7. CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER SEVEN
MATTEO
That dress isn’t just RED —it’s molten temptation, liquid sin poured over her body.
Ever since Katie stepped out in that dress, my dick has been in full-scale rebellion. Hours later, she’s still wearing it, and I can’t concentrate. I’m supposed to be guiding this walking tour, highlighting the wonders of Milan, but the way that fabric caresses her curves and swirls around her legs with every step—Cristo, all I want to do is feel that silk beneath my fingertips.
“Direct your attention to the stunning nineteenth-century glass arcade—the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II,” I say, pointing toward the ceiling. “They made this renowned passageway to connect the sacred walls of the Duomo cathedral with the cultural heart of the opera house…”
My mind won’t stop rewinding to the boutique when Katie’s eyes gleamed with playfulness. That moment when she claimed me as her boyfriend and laughed that warm, infectious laugh. It filled the room, and I was basking in it even as I was left squirming in my mannequin orgy.
Thank God for Howie and his credit card with no limits. The bill from my mannequin massacre would’ve bankrupted Monti Tours faster than Lorenzo can pick his nose.
“Notice the intricate mosaic tiles beneath your feet—” I say in my best guide spiel, only to break off mid-sentence when Katie stumbles. Her shiny new heels, clearly designed by someone who hates feet, turn against her.
“Young man!” Stan’s voice booms in the busy space. “Where are your manners? A gentleman always offers his arm to a lady in heels.”
“Oh, that’s not necessary—” Katie starts.
“I’m sure she can manage—” I try.
But Stan’s not having it. Neither are the other seniors, who’ve stopped and are now staring, with very clear expectations. They hail from a different generation, with different standards for chivalry.
“Now, now,” Stan insists, his bushy eyebrows wiggling like caffeinated caterpillars. “That is no way to treat a beautiful woman.” The rest of the group nods in synchronized judgment.
Fanculo . There’s no escape.
I extend my arm, trying to ignore how my heart’s already racing. “Shall we, principessa?”
Katie slides her hand into the crook of my elbow, and every nerve ending in my body dances. Her skin, soft and sensual, brushes against mine, and suddenly I’m swimming in her intoxicating scent—sweet, tantalizing, forbidden strawberries.
Every step through the Galleria is a mix of pure bliss and absolute agony. The way she presses against me when tourists pass, how her fingers dig into my arm when her heels wobble, the soft catch in her breath when I help her dodge a rogue selfie stick.
Focus, idiota.
“Amici miei , meet Milan’s most celebrated stud—and his impressive family jewels.”
I gesture to the colorful design on the floor. Thousands of tiny black and cream tiles fit together like a satisfying puzzle, creating the unmistakable shape of a muscular bull. The bull stands proudly on a blue coat of arms that sparkles like a giant sapphire.
“You see that hole?” I point to the worn spot in the mosaic. “That’s where generations of people have spun three times for luck in love. Right on the bull’s testicoli.”
That gets me a laugh from the seniors.
“Katie, darling, give those bull balls a spin!” Deborah cheers.
I wink at Katie. “Care to test it out, bella?”
“Is this a real tradition, or are you trying to make a fool of me?”
“It’s an important ritual in my culture,” I defend, as I guide Katie to the spot. “Very historic. Very lucky.”
“Fine. But if I break an ankle spinning on ancient bull testicles, you’re carrying me for the rest of the tour.”
Merda. Now I’m imagining carrying her, that red silk sliding against my—s top.
Tour guide. You’re being a tour guide.
The seniors burst into applause as Katie starts to turn.
One spin. Her dress flares out like a rose blooming.
Two spins. Her smile lights up the whole gallery.
Three spins. Her laughter ricochets off the historic walls, bright and unfiltered, like it’s got a direct line to my chest. It’s a sound that almost makes me believe in miracles.
Something’s shifting inside me, and no, it’s not just my very insistent hard-on trying to weigh in. This is different. More substantial. And damn if it isn’t making me want to catalog every single one of her genuine, unguarded smiles.
