11. Chapter Eleven
Chapter Eleven
Mateo
T he faint glow of moonlight streams through the open window as I return to my room, bathing everything in soft shadows.
I place the guitar back in its case, feeling much better after losing myself in my music for a little while.
It’s an old instrument, its wood worn smooth in places, the varnish dulled from countless hours of play. There are faint scuff marks on the edges, and just enough indentation on the fretboard to hint at the songs it’s played over the years. Whoever owned this guitar must have loved it.
Feeling more settled within myself, I change into my nightgown. But I hate it.
The delicate white lace negligee is a harsh reminder that I was meant to wear it on my wedding night. But it’s the only thing mamma packed for me to sleep in.
I catch my reflection in the mirror. I sure look like a virginal offering, one Father was all too happy to sacrifice on his altar of self-glorification.
Instinctively, my eyes drop to my ring finger. Empty.
I really did escape.
But I can’t sleep in this. I feel too exposed, like if Renaldo stormed through this door I’d still be his.
I rip it off and rummage through my suitcase. There has to be a t-shirt in here somewhere.
Happier with my choice, I pull back the blankets and slip under the covers of this huge bed.
This bed would be perfect for a slumber party with my sisters. There’s so much room to sprawl out. We only did it twice, back when mamma and Father traveled together, which was rare.
The five of us crammed into Isa’s bed, squished together like sardines in a can. I woke up with Ari’s elbow in my face and Sienna’s knee digging into my stomach, but despite all that, it was fun. We laughed ourselves to sleep and the chaos actually made it better.
I hope they’re all fast asleep and not restless like me. And I hope mamma is okay. My stomach tightens as I imagine the wrath awaiting her.
Father has always had a temper. To those of influence and power, he wears a mask of patience and wisdom. The perfect picture of control.
But to those he considers beneath him, his own family included, that mask slips. He’s quick to lash out, his words sharp and biting, and when his anger flares, sometimes more than just words are thrown.
But Father is the last person I want to think about. My mind quickly shifts gears and conjures up the image of the one man I love to fantasize about.
Yes, that’s so much better.
I’m under his roof. He’s somewhere in this house. So close, yet so far away.Well, he doesn’t have to be, does he?I close my eyes and imagine his warm brown ones locking with mine. A spark of desire is there… for me.
It’s as if everything else fades, leaving only the intensity of his gaze, pulling me in, making my heart race.
I picture him sliding in beside me on this bed, his body just inches from mine, and I writhe in eager anticipation of his touch. The heat between us is palpable, the air thick with the promise of something more.
Oh, these sheets feel so nice. So soft and cool against my heated skin. The contrast is electric, and I can almost feel his hand, grazing over my arm, sending shivers of electricity through me.
My nipples pucker, sensitive and needy, and I let my hands glide slowly along my body, circling my hardened peaks.
Oh, so good.
But it’s not enough. I want more, need more. His touch, his weight, his warmth, pressing me deeper into the soft coolness of this bed.
The thought alone makes my breath hitch, my chest rising and falling faster. I can’t stop the fluttering ache inside me.
I want him closer, so much closer. My craving for him is consuming me. I ache with want.
So I glide my hands lower and let my fantasy Mateo take care of me.
Hmm…
Pleasantly buzzing from touching myself, though frustrated as usual for not reaching the finish line, I sit up and reach for the bottle of water on the nightstand. Dammit. It’s empty. I forgot to pick up a new one from the kitchen on my way back from the garden.
My throat feels parched. But the kitchen is miles away. Can I even find it again in the dark?
Only one way to find out.
Slipping out of bed, I grab the robe hanging on the back of the door, wrapping it tightly around myself before stepping into the hallway.
It’s eerily quiet. Shadows stretch along the walls, cast by the dim moonlight filtering through the open window at the end of the corridor. I hesitate, trying to remember which way leads to the kitchen.
Taking a deep breath, I head toward the grand staircase. The soft carpet muffles my steps, and the only sound is the faint rustle of my robe as I descend, my eyes sweeping the darkened hallway below.
To the right, a faint glow spills from a door left slightly ajar. The kitchen is to the left, I think.
My curiosity sparks. Who else is awake this late at night?
After my little fantasy, of course, I’m hoping it’s Mateo.
I know I should just grab my bottle of water from the kitchen and go back to my room, but the temptation is too strong.
The desire to see him in an unguarded moment burns through me. Will it be him?
