Chapter 15 #2
I break the kiss reluctantly, moving to remove the rest of my clothes. My belt hits the floor with a heavy thud. Trousers and boxers follow, and then I'm finally naked, my cock jutting hard and flushed between us.
Her eyes drop, and I watch her swallow hard.
"It's going to hurt at first," I warn her, though I want nothing more than to be inside her right now. "But I'll make it good. I promise you that. Do you trust me?"
Her eyes find mine again, and after a moment that feels like an eternity, she nods. "Yes."
I position myself at her entrance, the head of my cock nudging wet heat. She tenses immediately, thighs trembling against my hips, and I can see fear starting to replace desire in her eyes.
"Look at me." I wait until her gaze locks onto mine, then press my forehead to hers so we're sharing breath. "Just breathe. I won't move until you're ready."
I push forward—slow, so fucking slow, I think I might die from the restraint required. Tight doesn't begin to describe it. She's gripping me like a vice, her body resisting the intrusion despite how wet she is from her orgasm.
Her gasp rips through me like a knife. "Matteo—"
"I know, principessa. I know." I hold completely still, every muscle locked with effort. My cock throbs inside her, demanding I move, demanding I take what I want, but I won't. Not until she's ready. "Your body needs time to adjust. Breathe through the pain."
Tears leak from the corners of her eyes, and it takes everything I have not to pull out completely. But I can see in her face that she doesn't want me to stop—she wants this, wants me, even through the discomfort.
"That's it," I murmur as I feel her slowly relaxing around me. "You're doing so well. Taking me so perfectly."
I rock forward another inch, and she whimpers but doesn't tell me to stop. Her nails bite into my shoulders hard enough to draw blood, but the pain grounds me, keeps me moving slowly instead of giving in to the urge to thrust hard and deep. I want to break her so badly.
"Halfway there," I tell her, pressing kisses to her temple, her cheek, anywhere I can reach. "You're being so good for me, principessa. So brave."
Another shallow thrust. Then another. Each movement measured and controlled, giving her time to adjust to the intrusion. Until finally—finally—I'm buried to the hilt inside her, her virgin body stretched around me, claiming me as thoroughly as I'm claiming her.
"Fuck." The word escapes me as I hold completely still. She feels like nothing I've ever experienced—tight and hot and perfect. "You feel incredible. So perfect."
She's still trembling beneath me, adjusting to the fullness, and I give her all the time she needs. I press kisses to her face, her neck, her collarbone, murmuring praise against her skin while her body learns to accept mine.
Finally, she shifts her hips experimentally, and the friction makes us both groan.
"You can move," she whispers. "Please move."
I start slowly, pulling out almost completely before sliding back in with measured control. Each thrust is deliberate, angled to give her pleasure instead of just taking my own. And gradually, I feel the tension leaving her body, replaced by the beginnings of arousal.
Her moans start quietly—little gasps and whimpers that grow louder as I increase the pace. Her hips begin to match my rhythm, rising to meet each thrust, and the sight of her finally losing herself to pleasure makes triumph surge through my chest.
"That's it," I encourage, one hand sliding between our bodies to find her clit. "Feel how good I can make you feel. This is what it's supposed to be like, Alessia."
The combination of my cock and my fingers pushes her toward the edge again. I can feel her tightening around me, walls fluttering as her second orgasm builds. I increase the pace, driving deeper, harder, finally giving myself what my body is begging for.
"Come for me," I command, voice rough with my own need. "Now."
She does, screaming my name as her body convulses around my cock. The sensation is so intense I can't hold back anymore. My own release crashes through me, and I bury myself deep as I spill inside her, grinding against her clit to extend her pleasure.
For several long moments, we stay locked together, both of us shaking and gasping for air. The room smells like sex and sweat and her—jasmine and our arousal, something I want to bottle and keep forever.
Eventually, I pull out carefully, making her wince. I can see blood on the sheets—not much, but enough to remind me that I was her first, that she gave me something she can never give anyone else.
Instead of rolling away immediately like I want to, I force myself to stay close. "Don't move," I tell her, my voice rougher than I intend. "I'll be right back."
I head to the bathroom and grab a clean washcloth, running it under warm water until the temperature is just right—hot enough to soothe but not enough to burn. When I return to the bed, she's watching me with confusion in her eyes, like she can't quite figure out what I'm doing.
"Spread your legs for me," I say, keeping my voice gentle despite the command.
Her cheeks flush deeper, but she complies, and I can see her wince as she moves. I press the warm cloth between her thighs, cleaning away blood and evidence of what we just did, being as gentle as I can manage. She hisses at the contact, muscles tensing, and I slow down even more.
"I know it stings," I murmur, focused on the task. "But this will help."
She doesn't respond, just watches me with those eyes that see too much. I finish cleaning her, then toss the cloth toward the bathroom without looking to see where it lands. For a moment, I just sit there at the edge of the bed, my hand still resting on her thigh, warm skin under my palm.
This is where I should pull away, should put distance between us before I do something stupid like pull her close and keep her there. The heat of her body still clings to my skin, but I need to move, need to break whatever this moment is before it becomes something I can't walk away from.
I force myself to stand, to keep moving toward the bathroom. The shower scalds my skin, but it can't wash away the memory of her eyes on mine when I pushed inside her. Or the look on her face just now when she saw me leave.
When I return, she's lying curled in the sheets, awake but pretending otherwise. I can tell by her breathing.
I sit on the edge of the bed, close enough to feel her warmth. The silence stretches between us, heavy with everything we're not saying.
"Four months of marriage," I say finally, because the thought won't let me go. The words come out rougher than I intend. "How did Lorenzo never force you?"
Her eyes open slowly. For a long moment, she just looks at me, guarded and wary like she's deciding whether to trust me with more truth. Then her voice comes, barely above a whisper.
"He tried, like I said. But after the first few times, when he realized I wouldn't just submit quietly, he found other ways to assert his control. The beatings were more satisfying for him than forced intimacy."
The casual way she says it makes my jaw clench. But there's something else bothering me, something more immediate.
"The note," I say, returning to the mystery that started this entire conversation. "Someone knows details about your marriage that no one should know. Someone's been watching you, gathering information."
She sits up, clutching the sheet to her chest. "Who would do that? And why?"
"That's what I intend to find out." I check my watch—late afternoon, time slipping away while I've been distracted by the woman in my bed. "Stay here. Don't open the door for anyone except me or Isabella."
"Where are you going?"
"To get answers."
I give her a quick kiss before I can stop myself and I move toward the door, then pause. She looks small in my large bed, vulnerable in a way that makes something protective stir in my chest. But vulnerability is a luxury neither of us can afford.
"Alessia," I say without turning around. "What happened between us... it doesn't change anything. You're still my prisoner. This is still war."
I don't wait for her response. But as I close the door behind me, I catch the sound of her sharp intake of breath—hurt, maybe, or anger. Either way, it's better than the alternative.
Better than her thinking this meant something it couldn't.
The investigation into our security breach has yielded new leads, and I have a meeting with Don Emilio tomorrow that could determine the course of this entire conflict. I don't have time for complications.
Even if the complication in question is currently lying naked in my bed, probably hating me for the cold way I've just treated her.
Some things are worth the price. And keeping Alessia Moretti at arm's length—emotionally, if not physically—might just save both our lives.