12. Matteo
12
MATTEO
B ella’s trembling fingers fumble with my shirt buttons, her rapid breathing the only sound in the quiet room. I catch her hands, stilling them against my chest where my heart pounds beneath her palms. The heat of her touch burns through me, making it hard to maintain control.
“Slow down, piccola ,” I murmur against her mouth, even though every instinct screams to take her right here, right now. “We have all night.”
“I don’t want slow.” She nips at my bottom lip, defiant even now, and Christ, the way she challenges me makes my blood burn. Her hands slide down my chest, leaving fire in their wake. “I want?—”
“What you want,” I growl, spinning her so her back presses against the window, “and what you need are two different things.” The glass must be cold against her skin, but she arches into me instead of away, pressing those perfect curves against my body. “Trust me to know the difference.”
Her laugh is breathless, slightly wild. “Trust the man who just confessed to murder?”
I slide one hand into her hair, tugging gently to expose the elegant line of her throat. The way she yields to me, even while maintaining that spark of defiance in her eyes, nearly undoes my control. “Trust the man who’s been dreaming of this since that day you walked into his study.” My lips trace the path of her pulse, feeling it jump beneath my tongue. “The man who’s going to worship every inch of you until you forget everything but my name.”
“Matteo,” she gasps as my teeth graze her skin, and the sound of my name on her lips sends heat straight to my groin.
“Yes,” I approve, my free hand slipping beneath her sweater to find bare skin. She’s impossibly soft, warm silk under my callused fingers. I’ve been dying to touch her like this since our encounter in my office, imagining how she’d feel, how she’d respond. The reality is better than any fantasy. “Just like that.”
She’s responsive to every touch, her sensitivity making her hyperaware of each point of contact between us. When I find a particularly sensitive spot just below her ribs, she makes a sound that shoots straight through me—half moan, half whimper. The urge to take her right here against the window is almost overwhelming, but she deserves better for our first time. For her first time.
I scoop her into my arms, savoring her small gasp of surprise. She weighs nothing, this slip of a girl who’s brought the mighty Matteo DeLuca to his knees. I carry her upstairs to the master bedroom, where the lights rise softly as we enter. The massive bed is dressed in crisp white linens—all new, nothing recycled from the past. This room, like everything else, has been prepared just for her.
Setting her down beside the bed, I take a moment to drink in the sight of her. My wife. Mine. Her dark hair is mussed from my hands, tumbling around her shoulders in waves that beg me to bury my fingers in them again. Her lips are swollen from my kisses, her cheeks flushed with desire. That oversized sweater has slipped completely off one shoulder now, revealing the elegant line of her collarbone and the edge of black lace beneath.
“Beautiful,” I murmur, reaching for the hem of her sweater. I need to see all of her, need to map every inch of skin with my hands, my mouth.
She raises her arms, letting me pull the sweater over her head, but her hands immediately move to cover herself. The gesture is endearing, speaking to an innocence that makes me want to both protect and corrupt her. The black lace of her bra does little to hide her curves, but it’s not shame making her shy—it’s the intensity of my gaze.
“Don’t,” I say softly, drawing her hands away. “Let me look at my wife.”
The word sends a visible shiver through her. “Say it again.”
“My wife.” I press a kiss to her shoulder, tasting her jasmine-scented skin. “My artist.” Another kiss along her collarbone, feeling her pulse race beneath my lips. “Mine.”
She melts into my touch, her hands coming up to tangle in my hair as I worship every inch of exposed skin. Each gasp, each tremor tells me exactly how to please her. I’m mapping her responses, memorizing what makes her breath catch, what makes her fingers tighten in my hair.
“Please,” she whimpers, and the sound nearly breaks my control.
“Please what?” I straighten, enjoying the flush spreading across her chest, the way her eyes have gone dark with desire. “Use your words, piccola .”
Instead of answering, she reaches for my shirt, pushing it off my shoulders with trembling hands. Her eyes widen at the sight of my scars—the one from Sophia’s bullet on my side, others from years of violence. But where I expect hesitation, I find reverence. She traces each mark with gentle fingers, learning my body like she’s memorizing it for a painting.
When she reaches the bullet scar, she pauses, her touch featherlight. “Does it still hurt?”
“No.” I catch her hand, pressing it flat against my chest where my heart thunders beneath her palm. “But this does.”
She understands my meaning—I see it in her eyes, in the way tears gather in those hazel depths even as she tries to smile. No one has ever looked at me like this, with such complete acceptance of both my strength and my vulnerability. Rising on her toes, she presses her lips to the scar on my shoulder, then the one on my side. Her tenderness undoes me more than any seduction could.
