Chapter 16
Sydney
Walking in the door, I drop my bags on the bench and let out an exhausted sigh. This day. I couldn’t wait to get home.
No one can predict the outcome of each individual surgery. Everyone responds differently. Heals differently. If a surgeon performs to the best of his or her ability and the patient has a poor outcome due to some unknown or underlying problem, this is out of my control. Right? At least that’s what I keep telling myself.
In clinic this afternoon, I was seeing a post-surgical patient I expected to heal with flying colors. He’d suffered a bad laceration while working on his family farm. As with most Hanover farmers, he didn’t have the time or energy to be bothered with seeking medical care. He poured some peroxide on it and kept on going.
Twenty-four hours later, the entire finger was red and swollen, with drainage pouring from the wound. He went to the ER, where I was consulted. It only took one look to know it had to be cleaned out in the operating room.
I’d started him on antibiotics and proceeded to take him to the OR to have the wound heavily irrigated and any unsalvageable tissue removed. I honestly expected him to make a full recovery. He had no real risk factors beyond letting the laceration get this bad. He didn’t smoke, wasn’t diabetic. He’d missed two follow-up appointments, and at one point, I suspected he may have removed his stitches himself. But when he arrived at my office today, the finger looked terrible. He admitted he had not kept it clean and “probably didn’t take the medicine like I was supposed to.”
So back to the operating room we went. I tried to explain he had a very real possibility of losing his finger. I usually try not to evoke fear in my patients, but in this case, it felt as if it was warranted. I’m not sure he’d be compliant otherwise. Yet this barely got a rise out of him.
Walking to the fridge, I open it to retrieve a half open bottle of wine. Too stressed and exhausted from the day to even consider ordering take out, I eye the bottle. “Guess this is dinner.” Pouring a glass, I head to my bedroom, plopping onto the bed. It feels good to have my feet up.
Taking a sip of the cool, crisp wine, I lay my head back on the pillow. This isn’t the way to handle stress. I shouldn’t be utilizing my favorite wine to medicate my day away. But gone are the days of coming home to the kind of stress reliever I prefer.
Two Years Earlier
My head flies up as the door slams into the wall. What the heck?
Matteo saunters in, his demeanor instantly feeling off.
I jump up from my spot on the couch where I’d tried to relax after a particularly stressful day at work. Yet the sight before me has my hackles raised.
“Hey,” I greet cautiously. In all the time I’ve known Matteo, I’ve never seen him intoxicated. Heck, I’ve only ever seen him drink once. And that was a few sips of champagne in the town car on our way to our honeymoon. I recall him recoiling at the taste, and quickly discarding the champagne flute. It made me chuckle.
There’s no way to know for sure if he’s been drinking tonight, but something is definitely off kilter. Coming closer, the smell of bourbon hits my nostrils. Yeah, there’s no doubt what’s led to this. But why? He’s adamant he stays away from the stuff.
He always seems so in control of himself. I thought his avoidance of alcohol was simply precautionary. I mean, he never labeled himself an alcoholic, only his father. Heck, he usually has a glass of wine poured for me when I arrive home each evening. If he were truly an alcoholic, could he withstand that temptation?
“Are you okay?”
“Fine. You?” His answer is brusque, almost dismissive.
Other than the loud entrance, Matteo seems to be in control of his faculties. His balance appears steady, no swaying back and forth. And his speech doesn’t appear slurred. I can’t put my finger on it. Yet he’s not himself.
I step closer. “Did something happen?”
“My mother,” he mutters.
His mother? I thought she was dead.
“Do you want to—”
“On your knees, principessa.” His voice is loud, growly and demanding. His pupils dark and dilated. This isn’t a request. There’s no playful smirk or lift of his brow. But I’ve never felt unsafe with Matteo. This wouldn’t be the first time he’d come home and requested I drop to my knees for him. And his domineering tone is causing my lower belly to flutter.