Like a stalker, I creep to the right, careful not to make a sound, my heart giving a little jump in my chest as I peer inside the sitting room.
It is him!
Mateo is stretched out on a sleek, low-sitting leather lounge that’s facing away from the door. Still, I can see his head resting on a pillow, eyes closed.
The golden glow of the lamp beside him casts soft shadows across his face, accentuating the sharp cut of his jaw and the slight furrow in his brow. He has an expression of quiet intensity that makes my breath catch.
I love the way his beautiful face catches the light, but it’s not what captures my attention.
It’s the slow, deliberate movement of his hand, peeking in and out of my field of vision in a steady rhythm.
Oh. My. God.
My breath falters again, my pulse stuttering before slamming into a frantic rhythm. My body is aching to move, but still, I stay frozen, unable to look away.
Is he…?
Oh my god. He is.
My view of his lower body is obstructed by the back of the lounge. Dammit . But the expression on his face, the slight tightening of his lips, and the way his body tenses, gives the game away.
A scorching heat spreads through me, from my cheeks to the pit of my stomach. It then pools between my thighs, making it impossible to remain composed, especially as I’m still primed from before.
I should look away.
Actually, I should leave. If he catches me, he might throw me out of the house, or worse, send me back to Sicily.
But I can’t. I’m rooted in place, completely mesmerized by the sight of him lost in pleasure.
His lips part on a silent exhale, his features taut with blissful tension. His dark lashes flutter slightly, like he’s caught between reality and some dream world of his own making. The veins on his forearm flex with each slow stroke, his hand moving with a rhythm that is utterly hypnotic.
I’ve never seen anyone, let alone a man, self-pleasure.
My nipples tighten once more into hard beads, my body reacting before my mind can even take in everything that’s happening. The way his chest rises and falls, the slight clench of his jaw, the way his hand never falters in its steady, unhurried motion. It’s intoxicating.
I swallow hard, the dryness in my throat almost unbearable. But it’s not just my throat anymore, my mouth feels like the desert too. Seems like all my moisture is pooling lower, my body responding to him in ways I can’t control.
God, the temptation to touch myself to this sight is almost too much. Every inch of me aches for it, but the thought of closing my eyes, even for a moment?
No. I can’t miss a second of this, not a single movement, not a single expression on his face.
Does he sense I’m here?
I hope not. The thought of him knowing I’d seen him like this… I’d die of mortification.
Would he stop if he saw me?
Or would he keep going, knowing I’m witnessing every heated second?
I wish I could see his cock. I bet it’s magnificent.
Mateo’s breathing grows heavier, each exhale a slow, ragged sigh. His fingers tighten around himself, his strokes becoming more insistent, more desperate. A muscle in his jaw ticks as he tilts his head further back, exposing the long column of his throat.
I’m barely breathing.
Every nerve in my body is alight, my skin flushed. The way his body moves, the way he surrenders so completely to his pleasure, it’s the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen.
His hips shift, pushing into his grip, chasing the sensation. The tension in his body coils tighter. The sound that leaves his throat is a low, broken groan that sends a shiver through me.
I press my thighs together, my pulse hammering between them.
He’s so raw like this. Unrestrained. Unguarded . The Mateo few get to see.
And right now, I ache to be the reason for his pleasure.
My nails dig into the doorframe as his hand moves faster, his chest rising and falling in quick, uneven breaths.
A deep, strangled sound escapes him as his back bows off the couch. His mouth parts on a silent curse, his body shuddering as he finally lets go.
Oh, wow!
I bite my lip, watching as pleasure crashes through him.
It’s beautiful.
He’s so damn beautiful.
My entire body hums, every nerve attuned to him, to the wrecked way he exhales, his body slowly relaxing back against the leather.
I swallow hard, breath shaky, thighs pressing even tighter together.
Leave. Now. Before he sees you.
But I can’t move. I’m standing here, panting like a woman starved.
I am a woman starved. I’ve been hungering for this man for years.
Move. He can’t catch you here.
As silently as possible, I creep away from the door and bolt quietly up the stairs. Forget the bottle of water, tap will have to do.
Heart still pounding, I lock the door behind me and collapse onto the bed.
I wish it had been my hands on his rock-hard shaft, me giving him pleasure.
My entire body is firing. I’ve never been more aroused.
And before I even realize, my hand slips into my wet panties again.
Maybe now I’ll get there.