39. Matteo
Matteo
The door of the honeymoon suite clicks shut, and my fist lands into the closest wall.
Every man who stood in this room and watched me claim Azra’s virginity will soon gargle on their blood.
I’ll take my time with the man who squashed his gun against her temple, before using his limbs to fuck over the man who sniffed the bloodied cloth before he exited the room, clutching it like a trophy.
I want them dead. Every one of them. But I can’t move yet. As much as my head screams for revenge, my heart knows I’m needed here more. Azra needs me, and I refuse to leave her side until I know, without doubt, that this ritual wasn’t the commencement of Hattie’s downfall.
It’s easy to see why I’m suspicious. Antonio is a jerk. He wouldn’t have hidden his wife from men rubbing their cocks through their pants. He would have paraded her for the wolves; rituals like this might have sparked his family’s fascination with the gang-rape trade.
After schooling my expression, I turn to face the bed. Azra braces her back against the headboard. Her eyes are unfocused, and she curves her knees inward as if she’s aware her father stripped the one thing that’s meant to be sacred.
Although I want to place all the blame for her pained expression on him, I can’t.
I hurt her—both physically and emotionally.
That kills me more than anything.
I should have fought harder, but even the cockiest man in the room knows the odds of her getting out of that battle unscathed were low to nonexistent.
Needing to fix my mistakes, I walk to the bedside table, grab the small bottles of oils the hotel must have left, and then enter the bathroom.
I turn on the bath before notching the nuzzle halfway between the hot and cold symbols. Steam rises slowly, curling around my arms, as I pour in the oils. Natural coconut oil first, then some Pinetarsol.
I have no idea what I’m doing. All I know is that I need to support my wife. It’s vital, instinctive, and non-fucking-negotiable.
I’d rather kill myself than hurt her again.
When I return to the bedroom, I find Azra seated in the same spot, staring at her thighs as if they’re covered in blood instead of a handful of streaks.
“Come on,” I say quietly, nudging my chin to the bathroom. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
She glances up, her brows feathered. “You… you don’t want to finish?”
“No.” Again, I kneel in front of her and take her hands in mine. “I told you, if you want to wait five years—”
“We’ll wait five years.”
She smiles when I nod, and it slips some of my anger away.
“I’m sorry,” she whispers when I scoop her into my arms and carry her into the bathroom. “I completely forgot about that tradition.” I realize where most of her unease resides when she murmurs. “If I had gone through with my plan, I would have had to do that with…” A shiver completes her reply.
“He’s never going to touch you. I promise you that.”
She swallows hard before she whispers, “If only you could have promised Hattie the same.” I sit her on the vanity to assist her out of her silky slip as her worry shifts to anarchy. “Do you think they did that? Do you think he forced her to take part?”
“I don’t know,” I mutter honestly. “But I promise you I’ll find out.” Her eyes flicker in thanks as a faint smile tugs at her lips. “Just not until after I’ve made sure you’re okay first.”
“I’m okay,” she whispers.
“Not just here...”—I tap my index finger on her thigh—“but here as well.” This time, I tap my finger on her chest where her heart sits.
Fighting to ignore the wetness in her eyes, she raises her hands in the air, silently permitting me to remove her satin slip. Since she’s not wearing a bra, her breasts fall heavily to her chest when I sling her dress over her head.
God. Fuck. Shit.
Is there anything about this woman that’s not perfect?
Her tits are perky, and her milky brown nipples stand at attention.
Her hips are meaty enough to ensure I won’t lose grip while fucking her into oblivion, and even with the ultimate prize covered, I know firsthand how delicious it smells and tastes.
“Cupid is a cunt.”
Azra peers up at me, shocked by my outburst. My comment was a little crude, but there is no nicer word for him.
“He didn’t just shoot me in the ass with his arrow; he dug in the whole fucking tip.”
She laughs, and even in these circumstances, it’s the sexiest noise I’ve ever heard. “Hattie always said love is blind… because Cupid forgot his glasses.”
“I always thought he was like me. Shoots first, asks questions later.”
As her giggles bounce around the bathroom, I help her off the vanity and guide her panties down her legs.
I ignore the spasm in my jaw when I notice the smears of blood on the cotton material.
I don’t care what she says; she most certainly wore these for Antonio.
My grandmother would have felt honored to wear these undergarments.
Or was it for me? I don’t hold back my appreciation of the granny panties.
