Chapter Fifty-Three
Daphne
T he train ride to Matteo’s is smooth and uneventful, but I spend the entire journey with nervous energy thrumming through my veins.
I try to distract myself by scrolling through my emails and skimming through my half-finished articles, but nothing sticks.
My mind instead is stuck on one simple fact: I’m spending the weekend at Matteo Rossi’s house.
His mansion , really. Because calling it a house feels like calling the Colosseum a building.
The closer the train pulls towards the small station on the outskirts of the city, the more surreal it all becomes.
The moment I step out of the platform and onto the streets with my weekend bag slung over my shoulder, I see him. He’s leaning casually against a black Maserati, sunglasses perched on his nose and his arms crossed over his broad chest.
"Ciao, amore ," he calls as I approach.
"Hey yourself," I reply, suddenly hyper-aware of the warmth in my cheeks.
He pushes off the car and takes my bag before I can protest, tossing it easily into the boot. Then, without warning, he wraps me in his arms and kisses me, right there on the street where anyone could see us.
The kiss is deep and unapologetic as his tongue sweeps into my mouth, and the low growl he makes when I melt into him turns my legs to liquid.
When he finally pulls back, I'm breathless.
"I thought you said you were just picking me up," I murmur.
"I am,” he grins, brushing a thumb along my lower lip. "But I've been thinking about doing that for days ."
He opens and closes the car door for me before walking around the vehicle himself. I smile as I sit myself down, the bare skin of my thighs brushing against the plush leather as my sundress rises up slightly.
I cross my legs and revel in the familiar weight of his hand coming to rest on my thigh as he starts the engine and begins to drive us away from the station.
The drive to Matteo's house is short, winding through tree-lined roads that grow increasingly more secluded as we leave the outskirts of Rome behind.
His estate is nestled on a hill, behind tall iron gates that slide open at the press of a button.
Last time we arrived here, it was much later into the evening; but in the light of the late afternoon, I can’t help but think of how the driveway alone could double as a jogging track. It stretches up towards the sleek, modern villa surrounded by perfectly manicured gardens, and he parks beside the entrance and steps out, coming around to open my door before I can do it myself.
"I still can’t get over the fact that you actually live here," I tell him, taking in the wide stone terrace and the panoramic view of the city in the distance.
"Yeah." He glances at the house. "A bit much, eh?"
"A bit?" I huff a laugh. "Matteo, this place is obscene ."
"Obscene? Cara mia , I'll have you know it's tastefully extravagant." He smirks and takes my hand. "Come on. Let’s put your things away before we go to dinner."
*
Dinner turns out to be at a small, candlelit restaurant a short drive down the hill from his home. I tell him that we can walk, but he insists on calling a taxi for us to save my feet in my heels.
The restaurant is quiet and tucked away from the main road, and from the moment we step inside, I can tell it’s a clear favourite among locals.
"This," Matteo announces as we settle into a table on the shaded patio, "is a real date."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Oh, we're doing actual dates now?" I say. “Not just picnics in the park?”
"Absolutely," he replies. "None of this sneaking around press boxes or running into each other at stadiums." He leans forward, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Tonight, you're just a woman having dinner with an incredibly charming footballer."
"An incredibly modest footballer, you mean."
"You know, you're lucky I find your British sense of humour so attractive,” he winks.
The waiter arrives with menus, and Matteo orders a bottle of red wine without even glancing at the list .
"Trust me," he says when I raise a brow. "This wine will change your life."
He's not wrong.
The wine is rich and velvety, smooth with just the right amount of bite. The food is even better. I order a plate of handmade tonnarelli cacio e pepe - thick, square pasta coated in a glossy, peppery cheese sauce - and nearly moan at the first bite.
"Good?" Matteo asks, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"Good?" I gesture at the plate. "This might be the best thing I've ever eaten."
He leans back in his chair, satisfied.
"You see? Date night with me is always a win."
The conversation flows easily as we eat, drink and trade stories.
Matteo tells me about the pranks the players pulled during training this week - someone swapped the head coach's whistle for one that squeaked like a dog toy - and I tell him about my discovery of the vending machine at the office that serves the strongest coffee known to humankind.
It’s much later when the waiter sets the empty wine bottle on the table, and Matteo reaches for the bill before I can even pretend to search for my purse.
"I could've paid," I say weakly as we stand to leave.
"You could have," Matteo agrees, guiding me toward the restaurant's exit with a hand at the small of my back. "But you shouldn’t ever. You won’t ."
I nudge him with my shoulder.
"You know, you're very smug for someone who just ate half my pasta."
"It would have been criminal to let that go to waste," he counters, shooting me a grin that does nothing to slow the warmth spreading through my chest.
The night air is warm and thick as we step onto the quiet street. It's late, the village silent except for the faint hum of cicadas and the occasional clink of cutlery from a nearby terrace.
Matteo pulls out his phone and orders a taxi while I tilt my head toward the sky, taking in the faint shimmer of stars against the deep navy canvas.
"Beautiful, eh?" he murmurs, his voice low.
I nod, lowering my gaze - and find him watching me , not the sky.
The tension that's been simmering beneath the surface all evening thickens, coiling tight between us. The soft lighting from the streetlamp casts shadows across his jaw, emphasising the sharp angles and the hint of stubble that I know will feel rough against my skin.
I want him. Badly.
The taxi arrives with a quiet screech of tires against gravel, breaking the moment. Matteo opens the door for me and follows me inside, sliding across the seat until his thigh presses firmly against mine.
The driver confirms the address, mostly out of politeness - as I’m sure he knows where Rome’s football celebrity lives - and Matteo gives a curt nod before draping an arm across the back of the seat.
His fingers find the bare skin of my shoulder, tracing lazy circles that leave goosebumps in their wake .
