Chapter Twenty-Seven
Matteo
I let her go.
I don’t follow.
Instead, I count to ten in my head, inhaling sharply through my nose as I hear the rapid click of her heels against the marble floor, the faint rush of air as the bathroom door swings open, then shut.
She’s gone.
The only trace of her left behind is the ghost of her touch on my skin, the sharp taste of her still lingering on my tongue, the scent of her perfume in the air.
I exhale slowly, pushing a hand through my hair as I straighten up from where I’m still leaning against the bathroom counter.
Well, fuck .
That didn’t go the way I thought it would.
I drag my fingers down my face, trying to make sense of what just happened. What I thought would happen.
For weeks, she’s been under my skin, burning at the edges of my thoughts, taking up space in my head that no one else has ever occupied. And I told myself that if I could just have her - if I could just fuck her - it would solve everything.
I told myself that it would get her out of my system.
But I don’t feel any better.
In fact, I somehow feel worse .
I push out of the stall and into the empty bathroom, adjusting my shirt, smoothing down the mess she made of me. I glance at my reflection in the mirror, at my mussed hair, my slightly swollen lips, the faint scratch marks she left at the back of my neck.
I smirk.
She wanted me. That much is undeniable.
But then I think of the way she bolted out of here, her green eyes wide with something that wasn’t just post-orgasm bliss.
The way she looked like she was seconds from passing out - not from pleasure, but from panic.
She fled .
Usually, it’s the opposite. No woman ever flees from me - I’m the one who leaves. I’m the one who untangles myself from limbs and sheets and painted lips whispering for me to stay just a little longer.
But Daphne Sinclair?
She was out the fucking door before I could even get a word in.
It’s unnerving. Frustrating .
I yank open the bathroom door and step into the dimly lit hallway.
I make my way to the entryway, ready to turn into the hall -
But then my gaze instantly sharpens as I catch sight of her.
She’s leaving - stepping into a sleek black car. Her shoulders are stiff, her auburn hair is still tousled from my hands, and her dress slightly wrinkled from where I’d gripped her hips like I couldn’t let go.
I can’t move. Instead, I just stand there, feeling something heavy settle in my stomach as the car pulls away.
I don't know what she’s thinking.
And I fucking hate it .
I run a hand through my hair, exhaling sharply before stepping further into the main reception area. I can still hear the muffled hum of music from the ballroom, the soft clink of glasses, the murmur of voices drifting through the hallway.
I should go back inside. Should shake hands with a few more people, maybe charm my way through another conversation I don’t give a shit about before saying goodbye to my teammates.
But the thought alone makes me want to punch something.
Instead, I keep walking.
I pull my phone from my pocket as I step outside, scrolling through my messages until I find the one I need. I tap the number, bringing the device to my ear as the driver picks up on the second ring.
“I’m leaving,” I say. “Be outside in two minutes.”
He confirms, and I hang up, sliding my phone back into my pocket as I take a deep breath of the cool night air.
I need to get out of here.
Away from the party. Away from the endless small talk and free-flowing champagne and all the shit I usually tolerate with a forced smile.
Because none of it interests me tonight.
Not when my mind is still stuck on her .
I told myself I needed to have her just once - just once - to get this shit out of my head.
But now, I know the truth.
I was dead fucking wrong.
*
The drive home is silent.
The low hum of the car’s engine does nothing to drown out the noise in my head. The neon lights of the city blur past the tinted windows, but I barely see them.
My jaw is tight, my fingers tapping against my thigh in restless frustration.
I can still feel her.
The heat of her body against mine. The soft, breathless noises she made when I touched her. The way her legs tightened around my waist when she stopped thinking, stopped fighting, and gave in.
I exhale sharply, dragging a hand down my face as I lean my head back against the seat.
This isn’t fucking normal.
Usually, after a night like this, I’d feel satisfied. I’d feel relaxed. Confident and content and finished.
But I don’t. Not even close .
If anything, I should feel victorious - because I won.
I had her. Not only did I take what I wanted, she let me - she wanted it.
And yet, it’s not enough.
For the first time in my life, having a woman - no, having her - didn’t put an end to the ache.
It just made it worse.
By the time I reach my penthouse, I’m already on edge.
I have multiple property all over the city, all over the country, all over the fucking continent, and tonight, I hadn’t wanted to go far.
I don’t bother turning on the lights as I step inside, shrugging off my jacket and letting it drop onto the nearest surface. My tie is discarded next, then my watch, and my shirt follows soon after as I kick off my shoes and head straight for the bedroom.
I strip out of my trousers, leaving them in a heap on the floor before climbing into bed. The sheets are cool against my skin, but they do nothing to ease the heat simmering just beneath the surface.
I exhale slowly, staring up at the ceiling, willing myself to switch off.
But I can’t.
Not when the only thing in my head is Daphne.
The taste of her lips, of her tongue, of her cunt .
The way her breath hitched when I teased her, when she tasted herself on me.
The way she melted when I finally stopped playing and gave her what she needed.
The way her eyes fluttered shut.
The way her back arched .
The way she whispered my fucking name .
My jaw tightens, my breathing deepens, and I shove a hand through my hair, cursing under my breath.
But I don’t even try to stop myself when my fingers slip lower, brushing against the growing heat between my legs.
Fuck . I’m already hard.
Still hard, even.
I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to will away the frustration burning through me, but it only makes the memories sharper. More vivid.
Her thighs stretched open, her legs spread out around my head as I knelt before her. The feel of her tight, soaking wet cunt clenching around me as I pushed into her. The way her head tipped back, her lips parting with a broken moan as she came apart under my touch.
I curse lowly as I wrap a firm hand around my cock, my grip tight as I stroke from base to tip.
The first sharp jolt of pleasure has my hips jerking slightly, my mind lost in the feel of her - the memory of her - as I pump my fist in slow, deliberate strokes.
I can see it so clearly in my mind - the way she looked at me like she wanted to hate me, but wanted me even more.
Like she was fighting herself the whole time, even as her body begged me not to stop.
I imagine what she’d look like now. Here, on my bed.
On her knees between my legs, that red hair spilling over her shoulders as she wrapped those perfect lips around my cock.
I grunt, my pace quickening.
My abs clench, my legs tense, but I can’t stop .
Not when my mind is full of her - her skin, her scent, the sounds she made when I had her pinned against that marble counter, begging me without even using words.
It doesn’t take long.
I barely last another minute before my breath catches, my jaw locking and my grip tightening as my hips stutter. I cum hard, my release spilling over my stomach as a low, guttural groan rumbles from my chest.
The pleasure is sharp and consuming -
But fleeting.
I barely have time to catch my breath before frustration takes over again.
I run a hand over my face, my body still thrumming with residual heat, my pulse still hammering.
It’s not enough.
I had her. I took what I wanted.
And yet, it hasn’t settled anything.
It just left me wanting more.
I curse, shoving the sheets off me as I sit up on the edge of the bed, my hands dragging down my face.
This isn’t me.
I fuck, and I move on.
I don’t get obsessed. I don’t do attachment.
But with her -
Well.
When it comes to Daphne Sinclair, apparently it’s not that simple .
I push off the bed and stride into the en-suite bathroom, cleaning up the mess I made - because of her - before flicking on the cold water and splashing it over my face.
I need to snap the fuck out of it.
She’s a journalist. She’s here for a few months, and then she’s gone.
I can’t afford to want her.
Not like this. Not when deep down, I know that one night will never be enough.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror, my chest rising and falling in time with the lingering frustration still thrumming through me.
She was already under my skin. I’d come to accept that.
But now ?
Now, I know that she’s not getting out.