When I raise my eyes, my rake leisurely since there are so many wonderful points to drink in, Azra’s teeth pierce her lower lip. “I thought if you saw me at my worst, you’d run for the hills.”
“Hate to tell you, sweetheart, but you couldn’t do anything to scare me away.”
She hisses when she first slips into the tub before the oils alter her expression. “Not even confessing that I wanted to torture a man to his death?”
“That would only make me run to you more, especially if the man you’re referencing is Antonio.” I pfft. “What the fuck am I saying? Even if that man was me, I’d still be at your feet, begging for another snippet.”
She calls me a sick fuck under her breath before she asks if I’d like to join her in the tub.
“You sure that’s what you want? Oils are slippery, and I’m a horndog with no morals. Something could slip where it shouldn’t, and I couldn’t be blamed.”
Minutes ago, it seemed too early for banter. I’m glad it bursts through the storm clouds hovering over my head. Every playful comment steals a snippet of the pain in Azra’s eyes.
“I’m sure. You’d never hurt me. I know that.”
My hand freezes halfway to my belt. “Unless you ask…” I clarify.
Again, she giggles, and everything in the world feels right. “Unless I ask.”
When I notice the heat in her neck creeping higher and higher the more I undress, I slow my movements. I take my time, allowing her to savor every flex, throb, and bead of pre-cum her watch instigates.
Once my clothes sit to the side of her panties, I tug my boxer shorts down my tattooed thighs, exposing both my hand and my cock. Azra chokes on her breath. I want to say it’s because my cock is a choking hazard even when flaccid, but that isn’t the sole cause of her shock.
“La mia tigrotta,” Azra whispers, spelling out the script scrawled along the left-hand side of my V muscle.
As recognition dawns, she lifts her eyes to mine.
“You called me that on the jet when you left.” She doesn’t bother waiting for me to confirm since she’d see through any lie I tell. “What does it mean? My little…”
“Tiger,” we say together.
It’s a fight for her to hide her smile, but she gives it her best shot. “It looks fresh.”
I look down at the swirling black ink before jerking up my chin. “As fresh as a newborn baby.”
Azra smiles, aware of what this means. I didn’t get this tattoo years, months, or weeks ago. I can’t even say days. It was mere hours ago.
“I got it after dumping the waitress on the freeway. She didn’t look like you, breathe like you, or talk like you, so I had no interest in learning she could never taste like you.”
Happiness beams out of her, hardening me to the point it’s painful.
It doesn’t linger for long. Her happiness. I’m still up at the plate, batting freely.
“When you left, I thought you’d never speak to me again.”
“Won’t lie. I was pissed. But then I realized there had to be more to your situation with Antonio than you were letting on. You can’t stand him.”
“Hate is a better word.”
I smirk. “I went to the Adami compound the same night to confront you. I had no clue you’d checked in”—I wave my hand around our room—“here.”
“Vivienne thought it would be safer.”
“Vivienne knew your plan?”
Azra waits a beat before sheepishly shaking her head. “She kinda guessed.”
I smile wryly, confident there’s more to Vivienne’s story than her carefree demeanor shows. While my interest is piqued, my wish to ensure the woman in front of me is okay prevails.
“You gonna scoot, la mia tigrotta? Or am I going to continue freezing my nuts off standing butt fucking naked on icy tiles?”
Grimacing, she slides forward, welcoming me to slip into the tub behind her, before her head rockets up. “Hold on, are you allowed to bathe so soon after a tattoo?”
“Probably not. But do you think I give a fuck?” Heat prickles back into my toes when I dip my feet into the water. “If you think I’m going to give up this opportunity, you’ve got a lot to learn.”
She leans back to mold her back against my front, and a groan rumbles in my chest. She’s such a perfect fit that you’d swear God designed her for me. “And we can always get it replaced… on your cock, so everyone knows who it belongs to.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply, undeterred by the utmost certainty in her tone.
If she wants to brand every inch of me, I won’t raise a single objection.
I tell my cock to sit the fuck down when a quick rub of her shoulders has her sharing stories I’m doubtful she’s shared with anyone.
“This is weird to admit considering how today started, but I feel safe. I haven’t felt like this since I was a child.
” She coughs, clearing her throat of nerves.
“I was so well sheltered by Hattie’s mother that I skipped most of the horrible things girls in families similar to mine faced.
Ada was a widow, so she didn’t have much, but she still gave Hattie and me the best life possible.
I was her boss’s daughter, but she treated me as if I were her own. ”
Even when the story veers down a road I want to flood with blood, I listen intently.