The car pulls away from the curb, and I glance sideways at him as his hand lowers further and further down.
"Are you always this handsy in taxis?" I whisper.
His lips twitch.
"Only with you, bella ."
His fingers trail down my arm, skimming the inside of my wrist before settling on my thigh. The warmth of his touch bleeds through the thin material of my dress, and I shift slightly, my breathing growing uneven.
He notices, of course.
Matteo always notices.
His hand inches higher, his thumb stroking gentle patterns on the sensitive skin just above my knee. My thighs press together instinctively.
"Matteo," I whisper, voice full of warning.
He turns his head, his mouth so close to my ear that I feel the heat of his breath.
" Sì, mi amore ? "
The words along with his frustratingly delicious accent send an inadvertent shiver down my spine. I force myself to keep my gaze trained on the blurred lights outside the window.
The driver's presence feels distant and irrelevant as Matteo's fingers slide a fraction higher.
"You're doing this on purpose," I bite out.
"Of course," he says, voice rough with amusement. "I love watching you pretend you're unaffected."
I grit my teeth against the surge of desire building low in my stomach. My body hums with anticipation, every nerve stretched taut as his hand continues its slow, torturous ascent.
The car turns sharply, and I suck in a breath when Matteo's thumb grazes the sensitive crease of my thigh.
The driver coughs softly, and I snap back to reality.
"You're a menace," I hiss under my breath.
"You love it," Matteo replies. He leans in close so that his lips brush against the shell of my ear, and I swear my heart actually stutters .
The car rolls to a stop in front of Matteo's mansion, and the driver glances into the rearview mirror.
“Siamo qua.” We’re here.
I fumble for the door handle, desperate to escape the stifling heat of the car. Matteo pays the driver with infuriating calm, then steps out after me.
The cool night air should help to distract me.
It doesn't.
Matteo falls into step beside me as we cross the driveway, his hand reaching out to intertwine with mine, and I can feel the heat radiating from his body, the tension crackling like a live wire between us.
When we reach the front door, he unlocks it and steps aside to let me in. The door closes with a quiet click , and suddenly, the villa feels enormous. Silent.
Private .
I take a single step toward the staircase before Matteo's hand closes around my wrist.
"Where do you think you're going?" he asks, his voice low and dangerous .
"To bed," I manage, pulse hammering.
"Right," he says, his lips curving into a smirk as he steps in close behind me. "But I'm not done with you yet."
*
The hours that follow blur into a haze of heated skin, tangled limbs, and whispered endearments in a mixture of English and Italian.
Matteo moves with a kind of focused intensity that leaves me breathless. He doesn’t rush. Instead, he takes his time, drawing out every reaction until my body trembles beneath his touch, strung tight with anticipation.
His mouth maps a slow, torturous path down my neck, leaving a trail of heat in its wake. He pauses at the base of my throat, pressing his lips to the erratic pulse there.
And when he chuckles softly at the way my breath hitches, I want to throttle him.
"You're enjoying this," I grumble.
"Of course." His voice is low and gravelly. "You're beautiful like this, cara . So desperate for me."
"I'm not desperate ," I lie, even as I arch into the firm press of his hands.
He lifts his head, eyes glinting with amusement.
"No?"
" No .”
His thumb brushes over my nipple, and I bite back a groan.
" Liar ," he murmurs, ducking his head to capture the sensitive peak in his mouth.
His tongue flicks, sucks, teases until I’m squirming beneath him, torn between wanting to push him away and pull him closer.
My fingers tangle in his dark hair, nails scraping lightly against his scalp as he lavishes attention on my body. He moves with maddening precision - every kiss, every touch delivered with the control of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
It should be infuriating.
Instead, it’s just devastatingly effective.
His mouth trails lower, pausing at the curve of my hip. His stubble rasps against my skin, sending a shiver up my spine.
"Matteo," I breathe.
He glances up at me, lips curving into a wicked smile.
"Yes, bella ?"
"This… this is torture ."
"Good." His voice turns darker, rougher. "I want you to remember this. How it feels when I touch you. How it feels when I make you fall apart."
"You're so full of yourself," I manage.
He nips at the inside of my thigh, making me yelp.
"And you're full of attitude."
His hand slides up to my hip, gripping it firmly.
"But I like it. Makes it more fun when I break you."
Before I can respond, his mouth moves between my legs, and my thoughts dissolve into pure sensation.
*
By the time Matteo finally collapses beside me, my body is utterly spent .
My skin glows with warmth, my muscles hum with exhaustion, and my heart races from the aftershocks of pleasure that still linger beneath the surface.
"Bloody hell ," I whisper, flinging an arm across my face. "You're relentless."
Matteo laughs beside me, the sound low and satisfied.
"You kept up."
"Yeah, barely," I sigh, peeking at him through my fingers and find him watching me with a lazy smile.
His hair is a mess, his chest slick with sweat, and I can't help but think he looks absurdly good like this.
"Are you always this... intense ?" I ask.
"Only when it matters." He shifts onto his side, running his hand along my hip. "And you, bella , definitely matter."
My stomach flutters even as I groan.
" God , you're smooth."
"It's not smooth. It's honest," he chuckles as his thumb traces circles on my skin. "Can't help it if the truth sounds like a line."
I laugh softly, but the warmth of his words lingers.
We lie there for a while, the silence broken only by the sound of our breathing, and I let my eyes drift to a close as exhaustion creeps in.
Matteo pulls me closer, fitting my back against his chest. His hand slips beneath the sheet, resting possessively on my stomach as his lips brush against the nape of my neck.
"Sleep, mi amore ," he whispers. "You're safe here."
The words wrap around me like a blanket, and for the first time in weeks, I believe them.