Chapter 24
Chapter Twenty-Four
Matteo
Coming home feels about as dull as I expected it to.
At least until I’m bombarded with my niece and nephews.
Leon is visiting when I return, meaning not only do I have Cesar and Isobella to greet, but little Leo and Bastian too.
The little tykes make it difficult to wallow, even if I can still feel the loss of Anya’s presence deep inside.
I allow myself to play with the group of children, trying to cling to any sense of normalcy I can find.
I make sure to get plenty of pictures and little video clips to send to Anya.
I think it would be too hard to video-chat her with so many people around.
Not to mention how it might sting seeing her face over the phone again rather than right in front of my face.
Finally alone in my room, I can allow myself to think without brushing off the thoughts of Anya to be present with my family. The last thing I need is to find myself in fantasy land while I’m around my siblings. Talk about fucking awkward.
I miss her more than I should, and I don’t know what to do about the intense feelings that keep hitting me left and right when I think about her.
More troubling is the apparent return of my teenage strength hormones.
At twenty-one, I’ve crafted immense control over my libido.
I don’t often find myself in a lustful state of mind, but I’m afraid that being around Anya all weekend has awakened something primal in me.
Just remembering her scent, the way it washed over me as she hugged me, it stirs desire up in my gut.
Vanilla, roses, and lavender. Somehow fresh, floral, and sweet all at the same time.
What’s worse is that shame doesn’t follow soon after these thoughts of mine.
There’s too many memories of her face, her smile, and her touch to leave any room for anything else.
Flopping down into bed, I groan and drag a hand down my face.
There’s a large part of me that’s tempted to get right back on the plane that brought me here, but the need to see her again so soon has to be irrational.
I’m going to scare the poor girl away if I don’t get rid of these romantic and less than appropriate notions.
I wanted to kiss her so fucking bad, and I could have sworn I saw her looking at my lips and thinking the same thing.
My dick twitches at the memory of her eyes tracing my face as her teeth sunk into her plump bottom lip.
A sensation that I rarely feel from thoughts alone.
The power Anya wields over me is apparently so strong that only the memory of her can cause me to physically react.
“I need a cold shower,” I mutter to myself, grimacing. “Get it together, you idiot.”
Attending to my occasional needs isn’t something I’m unfamiliar with.
I don’t sleep around, haven’t for years at this point, but I’m not a monk either.
I just prefer my own hand’s company for a quick fix these days.
Hookups are fine and dandy when you’re a horny little teenage shit, but after a while, it starts to feel hollow and dirty.
I’d never felt more used and empty than when I would indulge in a meaningless fuck. I don’t know when exactly I decided that I couldn’t be like Armani and have casual sex, but I haven’t changed my mind since.
With Anya, it wouldn’t be meaningless.
No.
No.
No.
I can’t go there.
My friend just worked up the courage to hug me for the first time. I can’t be thinking about going so much further when she has such an aversion to touch.
You’d show her how different it can be. You’d worship her.
Fuck off, brain.
Getting up, I squeeze the sides of my head in frustration and head into my bathroom. Turning on the heavy spray of my shower, I make the temperature lukewarm. Tearing off my clothes, I look down at my half-hard dick and threaten to make the water blistering cold if he doesn’t behave.
“Just wash the day off, and get into bed to fucking sleep,” I command quietly, verbalizing the mantra to hope that it sticks. “You can’t be an idiot if you’re unconscious.”
Water smacks against my skin in a relaxing pressure, and I breathe out, leaning into the spray.
Eyes closing, I allow myself a moment to adjust to the sensation before doing something stupid and turning the dial to warm it up more.
I need to feel the heat on my skin to feel clean when I wash, and I can’t regret it when my skin starts to heat up.
Blood rushes south and I know I’m screwed. I can’t push away this desire coursing through me; I have to satiate it.
Oh fuck.
I’m going to hell.
But God, I can’t help it.
I move before I can talk myself out of it, my hand closing around my now fully hard shaft. Grip tightening, my fingers are wet and slippery from the falling water. I feel how warm my skin is instantly, my blood flowing hot under the surface as arousal races through my veins.
It doesn’t take long before I’m closing my eyes tighter to picture Anya.
