Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Matteo
Virgin.
The word echoes in my skull, drowning out reason and strategy and every careful plan I've built.
Alessia Moretti, widow of one of Chicago's most powerful made men, has never been touched by any man. The woman who sits here trembling in my shirt, who's been sharing my bed for days, who responds to my kiss like fire catching tinder—she's completely untouched.
Something primal and possessive roars to life in my chest. Mine. The thought burns through me with savage satisfaction. She'll be mine in every way that matters. The first man to touch her, to claim her, to make her fall apart in his arms.
I should walk away. Should put distance between us while I still can, while my control is something more than a fraying thread.
But I can't move. Can't do anything except stare at her standing there with shame burning in her cheeks, like her virginity is something to be ashamed of instead of a gift I don't deserve.
"Look at me," I say, and my voice comes out rougher than I intend.
She does, golden-brown eyes meeting mine with a mixture of fear and something hotter. Her lips part slightly, breath coming faster.
"Do you understand what you've just told me?" I cross the space between us in two strides, unable to stop myself. Her eyes widen but she doesn't step back. Doesn't even flinch. "Do you understand what it means?"
"It means I'm pathetic," she whispers, and the self-loathing in her voice makes rage flood my veins. "It means I couldn't even be a proper wife to—"
"No." The word comes out sharp enough to cut. I catch her chin between my fingers, forcing her to maintain eye contact. "It means no man has ever touched you. No one has ever shown you pleasure." I lean closer, letting my breath ghost across her lips. "Do you want me to be the first?"
Her throat works as she swallows. I watch her pupils dilate, see the way her breathing shifts from fear to something else entirely. When she speaks, her voice is barely audible.
"Yes."
That single word ignites something in me that I've been trying to keep locked down since the moment she walked into my life.
I capture her mouth with mine, and this kiss is different from all the others—hungrier, more demanding, weighted with the knowledge that I'll be the first man to truly have her.
She melts against me immediately, her hands fisting in my shirt like she needs something to anchor her.
When I deepen the kiss, she makes a soft sound that goes straight to my cock.
I'm already hard, have been since the word virgin left her lips, and the knowledge that she can feel my arousal through layers of fabric makes me want to tear her clothes off right here.
But I force myself to slow down. To remember that this is new for her, that rushing will only bring back memories of Lorenzo trying to force what she wouldn't give.
I break the kiss, and she actually whimpers at the loss of contact. The sound makes satisfaction curl hot in my chest.
"Tell me you want this," I murmur against her lips. "Tell me you want me to be your first."
"Yes." The word comes out breathless, desperate. Her hands are still fisted in my shirt, holding on like I might pull away. "Yes, I want you."
Cristo.
The way she says it—no hesitation, no games—makes my control slip another notch.
I lift her easily, her weight nothing in my arms, and she gasps in surprise but doesn't protest. Her legs come around my waist automatically, and the heat of her core presses against my stomach even through the layers of clothing between us.
I carry her to the bed, setting her down and trying to show more gentleness than I've shown anyone in years.
She bounces slightly on the mattress, hair spreading across my pillows like dark silk, and I have to pause just to look at her.
Flushed cheeks, swollen lips, golden eyes watching me with a mixture of nervousness and want.
She's wearing one of my shirts—black silk that falls to mid-thigh, buttons undone just enough to show the curve of her breasts. The sight makes possession roar through me again. Wearing my clothes in my bed, looking at me like I'm something she needs instead of something she fears.
"We're going to take this slow," I tell her, starting to unbutton my own shirt. My fingers are steadier than I expected, muscle memory taking over even though my mind is barely functioning. "I'm going to take care of you. Make sure you feel nothing but pleasure."
Her throat works as she swallows, but she nods.
"Good girl." The praise makes color bloom higher in her cheeks. "Now lie back for me."
She complies, settling against the pillows with graceful uncertainty.
I shed my shirt completely and watch her eyes widen as she takes in my chest, my tattoos, my scars.
Her gaze lingers on the ink that winds across my ribs and shoulders—dark patterns that tell stories I don't share with anyone.
Then her eyes find the scar along my jaw and something in her expression softens.
