Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Emery
Fuck him.
Seriously, F.U.C.K Matteo for that smug, manipulative shit he pulled last night.
He made me beg. Beg for his touch, his cock, like I’m some desperate little thing starving for it. And then he just walked the fuck away, left me aching, wet, wrecked.
No more of that shit. If this asshole wants to play…Then I’ll fucking play.
I stand in front of the mirror and rip off the oversized shirt I slept in, let it drop to the floor. My nipples are already tight from the chill, from remembering how he made me feel last night.
Yep, this will fucking do.
I run my eyes over my body, my tits on full display, the black lace panties that barely cover anything. He wants to be in control than he has to remember who the hell he’s dealing with.
I walk out of the spare room. Tits bare, chin lifted, every inch of me daring him to look. Daring him to crave me the same way I wanted him last night.
The hardwood bites at my soles, but I don’t stop. Don’t flinch. Not when the fire in my chest is hotter than anything underfoot.
I move through the house like smoke, slow, sinuous, sexy, untouchable.
The moment I step into the main area, I see him.
Back to me, body wound tight, eyes fixed on the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Waiting for something to break, for the outside world to cave in.
Ghosts. His father. Or worse… his father’s men.
The kind who don’t knock. Just kick the door in, dragging bullets and blood behind them.
I watch him closely, silent. His jaw’s locked, every line in his face pulled tight, a storm just under the surface.
This isn’t distraction. It’s preparation. He’s bracing for the hit—for the door to blow open, for that unseen danger to finally show up and put a bullet between our eyes.
And now I feel stupid, like he bruised more than just my ego last night, and I’m the idiot still aching from it, already plotting how to make him feel it too. I came out here with a plan. To rattle him. To steal back the power he yanked from me last night.
But now, looking at his back, I see it, the weight he wears, fused to him, impossible to shake. This isn’t loud fear. It’s the kind that sinks in deep. Quiet. Heavy. Coiled tight, a fuse just waiting for the right spark to rip everything apart.
He’s not just tense. He’s scared. Of what’s out there and how close it’s getting.
Maybe he pushed me away last night because that’s the only way he knows how to protect me, by pretending he doesn’t care before it all goes to shit. Or maybe he just didn’t want me. Not like the way I wanted him.
What the fuck am I doing?
This isn’t me.
I’m not the girl who plays power games with her tits out, flashing skin like a lure and hoping he’ll bite.
No. When I fight, I use what counts.
My wit, my strength, the fire I had to build bone-deep just to survive men like him. I don’t beg easy. And I sure as hell don’t break.
I should turn around. Walk away before this spirals any further. Let this whole fucked-up plan crash and burn right here, with my pride barely clinging to what’s left of it.
I start to turn, to walk away before I unravel right here in front of him.
But then… he turns. And just like that, every part of me that was ready to run forgets how.
And the second his eyes land on me… fuck.
Everything just stops.
Not the room. Not the air. But me. Like my pulse forgets how to beat, my lungs forget how to breathe. My whole body short-circuits under the weight of that stare. It’s burning, brutal, and made of every unspoken thing we’ve both been trying to outrun.
His gaze crashes into mine, trying to gut me open, searching for the weak spot I haven’t shown anyone in years. Then it drops… slow. Too fucking slow. Scraping down every inch of my skin, dragging over the places he used to touch, tasting the memory of it.
There’s something in the way he looks at me that makes me feel already on my knees. He’s replaying every second of how I wanted him last night, committing it to memory, not for nostalgia, but for precision. So he can break me better this time. Ruin me right.
And I hate that I’m still standing here, burning alive under his eyes, wondering if his cock’s as hard as the look he’s giving me right now. Wondering if that stare means he still wants to fuck me… Or just finish what he started.
Either way, I know I’d let him. And that might be the most fucked-up part of all.
It hits before I’m ready. That stolen breath. That full-body betrayal. Goosebumps flare across my skin, heat and hunger tangled up in one sharp rush. My nipples tighten, tuned to his eyes, aching, needing, desperate for the touch that isn’t there yet.
And then I see it hit him, in the way it catches in his throat. The hard swallow. The twitch in his jaw. That flicker in his eyes, something feral breaking loose.
His hands flex at his sides, and fuck, it’s all there. He doesn’t know if he wants to reach for me as if I’m holy, something to worship… or something to ruin.
