5. Matteo #2
As we undertake an intense stare-down, every thought I’ve tried to bury all night comes roaring back to life.
She didn’t leave.
She’s here.
I have no idea what that means, so I’m torn between being relieved and pissed.
I go for the latter when the removal of her feet from Giovanni’s desk reveals the reason for her visit. A marriage contract with Antonio’s crossed-out name replaced with mine rests on the glossy wood.
The date of the proposed marriage brings back the frustration I felt when she reminded me her place in my life would be temporary.
One week from Sunday, she’s scheduled to marry my archnemesis.
“Welcome home, honey,” she says, my jaw spasming. “Wifey-to-be missed you.”
“What are you doing here, Azra?” What? I wasn’t lying when I said I’m wrecked. “And how did you get here? I took you to the airport myself.”
Her lips twist, highlighting that they’re still swollen. “You told the pilot to take me anywhere I wanted to go. You didn’t specify it had to be somewhere foreign.”
I growl, equally hating and loving her smarts.
She doesn’t look afraid or apologetic as she rounds Giovanni’s desk and props her ass on the edge, mere feet from me. She looks like someone who walked into the lion’s den and sat on the throne instead of on the bleachers with the rest of the civilians.
Giovanni lingers near the bookshelf, arms crossed, watching us like he’s bracing for a storm.
Never one to disappoint, I give him exactly what he’s seeking.
“Talk. Now. Before I re-strap you to the recliner in our private jet and fly you home myself.”
Azra folds her arms neatly under her chest, thrusting her fantastic tits high. “That would be a breach of our contract.”
“I couldn’t care less.”
“You will when you know the terms.” Not losing eye contact, she snatches up the marriage contract, then shoves it into my chest with enough force to knock me back two steps. “Page seven.”
I don’t move.
I’ve played this game long enough to know every strategic move to win.
Kneeling like a bitch won’t award me with the Champions Trophy.
Sighing, Azra opens the contract herself, then taps a paragraph with her finger. “This part.”
To entertain her as well as she did me as her lips hovered an inch above my cock, I skim the section she’s referencing.
Coughing, I read it again.
Then I read it a third time purely to make sure I’m not hallucinating.
Giovanni clears his throat, pulling me out of the spiral circling my mood down the drain. “You didn’t know about that clause when you bartered for her freedom with Don Adami?”
“No,” I say, voice flat. “I did not.”
Azra watches me with an infuriatingly calm composure. “Clauses like that are standard in high-value alliances.”
“One hundred million dollars”—disbelief whistles my words—“to cancel an agreement to marry is a standard clause?”
“Yep.” The p pops from her lips.
She thinks she’s holding the ace.
I’ve yet to reach the same conclusion.
I crowd her against the desk until she has to spread her thighs to accommodate me between her legs, and her breathing is more erratic than controlled. “Cash or check?”
Giovanni chokes.
Azra’s eyes narrow into tiny slits. “I don’t want your money.”
“Everyone wants a hundred million dollars.”
“I don’t.”
Subtly, I rock my hips forward, pleased by her reply. That’s usually what women seek when they enter my domain uninvited. Her not wanting a payday makes me like her a little more than I’ll ever admit.
“Then why are you here?”
She sucks in a big breath, endeavoring to stop the heat roaring through her body from coloring her cheeks, before saying, “Anto—”
I tsk her, and her jaw unhinges.
After regathering herself, she tries again. “He canceled our wedding mere hours before you arrived.”
“Then perhaps you should accept his decision with grace.” I have no fucking clue how my words are so smooth. My insides are jittering like a crack addict. I don’t think it’s hope surging through my veins, but what would I know? I’ve never experienced emotions like this.
Azra acts as if I didn’t speak. “But then paid the caterer’s bill in full within minutes of us leaving.”
Giovanni’s head snaps toward her. “What does his backflip have to do with Matteo?”
She lifts a hand, silencing him, eyes locked with mine. “Your plan worked. He wants me because he thinks I chose you over him.”
“You didn’t choose me,” I say, my words ground through clenched teeth.
That’s what pisses me off the most. Did she suck my dick because she wanted to or because she thought it would have me eating out of her palm?
She was eager, there’s no doubt, but wondering if I was controlled by my cock tarnishes the memory.
“No,” Azra agrees, escalating my anger. “I chose survival.”
Her choice of words blindsides me more than my unexpected anger does. What the fuck does she mean she chose to survive?
“I gave you an out. You could have been safe…” I fall silent as she shakes her head, the scent of her shampoo and my cologne filtering in the air.
“I can’t live a full life until I do this.”
“Do what?”
I know her answer. I just want an excuse to slice off Antonio’s dick the next time I see him. Well, I really shouldn’t say slice. It won’t require more than a papercut to remove his junk, so slice isn’t the right word. It’s just hard to think when you’re fighting not to negotiate with your cock.
The only time Azra admitted the truth to herself this afternoon was when her horniness overwhelmed her—horniness she felt while sucking me off.
Too smart for her own good, Azra doesn’t grant me the pleasure of dissecting Antonio’s slug.
While remaining as quiet as a church mouse, her eyes fire with stubborn determination. Not going to lie, her take-no-shit attitude has me the hardest I’ve ever been.
Living in the fast lane is only exciting when there’s a prospect of crashing.
I’ve not faced a single hairpin in years.
Personally, an easy, simple existence is boring as fuck.
Believing our conversation has hit a stalemate, Giovanni intervenes. “You want to win Antonio back?”
Without removing her eyes from mine, Azra answers, “Yes.”
“And you think pretending you want to marry Matteo will do that?”
“Yes,” she answers again.
Fighting not to put my fist through a wall, I inch back. I’ve been called many things, but stupid will never be one of them.
Only a schmuck would sign up to be used and abused in full sight of their nemesis.
“You’re insane if you think I’ll do this.”
“You don’t have a choice,” Azra says, stepping up to me without fear. “You either play along or fork over one hundred million to get rid of me. Which is it?”
She tries to hide her hurt when I snap out again, “Cash or check?” but I still see it.
“Matteo,” Giovanni murmurs, certain I’m digging a hole I’ll never get out of. I have plenty of money, more than I’ll ever need, but that won’t be the case if I keep making stupid business decisions like this. “Take emotions out of this. It’s a week, two at most. I’m sure you’ve survived worse.”
I dart my narrowed eyes to him. “You’re taking her side? Who the fuck are you?”
“I’m not taking sides. I just think you’re letting emotions—”
I cut him off with a pfft. “This isn’t about emotions.”
“Then why won’t you do it?” Azra once again plays me at my own game. “If you don’t care what happens to me, why won’t you do this one thing?”
I’m ashamed of how long I take to come up with a reply, and it’s weak.
“Because what am I getting out of this? You get douchebag Antonio, and I get…?”
When my teeth graze my lower lip, incapable of acting nonchalant to the heat creeping up her neck, she shoves her hand into my face, then walks around Giovanni’s desk to place a bulky slab of mahogany between us.
“No chance. You left me hanging once. I refuse to sign up again.”
“Then I’m not interested.” I knew she wouldn’t prostitute herself out.
That’s why I backed her into that corner.
It’s either force her to give up in defeat, or admit I might be a schmuck for the right delicious-smelling cunt and pretty face.
It will take more than a blowjob for me to fall to my knees. “Have a nice life.”