***
“Behold, the heart of Milan herself, the Duomo di Milano!”
I spread my arms wide, showcasing the colossal cathedral, like I’m unveiling a masterpiece—which, to be fair, I am. The way those Gothic spires pierce the sky, how the marble glows pink and gold in the setting sun—pure fucking magic.
“Tonight I have arranged something special. A private tour that will take us through the cathedral’s secrets, ending with the most spectacular evening view in all of Milan—the Duomo’s rooftop terrace.”
I detect a subtle spark of approval in Katie’s eyes.
“The city lights will spread out below you like scattered stars,” I continue, letting my natural enthusiasm flow. “The marble angels watch over Milan’s sleeping streets. Trust me, it’s a once-in-a-lifetime view.”
The excited murmurs from my visitors hit me like a drug. This never gets old. Watching them fall in love with Italy in real time? That’s the real payoff. Not the euros, not the reviews. This.
And let’s be clear—this is not the kind of experience Italy Express would ever offer. Hell no. Those corporate robots put their tourists to bed by six p.m.—seven if they’re feeling generous—and God forbid anyone sees Milan after dark. They need their puppets bright-eyed and bushy-tailed for the riveting experience of visiting souvenir shops at sunrise.
“We will meet back at this spot.” I check my watch. “One hour till go time! The piazza is yours to explore.”
I came up with the phrase “One hour till go time” during my first year of guiding. It was back when I learned the hard way that “Meet back here at 13:00″ means WTF-o’clock to jet-lagged tourists who can barely remember what continent they’re on.
The seniors instinctively check their watches, phones, and those weird digital things hanging around their necks. It works every time. Something about the countdown gets their attention better than other instructions I’ve tried. Plus it’s catchier than “Please don’t wander off and get lost in a foreign city while I have a panic attack trying to find you.”
“Oh dear.” Mrs. Thomas tugs at my sleeve. “My blood sugar’s getting a bit low. Is there somewhere nearby I can get a snack?”
“Giuseppe’s. He’ll be pulling his signature pistachio cannoli from the oven right about now.”
I whip out my handy little notebook and pencil from my pocket. It’s not as fancy-schmancy as Katie’s binder, but it does the trick. Being a tour guide means helping people find their way. I draw her a quick map and hand her the paper. I’ve done this a thousand times.
“Tell him Matteo sent you. He’ll wrap up something special.”
“Any chance there’s a bathroom near that bakery?” Bob asks, doing an emergency-level potty dance.
“Even better. The café two doors down from Giuseppe’s has the cleanest restroom in the district. Just buy an espresso first”—I slip him a two-euro coin—“and tell Sofia behind the counter you’re with Monti Tours.”
“Well now,” Howie’s voice booms above the crowd. “Miss Delightful, I do believe there was a sapphire necklace with your name on it back at the Galleria. I must say it would complement your eyes.”
“You Southern Casanova, you had me at delightful.” Deb entwines her arm with his, and they stroll back toward the elegant archway.
The next ten minutes is a frenzy of me doing tour guide triage.
Chester can’t read the street signs? Take this map with my signature stick-figure landmarks.
Stan’s knee acting up? I bust out a folding chair stashed on the bus for exactly this scenario.
One by one, my seniors disperse into the gathering dusk, armed with personalized directions and my cell number “just in case.” And then it’s just Katie and me.
“Matteo?” She fidgets with the red fabric around her neck, twisting it nervously between her fingers. “Would you… would you take my picture? In front of the cathedral?”
“Of course, principessa.” I take the cap off my camera lens, the familiar weight of it grounding me. The late-afternoon light bathes the square in a golden glow, highlighting the full glory of the cathedral. And looking at Katie, with her body filling out that sumptuous dress—it’s a scene that demands to be captured.
So why do I feel like this is a terrible idea?
