Matteo #2
I almost shake my head, the visual too enticing to disrupt, but the fact that she trusts me enough to ask for help stops me.
She could have called in the store clerk, who’s been eye-fucking me from afar since we arrived, and I would have missed the opportunity to confirm that her body is as rocking as my deviant head has conjured multiple times over the past twenty-four hours.
Fuck me, she’s gorgeous.
“Okay.” I step behind her. “Hold still.”
She does.
For once.
I dig through the fabric, seeking the zipper. It’s nowhere to be found.
“Where the fuck is the zipper?”
Azra groans. “It’s in the front.” She waits for me to face her before admitting, “I’ve been zipping the dresses in the front and then twisting them around.” When I smile, she throws her fist into my stomach. “It was no easy feat. Every dress you’ve picked is skintight.”
“As it should be,” I murmur, eyeing the material bunched under her tits.
Even after I bust the zipper, the dress refuses to budge. It clings to her as if it has a personal vendetta to make her pay.
Azra mutters under her breath, “This is humiliating.”
“Could be worse.”
“How?”
“I could have made out the dresses you picked were hot and acted clueless when Antonio screwed his nose up at them.”
Again, she groans. “True. I guess.”
Under her watchful gaze, I keep working the fabric inch by inch, trying not to laugh at how utterly done she looks.
I ease the fabric upward without yanking, striving for several long minutes not to tear anything—including her pride—before realizing my stupidity.
“There ain’t no way this will get over your tits without ripping them off, so I say we go down your hips.”
Without waiting for her to respond, I drop to my knees and coerce the fabric down her sweltering body.
Not gonna lie, the view is fantastic. And the smell… ah.
It could only be better if I pierced my nose between the folds of her pussy.
“Matteo…” Azra’s voice sounds different. Strained.
“Yeah?”
She shifts her weight, her limbs suddenly heavy. “Is it moving?”
That isn’t what she wanted to ask, but since it was the safe option, she ran with it.
“I think so.”
“Good. Keep going.”
I obey, because what good boy doesn’t?
Slowly, methodically so, the dress inches toward the area of her body growing more fragrant with each second that passes. Azra’s tiny, so naturally, the backs of my fingers brush past the cotton material clinging to her pussy as readily as the first coat of paint to canvas.
Azra moans before covering it with a sigh. “I swear, if this thing survives, I’m burning it in this very dressing room.”
“Pretty sure that’s illegal. The price tag alone could make it a federal crime.”
She lowers her eyes to me, cheeks flushed. “Then I’ll bury it in the scarf bin.”
“Also questionable.”
“Matteo.”
“I’m just saying we should burn down the entire store. That would be a much more satisfying result.”
I tug again, fingers brushing firm enough for her shudder to conceal her breathy moan.
Azra has wit by the bucketful, but it disappears when her libido is raging.
“Why did you remove my panties?”
I glide my eyes up her body, momentarily pausing on the garment she’s discussing.
They’re still very much in place—regrettably.
I learn I have the situation wrong when she murmurs to herself, “Why remove them if you had no intention of… going down on me?” She shrugs like her last four words didn’t scorch her throat.
Sometimes she’s so fucking innocent it’s cute.
“You could have a fascination for collecting panties, but it seemed like more than that.”
I could lie, but fuck it. It won’t get me anywhere fast.
“Because it was.”
I rehearse five different versions of don’t sound like a jealous fuckhead, but they all evaporate the instant Azra’s eyes lower to mine. Her smile… fuck. It’s as priceless as the moans she releases while sucking dick.
“I was being a bit of a pissy prick.”
“A bit?” she teases.
I shoot her a half glare, half surrender.
“Fine. I was a full-blown moody prick.” I return to tugging on the dress.
“But I don’t see me ever wanting to discuss plans about another man when my head is about to be buried between a pair of thighs.
” With one truth comes another. “If your thoughts are on another dude, I clearly have no right to sample the goods.”
Azra studies me for a long moment, confusion crinkling between her dark brows before the truth smacks into her. “My comment about the purity test.”
She isn’t asking a question, but I nod anyway.
She cusses softly under her breath before she remembers who is currently on their knees, acting like a pussy.
“In all honesty, would it have mattered whose name I said?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer.
“You don’t even need to be from this side of the world to know Matteo Caruso is allergic to commitment.
Even if I had replaced Anto… his name with yours, you would have still left me hanging. ”
“Is that so?” I murmur, too fucking enamored by her sass not to respond.
Her glare is one hundred percent authentic. “You know it.”
I smirk because when a man finds himself caught with his pants down, he always chooses humor.
Needing the attention off the dangerous thoughts in my head—like perhaps I wouldn’t run from her—I shift the focus back to her plan.
“What’s the go with the purity clause? I get some men like to pop the cherry of their future wife, but what happened to testing the goods before purchasing it?
” I align our eyes. “What if Antonio is a dud, and you have no fucking clue until it’s too late? ”
Azra contemplates her reply for barely three seconds. “I didn’t really consider the reason for it. I was just happy it was in place.”
Her dislike of her husband-to-be can’t be mistaken, and it prompts me to ask, “Not a fan of wurstelinis?”
When she remains quiet, either as shocked by my snarky comment as I am or confused, I explain, “Wurstelinis are little red sausages. About ya girth”—I hold out my pinkie finger—“but about half the length. It’s not a micro-dick, but pretty fucking close.”
“You’re so crude.” Her face screws up in disgust, but her smile is on the other end of the spectrum. I can see her mentally undressing Antonio now and seeing nothing but a teeny-tiny wiener between his thighs.
I like that—a lot.
“Crude and a fucking genius,” I reply when the dress finally slips free enough that Azra can wriggle out of it.
She stumbles forward, catching herself on my shoulders. Her hair is mussed, and embarrassment and another emotion she’s trying to ignore flush her cheeks.
Striving to keep this train on the tracks, she glares at the dress. “I never want to see that thing again.”
“Noted.”
After prolonged eye contact, she straightens up and then brushes her hair back. “Next time, pick something that actually fits.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
She throws me a look that could strip paint without thinners.
For the first time today, she’s not pretending. She’s just Azra... the woman gradually convincing me that verbal sparring is the best kind of foreplay.