Chapter 24 Sierra
SIERRA
The weight of Matteo’s story settles into my bones like something permanent. Something I’ll carry now, too.
He’s never told anyone this. I know it the way I know my own heartbeat. The halting words, the way his jaw clenched against each syllable like he was swallowing glass. This man who moves through the world like nothing can touch him just cracked himself open for me.
And God, what I saw inside him.
He was just a kid when he first started dealing with that. A teenager when he finally ended it.
My childhood wasn’t perfect, but it was safe. I never knew what it felt like to fear the footsteps in my own hallway.
Something hot and ugly surges through my blood when I think about his stepfather. I’ve never wanted someone dead before. Never understood that kind of rage. But right now, I’m grateful that man is already in the ground because if he wasn’t, I might do something about it myself.
I pull back from the hug but don’t let go completely.
My hand finds his, fingers lacing through.
His palm is rough, calloused, warm. Holding it feels different than it did before.
More intimate. Listening to him talk about the worst parts of his life made me feel close to him in a way I’ve never felt with anyone.
And now I want closer. I want to make him feel good.
I lead him toward the bedroom without a word.
He follows. And when we cross the threshold, I turn to face him, searching those blue eyes for permission. For confirmation that he feels what I feel right now.
The answer is written all over him.
His hand cups my cheek, thumb brushing the sensitive skin near my ear, and I lean into the touch like I’m starving for it. His other palm finds the small of my back, pulling me close enough that I can feel exactly how much he wants me.
He kisses me like he’s trying to consume me whole.
I melt into it, my hands sliding up his chest, feeling muscle flex beneath warm skin. He’s still shirtless, still warm from his workout. The salt-musk smell of him is everywhere. I should find it off-putting. I don’t.
His fingers find the hem of my sweatshirt and drag it up. When he realizes I’m not wearing anything underneath, he makes a sound of approval that vibrates through my entire body.
Then he drops to his knees.
Holy shit.
I’ve fantasized about a lot of things in my life. This was never one of them. But seeing Matteo Rossi on his knees in front of me, looking up at me like I’m something sacred and profane all at once, short-circuits my brain.
His mouth closes around my nipple, sucking hard enough to ache.
I moan, loud and shameless, gripping his shoulders to keep from collapsing. There’s a pulse between my legs, sharp and demanding, narrowing my entire world to the contact between us.
“Matteo.” His name comes out broken as he switches to the other breast. “God, I need you.”
“I know what you need.” His hands drag my sweatpants and panties down in one rough motion. Then he looks up at me, eyes dark. “Spread your legs.”
I obey without thinking.
The first stroke of his tongue makes my knees buckle. He grips my thighs, holding me steady, and does it again. Slow and deliberate; like he’s savoring me.
“So fucking sweet,” he growls against my core, and the vibration alone nearly sends me over the edge.
He’s not gentle. His mouth works me with the same intensity he brings to everything else, tongue and lips and just the edge of teeth until I’m shaking, fingers threaded through his short hair, thighs trembling against his face.
“I’m going to—” I can’t finish the sentence.
“Yeah, you are.” He seals his mouth over my clit and sucks.
I shatter. My orgasm tears through me, wave after wave, and I cry out his name loud enough that I’d be embarrassed if I could think straight.
Before the aftershocks even fade, he’s on his feet. He lifts me like I weigh nothing, hands gripping my thighs, and my legs wrap around his waist on instinct.
I’m not a small woman. Hips, thighs, an ass that’s never fit into single-digit jeans. I’ve been with guys who grunted with effort or suggested we try something different. But Matteo holds me like I’m exactly the right size. Like he could do this all day.
The mesh of his basketball shorts presses against my oversensitive center. I whimper.
“Too much?” he asks, but he’s already walking us toward the wall.
“Not enough.”
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. Then my back hits the plaster and he’s shoving his shorts down just enough, and the blunt head of him is right there, pressing, pushing—
He thrusts home in one brutal stroke.
I gasp, my body stretching to accommodate him. I’m still sensitive from coming, almost too sensitive, and the fullness of him is overwhelming in the best way.
“Fuck.” His forehead drops to my shoulder. “You feel incredible.”
He starts to move. Not gentle. Not slow. His hips piston back and forth, driving into me with a rhythm that steals my breath.
I tighten my legs around him and hold on, my back sliding against the wall with every thrust. The overstimulation from my first orgasm fades into something deeper, pleasure building again in slow, rolling waves.