Lowering myself to the ground, I peer up at him. The look on his face is quite different than I’m accustomed. Not menacing, but insistent. Even in his current state, being subservient in this way makes me irrationally turned on. Okay, I’ll admit it. When he takes control after a stressful day like this one, it makes me wet.
Every day, I take serious chances with peoples’ lives. Patients put their trust in me to perform invasive procedures that put them at risk in order to provide the healing they need. It’s something I feel called to do. Yet the stress takes its toll. Having a loving husband and supportive friends helps a great deal. But every now and then, it’s nice to have someone else take complete control. To put aside decision making and totally rely on someone else.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not into BDSM. Other than playing around, we aren’t into bondage. There’s no degradation. We enjoy each other, trying new things. We like finding new ways to bring pleasure to the other. But occasionally, Matteo’s hand wrapped around my throat as he pounds into me or dirty words of praise when I’m on my knees is a real turn on.
“Pull it out.”
Quickly reaching up, I unzip his pants. His cock is hard within his boxer briefs. Lowering his boxers and pants, I stare back up at him. He often likes for me to keep my hands behind my back as I suck him off, so I await further directions from him before proceeding.
“Succhiami il cazzo.” ( Suck my cock .)
“What?”
He has the nerve to roll his eyes at me, and I almost push up to standing. While I might enjoy his power play, I won’t tolerate him being rude. “I forget you don’t speak Italian, my perfect wife.”
For a moment, I question whether he’s being sarcastic until he reaches down to cup my chin in his hand, gently stroking my lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “So beautiful. My wife is so beautiful.”
Okay, I’ll give him a pass. I reach up, giving his heavy cock a firm stroke before sliding my tongue around the tip.
He lets out a hiss. “Don’t play. I need you to suck me off.”
And I do. I take him into my mouth and as far into my throat as I can without gagging. This is quite the feat given how well endowed my husband is.
Placing one hand against the foyer wall, he leans onto his arm as I continue to bob up and down on his thick shaft. Matteo reaches down to push my hair from my face, the gesture feeling as adoring as it is necessary for him to watch unobstructed.
It doesn’t take long before I’m so turned on, I can barely keep my hands to myself. Spreading my thighs, I drop one hand down to provide some much-needed friction between my legs.
“Oh, I should’ve made you strip naked before you fell to your knees. That way, I could see and smell how wet you are for me.”
I groan around his length.
“That’s it. Rub that swollen pussy for me.” He pants, pushing himself deeper into my throat. “Such a good girl.”
Predictably, I whimper at his words of praise. They just do it for me.
Suddenly, he withdraws from my mouth and wraps his hand around the base of his cock. “Oh, I know how much my wife likes to watch me pull on my dick. Don’t you?”
“Yes.” God, this man knows me so well.
“Open your mouth. Stick out your tongue.”
I follow his directions. So turned on, I might actually come this way.
He lays the head of his cock on my tongue, continuing to stroke himself. Peering up, I notice his eyes are glazed. Whatever has caused him to turn to the bottle tonight, I secretly hope he realizes he needs me more.
“Fuck. I’m going to come.”
Inching forward, I grasp his ass with my hands, sliding my mouth over him. “That’s it, baby.” He places one hand behind my head, holding me still as he erupts down my throat. “Succhialo tutto.” ( Suck it all up .)
Matteo eventually lets go of my scalp and takes a few steps back. “Take your panties off. I need to watch you finish.”
Scampering to do his bidding, I strip off my dress pants and black lace panties and lean back against the wall, spreading my bent knees. Dipping my fingers down into my sex, I begin rubbing circles around my clit as he looms above me, continuing to tug at his dick. Gah, this man makes me feel things I didn’t know were possible. Things I would’ve denied thinking I’d ever enjoy.
All of a sudden, Matteo drops down to his knees, spreading my thighs wider before inserting two thick fingers inside me. He withdraws them, spreading my wetness over my clit before repeating the movement.
“Oh, Matteo.”