Then slowly, his gaze drops down to the lace. To that thin strip of black clinging between my thighs, barely there, delicate as breath and twice as dangerous.
His stare lingers, heavy, with weight behind it. Pressure and promise rolled into one. He hasn’t moved. Hasn’t spoken. Hasn’t even blinked. But my body’s already responding, obeying some unspoken command. It remembers, every time he touched me. And worse, every time he didn’t, but should’ve.
His lips part, just barely, but it’s enough.
Enough to make my stomach twist into knots. Enough to make my thighs clench—they already know what’s coming. Then his tongue flicks out, slow and deliberate, dragging across his bottom lip as if he’s tasting me from across the room.
My breath stutters, and I fucking hate how much power that stupid little move has over me. But it’s him. It’s always been him.
Then he shifts, subtle, but I catch it. The slight roll of his hips. The way he adjusts his stance, like his cock’s too hard, too heavy to ignore, straining against the denim, begging, starving for release. I wonder if it’s twitching. If it’s already leaking.
Is he imagining pushing me up against the wall, tearing the lace from my thighs and burying himself deep, hard, ruthless?
And now all I can think about is what he’d do if I closed the distance. If I dropped to my knees and gave him exactly what that ache is screaming for. Because I’m aching for it too. I feel my pulse everywhere. Between my legs, under my skin, in my throat.
My nipples are tight, aching, and the heat between my thighs is unbearable. I’m fucking soaked. Shamefully so. Like my body’s already decided for me.
Then he moves toward me, all heat and hunger in motion, every second without me written in the tension of his body.
The space between us disappears in seconds and when he reaches me, it’s not soft.
His hand fists in my hair, dragging my head back just enough to force my eyes to his…
and fuck, the look in them. He’s not just looking at me.
He’s consuming me. Like he’s already fucking me in his head, deciding exactly how he’s going to make me fall apart.
“You’ve been playing with fire, baby,” he mutters, voice thick with want. “Now you’re going to burn.”
His mouth crashes onto mine, no warning, no hesitation. All teeth and tongue and raw hunger. I gasp into it, already drowning, already behind.
This isn’t a kiss. It’s a fucking claim. He doesn’t just want me, he needs me. I’m the fix after starvation. The thing his mouth was made for. And now, there’s no hiding it. I’m his to ruin, to wreck, to consume by his hands, his tongue, his cock and he’s done pretending otherwise.
A moan rips out of me when his arm snakes around my waist, dragging me tight against him. He’s all heat and muscle and sin, a solid wall I never stood a chance against. And then I feel him, hard and thick, grinding into me through denim like his cock’s trying to carve its shape into my body.
Holy fuck.
He’s huge. And he’s not being subtle about a damn thing.
I swear my knees would give out if he wasn’t holding me up, pinning me to the heat of his body, with that brutal, caged need radiating off him like he’s seconds from snapping.
“You feel that?” he says against my throat, voice all low and dark, shredded from restraint. “That’s what you fucking do to me.”
He thrusts again, harder this time, grinding the thick length of him right against the pulse between my legs. And fuck…my head tips back, eyes fluttering closed as heat coils in my spine, sharp and aching.
Then his lips brush my throat, soft and wicked.
“You walk around as if I won’t bend you over the nearest surface and fuck you so hard you’ll forget your own fucking name.”
My fingers claw at his shoulders, desperate to hold on, trying to anchor myself—but there’s nothing steady left. No ground. No breath. Just Matteo. Just the chaos he’s pulling me into. The way he’s dragging me out of my own body and turning me into something that belongs to him.
“Tell me,” he growls, mouth hot at my ear. “Tell me how fucking soaked this sweet little pussy is just from thinking about my cock buried deep in it.”
A sound tears from me. It’s needy, a whimper pulled straight from my gut. Because fuck yes, that’s what I want and I don’t care that he knows that. I don’t care that he can feel the heat rolling off me or the way I’m clenching around nothing, like my body’s already begging to be filled.
I’m not hiding this anymore. Not the way I tremble. Not the way I throb for him. Not the way I want him to split me open and never let go.
His hand slides between us, fingers dragging slow over the curve of my hip, carving it into memory.
“I’ll have you begging for it,” he breathes, his voice rasping against my skin, rough as sandpaper, scraping into places I didn’t know could ache.
He rolls his hips again, slow, but punishing. Deep. Deliberate. Trying to fuck the breath from my lungs without even being inside me yet.