Chapter 35
SIERRA
We should talk first. I know we should. But when Matteo’s fingers find the button of my jeans, every rational thought dissolves into static.
His hands are rough and urgent against my skin, that coiled tension in him finally snapping loose.
I’ve seen him like this before, all that controlled energy breaking free, and it makes me feel powerful in a way I’m still getting used to.
Wanted in a way that borders on overwhelming.
And God, I want him too. The need is physical, a clenching low in my core that almost hurts.
He shoves his hand down the front of my pants, cupping me, and I forget how to breathe. His mouth drags down my neck, teeth grazing my shoulder before biting down just hard enough to sting.
“Matteo.” His name tears out of me. “I need you.”
I reach for his shirt, yanking it over his head with more enthusiasm than finesse. My hands are mapping the familiar terrain of his chest when I freeze.
There’s a bandage on his side. Fresh gauze, taped neatly below his ribs.
“What the hell is this?”
He catches my wrist before I can touch it. “It’s nothing. I’ll tell you later, I promise. Right now I just need...”
I open my mouth to argue, but then his finger sinks into me, and every thought scatters like birds from a gunshot. My knees buckle. His arm locks around my waist, holding me upright, holding me together.
He kisses me deep and slow while his finger works in and out at a pace that’s clearly designed to drive me out of my mind.
I can feel him against my hip—hard and thick through his jeans—and I need more than this.
I don’t just want the fullness, though I definitely want that, too.
I want the connection. That feeling of being completely, overwhelmingly his.
“Fuck me,” I gasp against his mouth. “Please.”
An actual growl rumbles through his chest, and the sound sends heat racing down my spine. He steps back just enough to free himself from his pants, and the sight of him makes my mouth water. I’ve seen him naked plenty of times now, but it still hits me the same way every time.
I lick my lips without thinking.
His hand catches my chin, tilting my face up until I have no choice but to meet his eyes. They’ve gone nearly black, and my stomach flips.
“Don’t tempt me.” His voice scrapes like gravel. “Lick those lips again, and you’ll be on your knees.”
Heat floods through me, settling between my thighs. Part of me wants to test him just to see what happens. But I want to be fucked more than I want to push my luck, so I file that away for later.
He strips my jeans down my legs and spins me toward the table, one sweep of his arm sending boxes crashing to the concrete floor.
I don’t hear glass breaking, which is probably good, but honestly I don’t care either way because then I’m bent over the table with my cheek pressed to cool metal and nothing else matters.
His foot kicks my legs apart. I feel the blunt head of his cock notch against my entrance, and anticipation coils tight in my core. His fingers dig into my hips, hard enough that I’ll probably have bruises tomorrow.
I don’t care about that either.
He slams home in one brutal thrust, and I have to bite down on my lip to trap the cry that wants to escape. He fills me completely. Stretching me in that way that always feels like too much and not enough at the same time.
For a moment, he doesn’t move. Just stays buried deep, his breath ragged against the back of my neck. I can feel him everywhere—the heat of his chest against my spine, the grip of his hands anchoring me in place, the thick pulse of him inside me.
Then he pulls back and drives in again, harder this time, and my thoughts scatter.
He sets a punishing rhythm. I’m on my tiptoes, thighs shoved against the table’s edge with every snap of his hips, but the small discomforts blur into background noise beneath all that pleasure. My hands scramble for purchase on the smooth metal of the table, finding nothing to hold onto.
“Hands flat,” he orders. “Don’t move them.”
I obey without thinking, pressing my palms against the table. Something about the command, about holding still while he takes what he wants, makes the heat between my legs ratchet up another impossible notch.
He shifts his angle, and suddenly he’s hitting a spot that makes my whole body jerk. A broken sound escapes me.
“There?” His voice is rough. Almost a taunt.
I can only nod, beyond words.
He does it again. And again. Each thrust deliberate now, precise, like he’s cataloguing exactly what makes me fall apart. My thighs are shaking. I can hear myself making sounds I’d be mortified by if I could think straight—whimpers and gasps and his name, over and over.
Matteo fists my hair and pulls, arching my back, and leans over me until his breath is hot against my ear.
