Chapter 7 – Matías #2
Noa gasps beside me, soft but searing, a breath sucked through clenched teeth. I hear the rustle of fabric as she steps back, her gown whispering against marble. But there is no real fear in her voice. No outright horror. Just surprise, maybe indignation. But not fear. I don’t miss that.
The man beneath my grip whimpers, the sound wet, thick with the blood now dripping from his nose onto the pristine tablecloth. A crimson bloom spreads against the ivory fabric, obscene in its contrast.
“Jefe—” he croaks, voice trembling, words muffled by the press of his face into the table.
I lean down, close enough that my breath ghosts over his ear. “Look at her again,” I murmur, voice calm, casual, cruel, “and I’ll cut your fucking eyes out.”
The threat settles between us, heavy as the weight of my hand still pinning him down. His shoulders tremble, but he nods—tiny, frantic movements, barely perceptible. It isn’t enough. I press down harder, just for a second, until I hear the creak of protest in his spine.
Then, I let him go.
He stumbles back immediately, nearly tripping over his own feet in his haste to put space between us. His hands shake as he clutches his bleeding nose, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. He doesn’t look at Noa again. He doesn’t even lift his head.
No one moves to help him.
I turn back to Noa. Her lips are parted, the rise and fall of her chest quicker than before, her fingers curled against the fabric of her gown. Her eyes lock onto mine, searching. For what, I don’t fucking know.
“We’re leaving,” I tell her, leaving no room for argument.
She at least has the good sense not to give one.
She gives me a tiny nod and moves. I follow, my hand finding the small of her back, guiding her forward. The tension in the room presses against us from every which way, dozens of pairs of eyes tracking our every step.
We almost make it to the doors before Arturo steps in front of me.
“Not yet,” he says.
Noa hesitates. She looks between us, her gaze flicking from Arturo to me, assessing, weighing.
I jerk my chin toward the doors. “Go,” I tell her.
Her mouth presses into a line. But she listens.
I wait until she’s out of earshot before turning my attention to Arturo. His expression is impassive, but there’s an edge to it, something carved from warning and barely masked frustration.
“You think the elders are just watching your wife?” he mutters. “They’re watching you, cabrón. I am trying here, Mat. I am trying my damnedest to help you with the transition. To make you someone they will respect and follow. But you… are making my job fucking impossible.”
The door clicks shut behind me, sealing us in.
The engine hums to life, the SUV pulling smoothly away from the grand hall, but neither of us moves.
Neither of us breathes. Arturo’s succeeded in sealing me away in this fucking car, if only by stashing her away in it.
At least she’s quite the fucking distraction.
Noa sits stiffly beside me, her body angled toward the door, back straight, hands resting in her lap like a perfect little wife.
But I see the strain in her shoulders, the way her fingers twitch against the fabric of her dress.
Her chest rises and falls too quickly, betraying the calm she’s pretending to don.
She doesn’t speak, though. That’s smart. Not that not mouthing off will help her now.
I drag a slow breath in through my nose, exhaling through clenched teeth. My fingers rake through my hair, tugging slightly at the roots as I try to steady myself. I am too still. Too controlled. The restraint is a thread pulled too taut, seconds away from snapping.
My knuckles still sting from where they collided with bone, my palm still hums from the memory of crushing the fucker’s skull against the table.
Noa had watched it all.
Had gasped but hadn’t screamed. Had stared but hadn’t stopped me.
The SUV rolls through the gates, gravel crunched beneath the wheels.
Plunged in the darkness, I move. One second, I’m in my seat.
The next, she’s in my lap, her body colliding with mine, a gasp tearing from her lips.
This one is nothing like the one at the party.
This time, when I pull her to my lap, it isn’t sideways.
I split her legs around me, making her face me.
My hands bracket her thighs, fingers digging into the warm, smooth skin revealed by that fucking slit she dared to wear in front of other men.
She doesn’t fight.
She should.
She doesn’t.
My grip squeezes, not enough to hurt, but enough to remind her exactly where she belongs. Exactly who she belongs to. I lean in, my lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You wanted my attention,” I growl at her ear. “You’ve got it now.”
Noa’s breath hitches, her hands pressing flat against my chest, but she doesn’t push. Not really. “You’re overreacting,” she whispers.
I chuckle, the sound dark and cutting. My fingers slide higher, thumbs tracing slow, lazy circles against the soft skin of her inner thigh. Her pulse kicks beneath my touch, betraying her. “Am I?” I bait, pressing the question into the warm, sweet-smelling curve of her jaw.
Her fingers curl against my shirt, gripping the fabric like she needs something to hold onto. Like she’s steadying herself.
Good.
Because I’m nowhere near done with her.
My hand glides the rest of the way. Her breath hitches vehemently over a grazing touch.
A small, whining little sound. Barely there, but enough to send a satisfied hum through my chest. It certainly isn’t a fucking objection.
I press my fingers more firmly against her, feeling the heat, the slick dampness beneath the thin fabric.
"You’re wet, esposa," I accuse. My cock hardens against her.
Noa jerks at the sensations, her body going rigid for half a second before she forces herself to stillness.
I feel it more than I see it—the quick rise of her chest, the way her fingers tremble slightly where they grip my shoulders.
The streetlights we drive past bathe her in amber. I want to ruin her.
“You’re disgusting,” she grits out, but there’s no venom behind it, not really. Her voice is too breathy, her body betraying her with every involuntary shift in my lap.
I chuckle lowly, dragging my fingers higher, teasing over the lace keeping her pussy from me. She’s already swollen beneath my touch. She holds herself so tensely, hard enough to snap her in two, as if sheer force of will can make her body stop responding to me.
“And yet, here you are,” I taunt her, unrepentant as the teeth that scrape at her jaw, “spreading your legs for me.”
Her nails bite into my shoulders, the sharp sting almost grounding.
Almost. Because she doesn’t push me away.
Doesn’t tell me to stop. I don’t miss the way her thighs twitch, the way she shifts minutely, pressing herself against my fingers instead of away from them.
Even if she won’t admit it, even if she keeps her lips pressed tightly shut, her body is speaking for her.
“Say it,” I murmur, dragging my lips along her jaw.
Her breath stutters. “Say what?”
I press my fingers against her clit, an unyielding pressure.
She breathes harder, her head tipping back.
Her throat is bared to me, vulnerable, and I want to bite down, to mark her, to leave proof of exactly who she belongs to.
“Say that you like it when I touch you. Tell me how you put on this dress for me, hoping I’d take it off you.
Beg for it,” I coax, “like the filthy little slut you apparently are.”
Her eyes snap open, burning with defiance even as she shudders in my grip.
“Go to hell.”
I smirk, dragging my fingers down, teasing the edge of her panties. “Querida—” I smile, yanking the flimsy fabric out of my way. “I’ll take you with me.”