Chapter 12 Sierra
SIERRA
Matteo’s mouth is on my throat.
His weight pins me to the mattress, one hand fisted in my hair, the other sliding up my thigh. Rough calluses catching on bare skin. I’m already panting, already arching into him like my body knows exactly what it wants.
“Been thinking about this.” His voice is smoke and velvet, lips brushing the hollow beneath my ear. “Since you spilled that coffee on me.”
“You looked so pissed.” I’m breathless. “It was kind of hot.”
He bites down on the curve of my neck, just hard enough to sting. The sound I make is embarrassing. Desperate. He doesn’t seem to mind.
His hand slides higher, fingers tracing the edge of my underwear but not slipping beneath. Teasing. I squirm, trying to angle my hips toward him, but he holds me down with his weight.
“Matteo.” It comes out like a plea.
“Tell me what you want.” His thumb hooks under the waistband, tugs it down an inch, then stops.
“You know what I want.”
“Say it.”
I can feel the heat of his hand so close to where I need him. “Touch me.”
“I am touching you.”
I want to strangle him. I want to kiss him. I want him to stop being such a smug bastard and just give me what I need.
“Please.”
Something shifts in his expression. Softer, almost tender. “You’re mine, Sierra. You know that, right?”
Instead of flinching at his possessive words, I melt.
“Yes.”
His hand finally slips beneath the lace, finding me slick and wanting. He makes a low sound of approval that vibrates through me.
“Fuck, Sierra. All this for me?”
He strokes through my folds, slow and deliberate, learning every part of me before giving me what I need.
Then he’s pushing inside. One finger, then another.
Stretching me open while his thumb presses exactly where I need it.
My back bows off the mattress. I’m gasping, grabbing fistfuls of the sheets, heat coiling tight in my belly and—
I wake up alone. Heart pounding. Thighs clenched. Absolutely drenched.
“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.”
I stare at the ceiling, morning light peeking through the gap in the curtains, and wait for my pulse to slow down. It doesn’t.
He’s on my couch. Right now. Twenty feet away, separated by one locked door and whatever shred of dignity I have left.
And I just had the most vivid sex dream of my life about him.
Apparently my body didn’t get the memo about trust issues. It’s ready to climb that man like a tree while my brain is still running background checks.
I throw off the covers and head for the bathroom. A cold shower sounds like exactly what I need.
Or a lobotomy. Either works.
When I finally emerge into the living room twenty minutes later, Matteo’s still asleep. His huge body is crammed onto the couch, one leg dangling off the edge, the other bent at an angle that looks painful. He looks softer in sleep.
I think about the dream. Then I aggressively stop thinking about the dream.
I tiptoe past him, avoiding the squeaky floorboard under the living room window, and slip into the kitchen. Coffee first. Then I’ll figure out what the hell I’m doing.
It’s been weeks since I slept that hard. Weeks of lying awake, staring at the ceiling, jolting at every creak in the floorboards. But last night, with Matteo’s bulk folded onto my too-small couch and a locked door between us, something in my nervous system finally unclenched.
I don’t trust him. Not completely. But some animal part of my brain apparently decided he could keep me safe long enough for me to get seven hours and a dream I’m never going to speak of out loud.
I dump an obscene amount of sugar into my mug, add a splash of cream, and carry it to the sliding glass door that leads to my balcony.
I step outside and settle into my usual chair.
This small slice of heaven is my favorite part of this apartment, maybe my favorite part of my whole life.
The potted plants lining the railing catch the morning sun, their leaves stretching toward the light like they’ve been waiting for it.
I check them over as I drink my coffee. A yellowing leaf here, a drooping stem there.
Nothing serious. I take care of my plants.
Pay attention before problems become disasters.
I wish I had room for a real garden. Somewhere I could plant rows of desert marigolds and zinnias and maybe a few climbing honeysuckle. I love to help maintain the garden at my parents’ whenever I’m over there, but it’s not the same as having my own.
Someday.
When I finally open my flower shop, maybe I’ll have a shaded growing space out back. Somewhere I can get my hands dirty and spend hours with my plants without anyone asking me to smile more or wondering why I can’t just get a “real” job.
The thought sends a flutter through me. Hopeful. Almost painful in how much I want it.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I don’t need to look to know it’s someone from my family. The group chat hasn’t stopped since I made the announcement. Questions I keep dodging. Excitement I don’t deserve.
When do we get to meet him? How did he propose? Send more pictures!
I’ve been giving vague answers. Soon. It was romantic.
I’m so happy. But I know “soon” has an expiration date.
My family will want to meet him. They’ll welcome him with open arms and home-cooked food and a hundred questions about our future, and I’ll have to sit there smiling while I lie to their faces.
But what am I supposed to tell them? Hey, family, remember that boyfriend you never liked?
Turns out he’s actually in the Russian mafia and has been stalking me.
So now I’m fake-marrying a scary Italian enforcer to make him jealous enough to show himself so the scary Italian enforcer can do something violent to him.
Wedding’s in three weeks. Please bring a dish to share.
Yeah. That would go over great.
My dad’s blood pressure is already a mess. My mom would cry. My brothers would want to fix it, and there’s nothing they can do to fix this. I’ve made my bed with the monsters, and now I have to lie in it.