When I join her on the bed, I keep my movements slow. No sudden gestures, nothing that might trigger memories she's trying to forget and make her flinch like she’s done more than once. My hand finds the hem of the shirt she's wearing—my shirt—and slips underneath to find warm silk skin.
She shivers at the contact, her stomach muscles jumping beneath my palm.
"Beautiful," I murmur, watching her face as my fingers explore. I trace the curve of her ribs and move higher until my thumb brushes the underside of her breast. "So responsive."
She arches into my touch with a soft whimper that makes my cock throb against my zipper. I want to be inside her already, want to claim her in the most primal way possible, but I force myself to maintain control. This is about her pleasure, about making her first time something worth remembering.
I push the shirt up slowly, revealing inches of pale skin until her breasts are exposed to the cool air. Her nipples are already peaked, dusky rose against cream, and I have to pause again just to appreciate the view.
"Perfect," I tell her, and mean it. "Absolutely perfect."
My mouth closes over one nipple, and her back bows off the bed.
Her hands fly to my hair, fingers tangling in the strands, and I'm not sure if she's trying to push me away or pull me closer.
I suck harder, using teeth just enough to make her gasp, and her hips roll against my thigh in instinctive need.
"Matteo," she breathes, and hearing my name in that voice—breathy and desperate and wanting—nearly breaks my control entirely.
"Patience, principessa." I move to her other breast, giving it the same attention while my hand trails lower. "I want to take my time with you."
My fingers find the waistband of her underwear—silk I ordered along with everything else. I hook my thumb under the elastic and pause, giving her time to object.
She doesn't. Instead, her hips lift slightly, giving me permission.
I drag the silk down her thighs slowly, watching her face the entire time. She's breathing hard now, chest rising and falling rapidly, and I can smell her arousal mixing with the jasmine scent that clings to her skin.
When I finally touch her pussy folds—fingers sliding through slick heat—she cries out. The sound echoes off the walls of my bedroom, uninhibited and perfect, and I want to hear it again. Want to hear every sound she's capable of making.
"Look at me," I command, my voice dropping into registers I usually reserve for giving orders. Her gaze snaps to mine immediately, wide and uncertain. "Keep your eyes on me, Alessia. I want to see how you come for me."
I circle her clit with my thumb slowly, and watch her struggle to maintain eye contact. When she tries to close her eyes, I stop completely.
"Eyes on me," I repeat.
She whimpers, hips rolling helplessly, seeking friction I'm not giving her. "Please, Matteo..."
"Please what? Tell me what you need."
"I need... I need more." Her voice breaks on the words, but there's honesty in it that wrecks me.
I slide two fingers inside her, and she's so tight I can barely manage it. Her cry tears through the room—surprise and pleasure and a hint of discomfort all tangled together. I hold still, letting her body adjust, watching her face for signs of pain.
"Breathe," I murmur. "Just breathe through it."
She does, chest heaving as she forces air in and out. Gradually, I feel her relax around my fingers, walls loosening enough that I can move without hurting her.
I work her slowly, curling my fingers to find that spot inside that makes her back arch off the bed. When I find it, her hands fly to my shoulders, nails digging in hard enough to leave marks I'll see tomorrow.
"That's it," I encourage, feeling her start to tighten around my fingers. "Let go for me, Alessia. Let me see you come apart."
My thumb finds her clit again, and I feel her inner walls clamp down on my fingers, contracting in waves.
She cries out, voice breaking on my name, and her whole body arches off the bed.
I feel each pulse of her orgasm, feel the rush of wetness coating my hand.
The sight is so beautiful it nearly makes me come in my pants like a fucking teenager.
I don't stop. I keep moving my fingers, gentler now, drawing out her orgasm until she's shaking and gasping and trying to push my hand away because it's too much.
Only then do I withdraw, bringing my fingers to my mouth and tasting her arousal. She watches with wide eyes, lips parted, still trembling from the aftershocks.
"Sweet," I murmur, and watch her blush deepen. "I could spend hours between your thighs, principessa. Make you come so many times you forget your own name."
"Matteo..." She reaches for me, and I let her pull me down into a kiss, tasting herself on my tongue.