Chapter 20 Beatrice #2
That’s it. That’s my end.
I cry out, biting down on my lip to keep the sound trapped inside me, my hand tangling in his hair, pushing him closer as my body shatters around his mouth.
“Matteo,” I whimper. “Please…”
He slows, just enough to torture. “Not yet.”
Soft, helpless sounds slip from me despite every attempt to stay quiet. I rock into his hand, chasing him shamelessly, needing more, needing everything.
“Say it again,” he murmurs. “Say my name.”
“Matteo,” I gasp, my voice unraveling completely. “Please, I need—”
And then he finally gives it to me.
The pace quickens, relentless, and I don’t want this feeling to end. I want—everything.
“Come for me,” he commands, his voice low, unyielding. “Now.”
The pleasure hits fast and fierce, tearing through me in hot, blinding waves.
I let go, letting it take me, letting my body answer without restraint.
He doesn’t slow, doesn’t stop, keeps me right there until I’m shaking and spent, his fingers still teasing me through the aftershocks, his mouth following like he can’t get enough.
When the haze finally lifts and my breathing steadies, Matteo rises and kisses me. He tastes different this time—slower, softer, charged with something deeper than heat alone.
Something I’m not ready to name.
I cling to him, arms tight around his shoulders, suspended in the small, fragile world we’ve created.
When we finally pull apart, I feel light, unmoored.
Then he smooths my dress back into place, his fingers brushing deliberately over skin that still burns everywhere he has touched me.
“That wasn’t fair, by the way,” I huff, folding my arms across my chest.
Matteo lifts a brow. “What wasn’t?”
“I wanted you to…” I swallow, heat flooding my cheeks.
“Fuck you with my cock?” he finishes for me, voice low and shameless.
My blush deepens. “Yes.”
He chuckles, the sound warm and wicked. “If we’d done that, there would be no returning to the reception. And we can’t simply vanish, bella.”
We could. But with Marcello and Marta present from start to finish, disappearing would be disastrous.
“That was all about you,” he murmurs as he kisses the top of my head and smooths a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“What about you?” I glance down at the unmistakable strain in his trousers. “I could…”
I tug him closer by the waistband until our bodies align, my fingers slipping to his belt, intent clear. But his hands close gently over mine, halting me. I try again, playful and determined, and again he stops me.
“We have a wedding reception to attend, Beatrice.”
I groan and rest my forehead against the solid wall of his chest. “You make me feel like an insatiable bunny.”
His chest shakes with laughter—rare, deep, utterly disarming—and the sound blooms inside me like something I never want to live without.
“If I had my way,” he says softly, “you would be in our bed, naked and wrapped around me. But that is for later, amore. For now, we go back out there and act like dutiful guests.”
“Is that a promise?” I ask, tilting my head up with a teasing smile.
His answering smile is slow and sure. “Promise.”
We compose ourselves and walk hand in hand back into the ballroom. Eyes turn toward us, curious and whispering, but I barely register them anymore. Let them talk. They always do. Eventually they’ll find someone else to dissect.
He guides us deeper into the crowd—an attempt at hiding that lasts all of thirty seconds before Valerio finds us.
“You two could be a bit more discreet, you know?” Valerio drawls, holding two whiskey glasses and passing one to Matteo. He gestures toward my belly. “I’d offer you one as well, but… circumstances.”
I roll my eyes at his theatrics. “Found any unfortunate women to charm tonight, Valerio? Or have the bridesmaids learned to run?”
He has the audacity to feign shock. “What kind of man do you take me for? Me? Schmoozing women at a wedding of all places? Never.”
“It would be odd if you didn’t, Valerio.”
He tuts at Matteo before clinking their glasses. “Seems I’m the last man standing. Both my closest friends, whipped and fathers-to-be. Where did my life go so wrong?”
“I’m sorry you have to be a man-whore all on your own now,” Matteo teases, then turns to me with a soft touch to my arm. “Mi amore, I need to speak to Marcello. Sit for a bit; I’ll come find you.”
“Leave her with me, boss.” Valerio downs his whiskey in a single swallow and deposits the empty glass onto a waiter’s tray. “I think a dance would do her good. I read in a book somewhere it helps with labor.”
“I’m five months along,” I deadpan. “I’m far from labor.”
“Might as well get a head start.” Before either Matteo or I can stop him, Valerio catches my hand and pulls me away from my husband. He looks over his shoulder, tossing a grin. “Excuse me while I steal your wife, boss.”
I glance back. Matteo stands rigid, carved from stone, but there’s no true anger in him—only that watchful possessiveness he never quite hides.
Valerio guides me onto the dance floor, pulling me in with just enough space between us to be respectable, yet still playful.
Over the past few months, he’s grown on me. In the beginning he was cold, closed-off, protective of his inner circle, and I understood why. I had barged my way into his friend’s life, a stranger bringing danger without meaning to. To them, I was unknown, unpredictable. A risk.
“Your dancing has improved since the wedding,” Valerio says lightly. “My toe still twitches from your assault.”
I snort. “I told you I needed to lead. You didn’t listen.”
We had danced at my wedding—well, I danced, and he tolerated my attempts. I may have stepped on him a few times, or five, but he’d insisted on leading despite my warnings.
“I can’t believe I managed to steal you from your shadow,” he teases, eyes gleaming.
“You did it just to irritate him,” I say, shaking my head. “One day he’ll put a bullet in you for provoking him so much. You know how Matteo gets.”
Valerio moves us across the floor with effortless grace. “That’s exactly why I do it. It’s all in good fun. Besides, I’m the only one who can get away with it. After you, I’m his favorite person. Look at him. He adores me.”
I glance toward the edge of the dance floor, where Matteo lingers, his gaze locked on Valerio with hawk-like precision.
“Sure,” I mutter.
We both laugh, gliding to the rhythm. I feel Matteo’s eyes on me the entire time—not oppressive, not possessive in the wrong way, but steady, grounding, protective.
For the first time, I realize I don’t feel observed. I feel held. Covered.
Safe.
And in that quiet truth settling beneath my ribs, I begin to think that maybe everything that broke, every moment of darkness, every painful turn, had to happen to lead me exactly here—into his hands, his life, his love.