My phone buzzes again. And again.
With a sigh, I pull it out.
Mom: Dinner this weekend? Dad wants to meet him.
I close my eyes. Of course he does.
I take a deep breath and look back out at the street below, trying to find some calm in the morning routine of strangers going about their lives.
That’s when I see it.
Black. Parked across the street. The Mercedes that’s been haunting my nightmares for months.
My body locks up mid-breath. Every muscle, every joint, frozen like prey that’s just spotted the wolf.
I can’t see the driver from this angle, but I don’t need to.
Viktor.
The mug slips from my hand and clatters onto the balcony table, coffee sloshing over the rim. My pulse is already hammering in my ears as I lurch to my feet and stumble back inside.
Matteo is awake. Sitting up on the couch, pulling on his boots. His head snaps toward me the second I step through the door, and whatever he sees on my face makes him go completely still.
“Viktor’s outside.”
Matteo doesn’t ask questions. He doesn’t hesitate. He goes from sleepy to lethal in the space of a breath, grabbing his gun and moving toward the door with a speed that should be impossible for a man his size.
“Stay here.”
Then he’s gone.
I hate this. Standing here useless while someone else runs toward the man who’s been terrorizing me.
But if I go down there, I’m just a target. Another problem for Matteo to solve.
I force myself back onto the balcony, gripping the railing hard enough that my knuckles go white.
Down below, Matteo bursts out of the building just as the Mercedes peels away from the curb. Viktor hits the gas, tires squealing, and disappears down the street before Matteo can even get close.
From three floors up, I can see the rigid line of his shoulders. The way one hand balls into a fist at his sides. He spins back toward the building, and even at this distance, the fury on his face is unmistakable.
My neighbor holds the door for him, too busy checking her phone to notice the gun tucked into his waistband or the violence radiating off him as he stalks past.
I’m sitting on the couch when he returns. My hands are folded in my lap to hide the trembling, and I’ve arranged my expression into something I hope looks calm.
“We’re leaving.” Matteo crosses to the window and yanks the curtain aside, scanning the street below. He lets it fall and turns to face me. His jaw is tight. Grinding.
“Where are we going?”
“My place. I have business today. Can’t leave you here alone after that.”
“So you’re just going to… what? Lock me in your house while you’re gone?”
“Well, I can’t exactly stick around to entertain you.”
“Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of asking.” I try for sarcasm, but my voice wavers. His eyes drop to my hands.
He’s across the room in three strides. Before I can react, he’s crouching in front of me, his big hands wrapping around my trembling fingers.
He doesn’t look at me. Just stares at our fingers, his jaw tight, his thumbs moving across my knuckles. Warming them. Steadying them.
Neither of us speaks.
This gentleness is so at odds with everything else about him that something cracks open in my chest.
After Viktor, I was sure I’d flinch at any man’s touch. Turns out I was wrong.
My trembling slows. Matteo’s hands are rough and warm and so much bigger than mine. I wonder if he has any idea what this is doing to me.
“He’s not getting near you.” His voice drops. “You understand?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
Finally, he looks up. He holds my gaze for a long moment. The intensity should scare me. It doesn’t.
Eventually, the trembling stops. My breath evens out. But he doesn’t let go, and I don’t pull away.
“You sure you trust me with your house?” I manage finally. “What if I throw a wild party?”
That doesn’t quite get a smile out of him. More like the ghost of one. “If I can’t trust my fiancée, who can I trust?”
I laugh despite everything. “Wow. That was almost a joke. Good for you.”
He rolls his eyes, but there’s warmth there now. Something soft underneath all that hard. “Must be your influence, Sunshine.”
The fond way he says it shouldn’t make me this happy, but here we are.
He’s still holding my hands. Still crouched in front of me. And the fear is fading, replaced by something else entirely. Something that makes my pulse race for a different reason.
He stands, pulling me with him. I tilt my head back. His eyes drop to my mouth.
My heart forgets how to beat.
My lips part. His head starts to lower—
And his phone screams to life in his pocket.
We both freeze. For a second, neither of us moves. Then he stands, jaw tight, and pulls out the phone. The look he sends me is pure, undiluted sexual frustration, and I’d be lying if I said it didn’t make me feel a little better about being interrupted.
He turns away to answer, voice clipped. “Yeah.”
I retreat to the kitchen. Rinse my coffee mug. Put it in the dishwasher. Grip the edge of the counter and try to slow my breathing.
What the hell am I doing?
When I turn around, Matteo is standing in the doorway. Face unreadable.
“I have to be somewhere.” His eyes hold mine for a beat too long. “Pack some things, let’s go.”
I duck into my bedroom and throw a few days’ worth of clothes into a bag, grab my purse, my charger, my toothbrush. The essentials of a life in limbo.
I meet Matteo at the door. Try not to think about what almost happened.
Try not to think about how badly I wanted it to.
As we step into the hallway, his hand finds the small of my back. The touch is light and barely there, but it sends heat racing up my spine and coiling low in my belly.
I’m about to spend the day alone in this man’s house. A man I almost kissed. A man who just held my hands like I was something worth protecting.
This is either the smartest decision I’ve ever made or the dumbest.