The last threads of my control snap. I lift her onto the bed, following her down into the crisp white sheets. Everything feels heightened, more intense—the softness of her skin against mine, the way her breath catches with each touch, the trust in her eyes as she welcomes me into her arms.
Italian endearments fall from my lips between kisses. “ Tesoro mio ,” I whisper against her throat. “ Il mio cuore .” My treasure. My heart. Words I never thought I’d say again, yet they feel right with her.
“Tell me you want this,” I demand, needing to hear it. “Tell me you’re sure.”
“I want this.” She meets my eyes without hesitation, and the trust I see there steals my breath. “I want you, Matteo. All of you—the darkness and the light.”
I take my time admiring the black lace against her pale skin. The bra is clearly expensive—La Perla if I had to guess—but it’s the way she wears it that makes my mouth go dry. Her breasts rise and fall with each quick breath, the lace doing little to hide her peaked nipples.
“You’re staring,” she whispers, a blush spreading down her neck to her chest.
“How could I not?” My fingers trace the edge of the lace, feeling her shiver. “You’re exquisite.”
I reach behind her, unhooking the bra with practiced ease. She lets it fall away, and my breath catches. Her breasts are perfect—full but not too large, tipped with dusky pink nipples that beg for my mouth. When I cup them in my palms, testing their weight, she gasps.
“Sensitive,” I note, brushing my thumbs across the hardened peaks. Her whole body arches into the touch. “I’ll remember that.”
Those leggings have to go next. I peel them down slowly, revealing inches of soft skin until she stands before me in only black lace panties that match the discarded bra. My hands span her waist before sliding down to grip her hips.
Her hands tremble as she reaches for my belt, and the slight shake in her fingers makes something protective and primal surge in my chest. When the leather slides free, her breath catches. She’s nervous but determined, my brave little artist.
“Let me help you,” I murmur, guiding her hands to my zipper. The brush of her knuckles against me, even through layers of fabric, makes my muscles tense. She pushes my trousers down, and I step out of them, leaving me in just black boxer briefs that do nothing to hide how much I want her.
Her eyes widen when they drop to the obvious bulge, and that blush I’m growing addicted to stains her cheeks pink. Christ, her innocence is intoxicating. When her fingers hook hesitantly in the waistband of my underwear, I have to grip her wrists to stop her.
“Together,” I tell her, reaching for her panties. “Fair is fair, piccola .”
The last barriers fall away, and she’s finally, gloriously naked before me. She’s a masterpiece—all soft curves and elegant lines that would make Renaissance sculptors weep. Her waist nips in before flaring to gently rounded hips, and her legs seem endless.
When she finally sees me completely naked, her blush deepens but she doesn’t look away. She takes in every detail—the muscles honed by years of training, the scars that map my violent history, the very obvious evidence of my desire for her. I see the moment her gaze catches on my size, her lips parting slightly as her eyes widen.
“See something you like, piccola ?” I tease gently, trying to ease her nervousness.
She surprises me by reaching out to trace the muscles of my abdomen, her fingers following the defined lines with an artist’s appreciation. “You’re beautiful,” she whispers, then immediately looks embarrassed. “I mean…handsome? I don’t know the right word…”
I catch her wandering hand, pressing a kiss to her palm. “From you, I’ll take beautiful.”
When I pull her against me, we both gasp at the first full skin-to-skin contact. Her breasts press against my chest, soft curves meeting hard muscle, and the feeling of her naked body against mine is almost too much. She fits me perfectly, like she was made for me, and every point of contact burns like fire.
“Matteo,” she breathes, and my name has never sounded more like a prayer.
I capture her mouth in a searing kiss as my hand slides between her thighs. She’s already wet for me, her body trembling as I explore her most intimate places. When I circle that sensitive bundle of nerves, she breaks the kiss with a gasp, her head falling back against the pillows.
“That’s it,” I encourage, watching her face as I slip one finger inside her, then another. She’s tight, wet heat around my fingers, and the thought of being inside her makes my control fray. “Let me hear you, piccola .”
Her moans grow louder as I work her body, learning exactly how to touch her, where to press, how to curl my fingers to make her arch off the bed. When my thumb finds her clit again, she cries out my name, her hands fisting in the sheets.
My fingers work her slowly, deliberately. She’s so wet, so responsive to every touch, her body telling me exactly what she needs even as she struggles to voice it.
“That’s it, piccola ,” I encourage, watching her face as pleasure overtakes her. “Let go for me.”
Her release catches her by surprise—one moment she’s trembling on the edge, the next she’s crying out my name as she clenches around my fingers. She’s magnificent in her pleasure, all flushed skin and desperate sounds.