I see her, her soft golden hair, her pink lips, and her flushed cheeks.
I see her looking at me with lidded eyes and a hopeful smile.
She reaches for me, taking my hand like she’s done twice before.
Only she doesn’t keep it to hold, she wraps it around the back of mine before pushing forward to surround my cock with her smaller grip.
I nearly blow my load just picturing it.
It’s so vivid that I can almost feel it.
But if I’m going to imagine her with my dick in my hand, if I’m going to be this greedy, I’m going to picture her how I’d truly want her.
Laying her back on a perfectly made, soft bed.
Touching her, rather than having her touch me.
I want to see her head thrown back in pleasure, hear moans leaving her pretty lips, and see her hips lift and rock against me for more. I want to feel the pressure of her thighs around my head, and then around my waist as she wraps her legs around me, pulling me closer.
I want fucking everything. I want to see her eyes so full of lust and love that there’s no room for fear or trepidation. I want her to want me, to need me as much as I apparently need her.
My mind spins an image of all of this, and I can’t stop my hand from moving faster. Tightly wrapped around my leaking dick, stroking from root to tip as I twist and tug. My eyes hurt and my eyebrows ache in the center from shutting them so hard, refusing to open them and lose my fantasy.
“Fuck, Anya,” I groan, my blood nearly boiling at the sound of her name.
I wonder if she’d like hearing me moan her name as much as I’d love hearing her whimper mine. I’d give her anything she wanted, if she asked. Praise, pleading, whimpers, moans…anything she wanted, if she’d let me between her thighs.
I know she’d be the perfect fit. We already go so well together in every other part of life. Of course we’d go together perfectly with our clothes off. I’d do anything to show her how safe and sexy it can be when you’re with someone you want.
I can’t take the slew of images any longer and my balls draw up before I can stop them.
My stomach clenches and my abs flex hard as my orgasm shoots through me.
Ropes of hot cum spray from the tip of my throbbing cock, painting the tiled wall in front of me as I stroke myself through the pulses of pleasure at my peak.
Breathing in short pants, I turn to rest my forehead against the still slightly cool glass of the shower door and reach back to let the water spray clean off my sticky hand.
I shouldn’t do that again, but part of me knows that I might.
The rest of my shower takes longer than it usually would.
The aftershocks of the most intense orgasm I’ve had in years made it impossible to rush through washing my body and hair.
When it’s finally over, I’m still warm and relaxed.
So much so that I don’t bother doing anything other than drying off before returning to my room.
Dropping into my bed with a towel still wrapped around my waist and my hair still damp, I sigh and close my eyes. I should feel disgusted with myself for what I’ve just done while thinking about my best friend—a girl who may never desire a man’s touch, let alone mine. But I can’t.
I wasn’t using a fantasy of her to get a quick orgasm. I was pulled into what I wish I could have. More than sex. Love, with Anya.
Something I may never have, but something I’m going to try and dream about all the same.
Not bothering to change into boxers, I allow myself to drift off, praying to see my girl while I sleep.
Anya
Gasping out of a dreamy sleep, I wake to find my friend’s face hovering above mine. “Matteo? What are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t stay away,” he whispers, voice floaty and honest.
My heart hammers hard, not believing my eyes. Confused and a bit frightened, I look around my dark bedroom, only dim moonlight from the crack in my curtain giving me a view of him.
“Does my dad know you’re here? How did you get in? It’s the middle of the night—”
“It’s just us,” he interrupts, silencing me by cupping the side of my face. His thumb drags down my lips and he breathes out as if he’s feeling relief. “Don’t send me away, meraviglia. This is the most content I’ve felt all day.”
Warmth spreads from my chest to every inch of me. “You only just left…”
“And that was a mistake.”
Before either of us can say another word, he captures my lips with his. I gasp at the contact, and revel in the lack of terror that it comes with. I feel nothing but bliss as Matteo kisses me, and I don’t ever want him to stop.
An embarrassingly high whimper catches in my throat, the sound muffling against Matteo’s soft but firm mouth.
He takes the noise in greedily, practically growling as he kisses me harder like he’s trying to get me to do it again.
When I do, he uses the opportunity to glide his tongue along the seam of my lips, giving me my first true taste of him.