“You have no idea what you do to me.” His voice is wrecked, barely recognizable. “Can’t think straight when I’m inside you. Can’t think about anything but this. Just you.”
His hand slides around my hip, fingers finding where we’re joined. The first brush against my clit makes me cry out.
“That’s it.” He circles slowly, matching the rhythm of his thrusts. “Let me hear you.”
I’m beyond embarrassment now. Beyond anything but the pleasure building and building, pressure coiling so tight I can barely breathe.
“I’m close—Matteo, I’m—”
His hand snakes around to palm my breast beneath my shirt. “Then come.” It’s not a request. It’s a command that I feel all the way to my toes. “Come all over my cock like a good girl.”
And just like that, I shatter.
The orgasm rips through me, and I can’t hold back the sound this time.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I hope the bar’s music drowns it out, but mostly I’m just feeling.
Wave after wave pulsing through me as Matteo goes rigid at my back.
His cock jerks inside me, his groan muffled against my shoulder, and for a long moment, we just exist there together.
Then reality starts seeping back in. The muffled thump of bass from the bar. The hard edge of the table that’s definitely going to leave a mark on my thighs. The fact that we just had sex in the storeroom of my workplace, which is probably some kind of health code violation.
So much for being a responsible employee.
Matteo pulls out and reaches for his shirt while I drag my jeans back on, wincing at the slick mess between my thighs.
It’s going to be a long shift with wet panties, but when I turn and see the way his shoulders have loosened, the way that wall behind his eyes has dropped just a little, I decide it was worth it.
Whatever distance crept between us these past few days, this cracked it open. It doesn’t fix everything. We still need to talk. But it’s a start, and I’ll take what I can get.
“I have to get back out there.” I rake my fingers through my hair, silently praying I don’t look as thoroughly fucked as I feel. “Travis can’t handle the bar alone yet. He barely knows where we keep the limes.”
Matteo’s expression darkens like a cloud passing over the sun. “I’m staying. Someone needs to watch that guy.”
I roll my eyes, but warmth spreads through my chest. The possessiveness probably shouldn’t make me feel so giddy, but after days of him being distant and closed off, having him act like a jealous caveman feels like progress.
“Leave him alone. You’ve already traumatized the poor guy.
He nearly dropped a bottle of Grey Goose when you walked in. ”
“He was staring at your ass.”
“I’m a bartender, Matteo. Men look at me constantly. It’s basically in the job description.”
His eyes narrow into dangerous slits. “Names. Give me names.”
I’m still laughing as I reach the storeroom door, but the image of that bandage flashes through my mind and the laughter dies in my throat. I turn back to face him.
“Wait.” I stop in the doorway, reaching for his shirt. “Let me see that wound.”
He steps back. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Bullshit.” I plant my hands on my hips, channeling every ounce of stubbornness I possess. “You said later. Guess what? It’s later. What happened?”
The words come out sharp, and I realize with a little jolt of surprise that I’m not even slightly afraid of him right now. Not tiptoeing around his mood or bracing for an explosion. I’m just standing here, demanding answers from a man twice my size who literally kills people for a living.
When did that happen? When did I stop being scared?
Something warm flickers in his eyes, like maybe he noticed the same thing.
He sighs, the fight draining out of him, and slings an arm over my shoulders as he steers us toward the hallway. “The night Santino died. I was there. Caught an injury.”
“What kind of injury?”
“A minor...” He pauses. “Stabbing situation.”
My stomach drops straight through the floor and keeps going.
“You were stabbed?!”
His gaze darts around the empty hallway like he’s hoping for an escape route. “I’m fine.”
“Then why hide it from me?”
“Because it happened right after your brother got hurt.” His voice softens, just a little. “You had enough on your plate without worrying about me, too.”
I want to yell at him. I want to shake him until his teeth rattle and maybe smack him upside the head for good measure.
But his reasoning, in its gruff and emotionally constipated way, is actually kind of sweet.
He was protecting me. Badly, and in a way that made me feel shut out and alone, but the intention was there.
“Don’t do that again,” I say firmly. “Don’t keep things from me because you think you’re protecting me. I’d rather know and worry than be kept in the dark.”
He nods once, which I decide to count as agreement. It’s the best I’m going to get from him right now.