Katie steps into position, glancing over her shoulder at the towering structure behind her. Her first attempts at posing make me wince. She stiffens, tilting her chin too high, her arms hanging awkwardly at her sides like she’s not sure what to do with them. Then comes a forced smile—tight and unconvincing, like a kid at school picture day. Everything about her screams discomfort.
I show her the initial shots. They’re… nice. Not exactly ‘Gram-worthy but still cute.
“Could we maybe…?” She swallows hard. “Try for something… sexier? For Jared?”
His name is like ice water down my spine. Right. The fiancé. The lucky jerk who gets to unwrap this breathtaking present every night.
“Tesoro, you’re thinking too much. You’re posing like someone’s holding you hostage. Let me help you.”
“I just…” Those green eyes dart away. “I don’t know how to be sexy.”
“That dress says otherwise.” I deliberately drop my voice to that register that makes women’s knees weak. “Turn around. Face the cathedral.”
When she hesitates, I add, “Trust me, per favore. I will bring out la tigre that you are in this dress.”
The moment she turns I start shooting, but this isn’t about the photos anymore. This is about making Katie Crawford realize exactly how fucking gorgeous she is.
“Now imagine hands sliding up those perfect curves, touching all the places you dream about late at night…”
Her breath catches. Perfetto.
“Good girl. Let your head fall back. Like you’re remembering the best orgasm of your life.”
“Matteo!” But her body betrays her, arching like she’s already feeling phantom touches.
“That’s it, bellissima. Look over your shoulder at me—like you’re deciding which part of me to explore first.”
The sound she makes—this tiny, desperate whimper—does dangerous things to my self-control.
“Fantastico.” CLICK.
“You are temptation itself in that dress.” CLICK.
“Those legs make men beg for mercy.” CLICK.
“And that mouth… Dio mio, the filthy things I’d teach that pretty mouth to do.”
Each word strips away another layer of her inhibitions. Her hands glide up her sides like a lover’s touch, slow and seductive. Those exquisite breasts beg to be freed with each breath, straining against the fabric. She’s radiant in the fading light.
“Show me what you’re thinking about, principessa. Let me see those dirty thoughts you hide behind those innocent eyes.”
“I’m not—” She bites that full bottom lip, and my control snaps.
“No?” I move closer, drawn by a primal force I can’t fight anymore. “So you’re not imagining rough hands replacing that silk? A wet tongue licking every curve you keep hidden?”
Her pupils dilate until those green eyes are nearly black, her body edging toward mine like it knows exactly where it belongs. When I speak again, I deliberately let my accent thicken, watching her shiver in response.
“Ammettilo, ti stai immaginando di scoparmi.”
Admit it, you’re imagining fucking me.
“I think that’s enough.” Her voice comes out breathless. “I need to post some pictures for Jared.”
And there’s that name again, slicing through my growing arousal.
Fuck. I need to get my shit together before I do something monumentally stupid. Like press her up against these sacred walls and show her how an Italian man worships a woman. But she belongs to someone else—invisible ring or not. And despite my reputation, despite how much I want to ruin her for any other man’s touch, I don’t cross that line. Not ever. No matter how much my cock wants to.
I pass her the camera, ignoring the thrill of her fingers brushing mine.
“That’s… that’s me?” She blinks rapidly like she’s trying to reconcile the seductress on-screen. “I look…”
“Like a woman who doesn’t just catch a man’s attention—she chains him to her presence. You look like a weapon of desire—like the reason priests question their calling.”
“Stop!” But she’s grinning that real smile—the one that splits me open and disarms me in a single heartbeat.
“I’m serious, Katie. This—” I lean closer, pointing to a shot where the sunset turns her into liquid gold. “This is the woman who’s always there, burning beneath all that control, begging to break free.”
Our eyes meet in the screen’s reflection and holy fuck—the heat between us could power all of Italy.
The second the photos transfer, she’s typing and posting like her life depends on it.
“Tag Monti Tours?” I keep my voice casual, like I’m not desperate to see what kind of man gets to call her his.
