a word squeaks from her lips.
Gravel crunching under chunky tires almost gobbles up my warning. “Last chance, micina. If you don’t secure your grip now, I may lose you somewhere between here and Carlisle.”
While cursing me with a bunch of what I assume are Turkish swear words, she buries her helmeted head into the crook of my neck. I harden further when her legs lock around my waist as tightly as her arms do my torso, fusing us together.
Needing the cool breeze wafting from the Tyrrhenian Sea to cool my skyrocketing body temperature, I veer my bike through the manned gates of my family’s home before pulling back on the throttle.
I’ve never ridden a motorcycle like this.
Actually, I’ve never had a passenger.
Time on my bike is the only time the noise surrounding me fully quietens, and I haven’t been willing to share that snippet of peace with anyone.
We get more than a handful of looks as I speed through town. Partly because I’m going faster than I should, but mostly because Azra is clinging to me like the world is ending.
By the time I pull up in front of the boutique, I’ve set a new personal record.
I cut the engine, then peer down at Azra.
She doesn’t move.
“Azra,” I say, tapping her shoulder.
Nothing.
“Azra.”
Slowly, she lifts her head, emerging from a traumatic event with wide, terrified eyes. “We’re never doing that again.”
I smirk. “We’ll see.”
She glares at me through the visor but doesn’t let go of my jacket. I don’t mind. I need a few more seconds to deflate my monstrous dick. That wasn’t the longest ride I’ve had, but it was the most thrilling.
When no attempt to shake her fear works, I dismount my bike, taking her with me. The moment my boots hit the sidewalk, she realizes we’re not alone. People gawk. Some stare, amused, but most wonder why a grown woman clings to me like a scared koala.
When Azra notices their watch, her legs unlock from around me so fast that she almost falls flat on her ass instead of her feet.
After ripping off the helmet, she shoves it at me with enough force to leave a bruise.
She’s not angry.
She’s jealous.
Not only did she notice that the gawks doubled when she peeled herself off my crotch, but they were also directed an inch below my belt buckle.
Why do you think she shoved the helmet into my groin and not my chest?
I bite back a laugh, loving the sharpening of her claws.
It pisses her off even more. With a snarl, she spins on her heel and marches toward the boutique, storming onto the battlefield unarmed and ill-prepared.
On a bench outside the changing room, elbows on my knees, I listen to Azra mutter to herself behind the curtain.
She’s tried on ten dresses so far.
Ten.
Dresses one through five were disasters. Wrong color. Wrong cut. Wrong fucking everything.
After the fourth disastrous getup, Azra looked ready to set the boutique on fire.
After the fifth, I took over.
Which is how we ended up with four perfect selections and are on our way to a fifth.
All my picks are short, bold, and designed to make Antonio choke on an ego he shouldn’t have since his cock is smaller than a corn kernel.
Though I shouldn’t admit this after criticizing a man on his appendage, I’m enjoying myself.
Azra was hesitant when her eyes landed on my first selection, but when she saw how it accentuated her curves and complemented the flecks of green in her eyes, she stopped judging every suggestion I made.
She trusted me, and that trust is paying dividends.
She’ll be the belle of the ball, and I’ll have to pack a baseball bat for every event we attend.
Sounds like a good deal to me.
“Matteo,” Azra calls out, voice strained. “Can you come here… please?”
I grin as if she hasn’t shot down every offer I’ve made to fasten the zippers. I picked them specifically because she shouldn’t be able to reach the fasteners.
She must have extremely long arms, because in the past two hours, she hasn’t called me once to assist.
“What’s wrong? Need my special help?”
“Just get in here,” she snaps, doubling my grin.
I push the curtain aside and step inside. Azra stands in the back of the oversized changing room, face red with embarrassment. Dress ten is stuck around her stomach, hiding her hourglass figure with a racy red material. No matter how much she tugs, it won’t go up or down.
She looks like a very furious, very trapped caterpillar.
“How did you even get it on?”
“Don’t,” she warns, glaring at me. “Just help me.”
“I’ll get the shop assistant.”
“No!” she blurts, eyes wide. “Please don’t. I’m embarrassed enough.”
“Of what? Looking hot as fuck in mismatched panties and bra?” I step closer. “Are they printed cotton panties?” I bite the edge of my palm to muffle my moan. “Fuck me, micina. There’s something wickedly hot about cotton panties, especially when they’re dirty—”
“Matteo!” she cuts in, her breathing quiet and desperate, like my filthy words shadowed the front of said panties. “Please… get it off. I don’t care how.”