“So tight,” he grunts, teeth grazing my neck. “Love these curves. This body. Could fuck you forever.”
His filthy words make me clench around him, and he groans in response. I rake my nails down his back, heels digging into his ass.
“Harder,” I gasp. “More.”
He pulls me off the wall. Spins toward the bed. Drops me onto the mattress and pushes my legs up onto his shoulders before I can catch my breath.
The new angle is deeper. Intense. I watch his abs flex with every thrust, the tattoos on his torso rippling with movement. Skulls. Guns. Fire. Everything about him screams danger.
Everything about him makes me feel safe.
The pressure builds low in my pelvis, tightening with each stroke.
“I’m close,” I breathe.
“I know.” His hands find my breasts, kneading roughly. “Feel you squeezing me. Come on my cock, Sierra. Let me feel it.”
The command pushes me over. My second orgasm doesn’t crash so much as pull me under.
Slow. Deep. Relentless. My thighs shake against his shoulders and I grab his forearms just to anchor myself.
He’s watching my face, eyes dark and focused, and I can’t look away.
Can’t hide. I moan his name as my body clenches around him, drawing out the pleasure until I’m wrung out and gasping.
“Fuck, yes.” Matteo’s rhythm stutters. “That’s it. That’s—”
He drives deep one final time and groans, pulsing inside me as I’m still clenching around him. We ride it out together, and when the pleasure fades, I’m left with something I don’t know what to do with.
When he pulls out and gathers me into his arms, I hold on tighter than I mean to. There’s a question sitting in my throat. Something like what is this or do you feel that too.
But I’m scared of the answer. Scared he’ll say it’s nothing and I’ll feel stupid. Scared he’ll say it’s something and I won’t know whether to believe him.
So I stay quiet. We’ve done enough emotional excavating for one night.
I press my cheek to his chest, listen to his heartbeat slow, and let sleep take me before I can say something I can’t take back.
I wake to an empty bed and the sound of water running.
I stretch against sheets that still smell like him. Like us. My body aches in the best possible way, muscles I forgot I had reminding me exactly what we did last night.
If the first time was good, last night was something else entirely.
I pull on my robe and pad toward the kitchen, humming some random song I can’t name. The normalcy of it all feels surreal. Making coffee. Scrambling eggs. Frying bacon while my fake fiancé showers down the hall.
Except nothing about this feels fake anymore.
I eat slowly, giving him time. Matteo takes forever in the shower, and I don’t mind. It gives me space to think about things I probably shouldn’t be thinking about.
Like how I’m starting to look forward to mornings with him.
Like how this house feels less like temporary shelter and more like somewhere I belong.
Like how I might be in way over my head.
The bathroom door opens just as I’m heading back to the bedroom. He emerges in his usual uniform: dark jeans, black t-shirt, damp hair. Looking entirely too good for this early in the morning.
“Made breakfast,” I smile. “If you have time.”
His eyes rake down my body slowly, lingering on the gap where my robe parts at my thighs. The blue of his irises darkens by several shades.
“I like this robe.” His palm connects with my ass, and I yelp. “Maybe you should wear it while making me breakfast every morning.”
“You assume I’ll cook for you every morning?”
“Assume. Hope. Same thing.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t quite kill the smile tugging at my mouth. The banter feels easy. Natural. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.
“Go eat. I need to shower.”
“Didn’t you take a bath last night?”
“And then someone made me sweaty.”
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. “Fair enough. I have to head out after, though. Business.”
That’s vague. I don’t ask.
“I’ll be home this afternoon,” he adds, leaning in to press a quick kiss to my lips.
I watch him disappear toward the kitchen, then force myself into the shower before I can spiral too deep into what any of this means.
The hot water helps. I rewrap my arm in plastic like the paramedic showed me, keeping the wound dry. It’s annoying, but at least I can shower properly.
By the time I emerge, the house is quiet. Matteo is gone.
And I need to talk to someone before I lose my mind completely.
I grab my laptop and settle onto the floor in front of the coffee table, a pillow cushioning my knees. The video call rings four times. Long enough that I think she won’t answer.
Then my best friend Annika’s face fills my screen.
She’s at her vanity, curling iron in hand, wearing a glittery red dress with a neckline that could probably get her arrested in twelve countries. Full glam. Ready to kill.