“Of course!” She doesn’t look up, probably crafting the perfect caption with the same precision she applies to everything else in her life.
My phone pings, and I hit Follow before I can stop myself. Porca miseria! My feed explodes with pictures of her and some professore who looks like he gets turned on by pictures of dinosaur feet. It’s a fucking shrine to perfect coupledom. Photo after photo of her in tasteful cardigans, him in ugly ties with stupid fucking dinosaurs. In every one, Katie wears that polite smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.
No wonder she made that comment about women faking their climaxes. I’d bet my last euro Jared’s never made her come so hard she gripped the sheets until they tore. He probably pencils in their missionary position encounters between ironing his ties and polishing his fossil collection.
But who am I to say anything? Of course she’s into reliable guys with put-together lives and careers. Girls like Katie don’t dream of a man who can barely keep his tour company running.
Why the hell am I spiraling over Katie Crawford’s all-American life as if it’s any of my business? She’s a tourist who needed photos. That’s it.
I took the pictures. I did my job.
Even if watching Katie finally unleash her sultry side made my cock harder than marble.
I’ve got my rule; she’s got her fiancé.
Time to focus on being the charming tour guide—not someone imagining how she’d taste or how she’d sound screaming my name.
I need to get my head straight and focus on something else—like tomorrow’s Wish Card.
The seniors start filtering back, right on schedule, and I begin my head count. Katie beams at her phone screen (which I ignore… unsuccessfully) .
Last to arrive are Deborah and Howie, and cazzo —that sapphire around her neck could fund a small country.
“Deborah, that necklace is almost as stunning as you.” I whistle low. “Though you should see the gorgeous photos I just took of your niece. She wanted something special for her fiancé—”
“Fiancé?” Aunt Deb chuckles. “Darling, Katie doesn’t have a fiancé. Jared broke things off, and we hightailed it to Italy.”
Katie freezes. Her phone slips from her fingers, hitting the cobblestones with a crack.
I look down at her face, watching the color drain from her cheeks, and suddenly everything—those staged photos, the constant mentions of Jared, that empty ring finger—clicks into place.
***
“And to your left, you’ll see…” I trail off, staring at the ornate altar, hoping it will magically beam the words into my brain. Nothing. Niente. “An incredibly… shiny thing. With, um, angels and… stuff.”
There’s nothing quite like the Duomo at twilight. The way candlelight flickers across soaring pillars and ancient marble, turning everything soft and golden. The air is thick with a mix of incense, history, and the whispers of countless prayers. Even the stones are pulsing with secrets, eager to divulge the most scandalous tales from the past half millennium.
But tonight? Tonight I’m the world’s shittiest tour guide.
I completely blanked on showing off the sundial on the floor—the one that tracks perfect time with a beam of sunlight from a tiny roof hole. Forgot to bring up the statue of Saint Bartholomew holding his own skin like a superhero cape, which always gets a mix of ews and awesomes from the crowd. And I don’t think I even shared that it took six centuries and seventy-eight architects to complete this marvel—and here’s a mystery for the ages—no one knows who the original architect was.
All because Katie Crawford lied to me.
Her arm is locked through mine—the seniors still insisting on proper gentleman etiquette—but she feels like a ghost of herself.
The confidence she had earlier? Vanished.
The playful banter? Ciao.
The way she owned that red dress? Gone.
It’s like she pressed pause on herself , leaving behind only a fragile shadow of this Katie of mine.
Katie of mine ? Why the hell did I call her mine ?
“And here we have…” I gesture vaguely at a massive painting I could normally describe in my sleep. “Jesus. Doing… Jesus things.”
Brilliant commentary, idiota.
That damn binder keeps flashing through my mind—the one I risked hypothermia and permanent testicular retreat to save from Lake Como. One night, no strings, clean getaway, no fucking feelings—that’s my world. That’s what makes sense. So why can’t I stop thinking about this woman who loves so deeply—planning every detail, every moment, every breath?