Before she can recover, I slide down her body, pressing kisses to her inner thighs. Her eyes fly wide when she realizes what I’m about to do.
“Matteo, what—” She tries to close her legs, but I hold them open gently.
“Trust me,” I murmur against her sensitive skin. At the first taste of her, we both groan. “Christ, you taste perfect.”
She writhes beneath my mouth, her hands fisting in the sheets as I discover every spot that makes her gasp my name. When I focus on her clit, alternating between gentle suction and firm strokes of my tongue, her thighs begin to tremble. I slide two fingers back inside her, curling them upward as I work her with my mouth.
“Oh God, Matteo, please…” Her voice breaks on my name as her second orgasm hits harder than the first. I keep going, drawing out her pleasure until she’s pulling at my hair, oversensitive and desperate.
When I finally move back up her body, her eyes are heavy-lidded with pleasure, her lips parted as she tries to catch her breath. I capture her mouth in a deep kiss, letting her taste herself on my tongue. Instead of shying away, she moans, pulling me closer.
“Inside me,” she begs between kisses. “I need you inside me.”
“Look at me,” I demand, positioning myself at her entrance. When those hazel eyes meet mine, I see trust mixed with desperate need. “Tell me if it’s too much.”
She nods her understanding as I begin entering her slowly, watching her face for any sign of discomfort. The trust she’s placing in me is staggering—this beautiful, fierce woman who knows what I am, what I’ve done, and still gives herself to me completely. When I’m fully seated, I force myself to stay still, letting her adjust to my size. The sensation of her tight heat around me nearly breaks my control, but I force myself to go slow, to let her adjust to my size.
“Okay?” I ask when I’m fully seated. Every muscle in my body trembles with the effort of holding still.
“More than okay,” she breathes, rolling her hips experimentally. The movement makes us both gasp. “Move, Matteo. Please.”
I begin a slow, deep rhythm that has her arching beneath me, meeting each thrust. Her hands map my back, my shoulders, learning me as thoroughly as I’m learning her. When I shift the angle slightly, she closes her eyes and cries out, her nails scoring my skin.
“Open your eyes, Bella,” I command softly. “Look at me.”
She does, and what I see there steals my breath. No one has ever looked at me like this—not with fear or calculation or political maneuvering, but with pure acceptance. Not even Sophia, before she betrayed me, looked at me with such complete trust. This slip of a girl, this artist who sees beauty in darkness, who knows the worst of me and still wants me…
She matches my rhythm instinctively, as if we’ve done this a thousand times before, as if our bodies were made for each other. When I shift the angle slightly, she cries out, her nails scoring my back. The slight pain only heightens my pleasure, makes me want to mark her in return.
“That’s it, piccola ,” I encourage, feeling her begin to tighten around me again. “One more time. Come for me.”
Her release takes us both by surprise—one moment she’s gasping my name like a prayer, the next she’s shuddering beneath me, taking me with her over the edge. I muffle my groan against her throat, holding her close as we both tremble through the aftershocks. Nothing has ever felt like this, so complete, so right.
Later, as we lie tangled in the sheets, she traces patterns on my chest while I play with her hair. The lake reflects moonlight through the windows, casting everything in silver shadows. She looks ethereal in this light, like something I don’t deserve but will kill to keep.
Her fingers find a scar near my ribs—old, silvered with time. “Tell me about your childhood,” she says softly.
“My father believed in harsh lessons,” is all I say, but my body goes rigid beneath her touch. I notice I do what I always do—call him “my father,” never Papa or Father. Always formal, always distant. Like proper words can keep the memories at bay.
She seems to sense my tension because she shifts, pressing a gentle kiss over my heart instead. “What happens now?”
“Now we sleep.” I kiss her temple, breathing in the scent of jasmine and sex and us. “Tomorrow we face Johnny and whatever else comes.”
“Together?” The word holds so much hope, so much trust.
I tighten my arms around her. “Together.”
But even as she drifts off against my chest, I stare at the ceiling, remembering Johnny’s words at the reception. Because there’s one truth I still haven’t told her—the real reason Sophia had to die. And when that truth comes out, I might lose this newfound peace forever.
For now though, I have this—my bride in my arms, trusting and warm and mine. Whatever comes tomorrow, tonight I’ll hold her close and pretend I deserve the way she looks at me. Pretend I’m the man she believes I am, rather than the monster I know myself to be.
“Sleep, il mio cuore ,” I whisper into her hair. My heart. My salvation. My potential destruction.
God help us both when she learns the rest.