“That’s it, baby. Make a mess all over my hand.”
The sound my body is making is downright perverse. Matteo lifts his fingers to his mouth, sucking my arousal from them before his head drops back with a moan. This has clearly made him hard again as he’s returned to full mast.
He grabs my legs, yanking me down before lying on top of me and thrusting himself inside. “Fammi sentire come sei bagnata.” ( Let me feel how wet you are .) He pounds into me relentlessly, and I try to hold on to him to prevent my head slamming into the drywall.
“That’s it. I need you to come all over me.” He lifts my legs, my feet dangling over his shoulders. I dig my nails into the hardwood floor beneath me, sure I’m leaving marks.
“Matteo!”
“Dimmi che sei la mia puttana.” ( Tell me you’re my whore .)
He’s so deliciously rough. And the way he’s shouting Italian at me is making me insane with lust. His pace picks up, the delicious friction sending me right passed the edge of sanity.
“Oh, god. Matteo, I—”
“Fuck, yes.” He slams into me once more before he begins convulsing over me. Sweat is beading across his forehead from the exertion.
My head lulls to the side, and I remember where we’re at. It should bother me that this has all occurred in the foyer, with the lights on, where anyone walking by the glass windows on either side of the front door could have seen. But I’m too sated to care.
Matteo stands, lifting me to my feet before leading me into the bedroom. As he goes to sit on the edge of the bed, I tell him I’m going to clean up before dinner.
Twenty minutes later, I’m out of the shower and dressed in a satin nightgown and matching robe when I return to our bed. Matteo is lying on his side, his back to me. Deciding to delay starting dinner, I curl up behind him, reaching to stroke his still damp hair.
“I should’ve never married you.”
I freeze, my eyes springing wide. What? Tears well in my lower lids, threatening to spill over. How do I go from one of the hottest sexual experiences of my life to this? “Tey?” I whisper anxiously.
“I’ll never forgive myself.”
Alarm bells are going off. I don’t understand. Sitting up, I lean over him to find he’s out cold. The scent of scotch is almost palpable now.
Slumping back down against my pillow, I try not to panic. Gibberish. He’s spouting utter nonsense. The stuff about his mother, then this. He’s merely had too much to drink. I’ll let him sleep it off and talk to him about this tomorrow when we both have a clear head.
Getting up, I decide to reheat some leftovers. Something tells me, between the alcohol and the vigorous sex, Matteo will sleep until the morning.
Rolling over, I notice the alarm clock reads 5:30. It’s set to go off in fifteen minutes. Might as well go ahead and put the coffee on. But as I push to sitting, I realize I’m alone.
Walking to the bathroom, I find it empty. I move toward the kitchen, wondering if falling asleep so early has thrown off his morning. But there’s no coffee brewing. He’s not in the living area or on the deck.
Scratching the back of my neck, perplexed, I decide he’s likely gone to the gym or for a run. I’ll give him a bit and then call on my way to work.
Hours later, and multiple unanswered calls, and I’m beyond concerned. This isn’t like him. What’s going on?
I check my schedule and realize I have no more clinic patients for the day. This is when I’d normally go through and finish my dictation on those I’ve seen. But screw that. Grabbing my purse, I let the Beatrice know I have an appointment and can be reached by phone if someone needs me. Otherwise, I’ll be typing some notes from home.
“You’ve got it, dear. See you tomorrow.”
Pulling into my drive, there’s again no sign of Matteo’s car. But he’s usually not home until at least five. I walk inside, shutting the door behind me and dropping my bags on the bench, when an overwhelming sense of unease washes over me.
Maybe I need a cup of tea to calm my nerves until he gets home. Yet, as I reach for the teapot to fill it with water, I see a piece of paper.
I’m sorry.
I don’t understand. My world begins to spin. Suddenly, my feet are moving of their own volition, flying into the bedroom. My head whips back and forth. I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Nothing seems amiss. Until I reach his closet.
Empty .