No one’s ever wanted me with that kind of intensity.
The sheer dedication of it stuns me.
And why does watching her hurt feel like I’m the one breaking?
“And now, my friends,” I announce to the group, “we climb to heaven itself. Just three hundred and twenty-five steps to the most spectacular view in Milan.”
The collective groan from my seniors could drown out the bells of a Sunday mass.
“Just kidding,” I say with a wink. “We’ll take the elevator.”
Twenty minutes later, Milan glitters below us like someone bedazzled the entire city. The view is pure Italian magic—modern buildings playing peek-a-boo with ancient towers, streets woven together in a beautiful, orchestrated mess. The air is perfumed with the scent of blooming jasmine, and a gentle breeze carries the warmth of a summer night. The city seduces each and every one of us, one sparkling light at a time.
I’m doing my usual tour guide thing, highlighting all the best landmarks. Rose and Stan are holding hands, the Dawson sisters are taking gargoyle selfies, and I spot Howie and Deborah sneaking away from the group with muffled cackling.
For fuck’s sake, please have them make it back to their hotel room before clothes start flying. The last thing I need is my senior citizens defiling sacred ground. Though knowing Deborah, she’d probably high-five the saint statues on her way out.
“I’ve decided what I want for my Wish Card.”
Katie materializes beside me, but something’s off.
She thrusts the Instagram feed on her phone in my face. “Look at this!”
I squint at a poorly lit photo of a pasty hand next to an empty display case with the caption: Fossil exhibit coming soon .
“Jared didn’t like my photo, but he posted this exactly seven minutes and twenty-three seconds ago.” Her words come faster than I’ve ever heard her speak. “Which means he’s online. Just… ignoring me.”
She’s pacing now, her heels click-clacking against the timeless marble in a frantic rhythm. “But it’s fine. I’m fine. I just need to adjust the timeline. Create a new plan. Because that’s what you do when plan A isn’t working—you don’t give up, you make a plan B! And a plan C! And maybe a plan D through Z just to be safe!”
She trips over her own heel, catching herself on a gargoyle. She immediately apologizes to the gargoyle, then continues her manic pacing.
“Careful, principessa. The church frowns on shedding blood on holy ground.”
Cristo. I’ve seen many sides of Katie Crawford. The uptight princess with her death glares. The hidden vixen in a red dress who makes my dick hard. The vulnerable woman whose sadness breaks my heart. But this Katie, with anxious energy crackling off her like a lightning storm? This is uncharted territory.
“Still not hearing a wish in this presentation.”
She stops dead, those green eyes locking onto mine with laser focus. “Be my fake boyfriend.”
My cock actually twitches at the word boyfriend . What the fuck?
“Help me make Jared jealous. We’ll take pictures—”
“Ah, so now you want to take sexy photos with me?” I waggle my eyebrows, trying to lighten the moment.
“No!” She looks horrified. “I want… flirty pictures, not sexy ones. You know, the kind that make someone go ‘Oh, what’s going on there?’ Just enough to make him realize what he’s missing. I can’t seem like I’ve moved on, but I have to get his attention now. I have a very specific timeline—”
“Tesoro, that’s not how jealousy works.” I step closer, drawn in by her magnetic force. “A man only feels jealous when he can’t have what he wants.”
Like how my stomach burns every time she says Jared’s fucking name.
“So…” That pink tongue darts out to wet her lips, and my entire body notices. “Will you help me? Grant my wish?”
“No.” Her face crumples and it physically hurts. “I will be your fake boyfriend, but this doesn’t count. Your wish is something just for you to remember this trip. Promise me you’ll think of a real wish.”
“Yes!” She bounces on her toes, and suddenly she’s hugging me, all soft curves and strawberry scent and—
Merda.
Reality crashes into me harder than Lorenzo’s emergency braking. I just volunteered to be Katie Crawford’s fake boyfriend. To help her win back her fiancé.
Why the hell did I say yes?
And why does my dick keep twitching at the word boyfriend?