Chapter 5- The Night That Shouldn’t Happen
Sasha
Holy Shit! Matteo is filthy rich.
His penthouse, a whole two floors seated at the top of a palazzo residence, is grand.
It’s not just a home—it's a statement.
As he leads me through each room, I find myself growing increasingly awestruck. The entry foyer alone is bigger than my entire apartment in New York, with soaring ceilings, marble floors, and an antique console table that looks like it belongs in a museum.
"This place is..." I struggle to find words that won't make me sound like an impressed tourist.
"A bit much?" he suggests with a wry smile.
"I was going to say 'extraordinary,'" I admit, running my fingers along a carved wooden doorframe that must be centuries old. "How old is this building?"
"Parts of it date back to the 1600s," Matteo explains, his hand resting lightly on my lower back as he guides me into the main living area. "It was originally a cardinal's residence. My family acquired it in the 1950s and renovated it about ten years ago."
The living room takes my breath away. A massive Caravaggio-style painting dominates one wall, portraying a feast scene with dramatic lighting. I step closer, admiring the brushwork.
Isabelle would lose her mind in this place.
"Is this...?" I begin, almost afraid to ask.
"An original? No," Matteo laughs. "That would be excessive even for me. It's a commissioned reproduction. The original is in a museum in Milan."
I nod, relieved but still impressed.
The kitchen is a chef's dream—all gleaming copper pots hanging from a rack, marble countertops, and professional-grade appliances that look barely used.
"Do you cook?" I ask, noticing the perfect condition of everything.
"Occasionally," he admits. "But I'm often not here. Between traveling for work and dining out..." He shrugs.
We move through a formal dining room with a table that could seat sixteen, a library with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes in multiple languages, and a media room with a screen that would put most movie theaters to shame.
"And upstairs?" I ask, glancing toward a floating staircase of glass and steel that spirals up to the second level.
"Bedrooms, my office, a gym," he says casually. "And the terrace. Which is where we're headed."
He leads me back through the living room to a set of glass doors that open onto the promised terrace. If I thought the interior was impressive, the outdoor space leaves me speechless.
The terrace wraps around three sides of the penthouse, offering a wide view of Rome that steals my breath away. The Colosseum glows amber in the distance, the dome of St. Peter's rises majestically to the west, and countless church spires adorn the skyline between.
"My God," I whisper. "This is unreal."
"Worth the trip?" Matteo asks, coming to stand beside me.
"Worth everything," I admit, unable to tear my eyes from the view.
"Wine?" Matteo offers, already reaching for glasses from the built-in bar area. "Or something stronger?"
I should say no. I should thank him for dinner, for this breathtaking view, and call a taxi back to my Airbnb. That would be the sensible choice after the emotional whirlwind of the past few days.
"Wine would be lovely," I hear myself say instead.
He selects a bottle from a small refrigerated cabinet, uncorks it with practiced ease, and pours two glasses of something pale gold that catches the light. When he hands me a glass, our fingers brush, and that same electric current runs between us.
We stand side by side at the terrace railing, sipping our wine in silence.
"I never get tired of this view," Matteo says. "No matter how many times I see it."
I turn to look at him, and find him watching me instead of the cityscape. The moonlight catches in his dark curls and casts shadows across his face, highlighting the sharp angle of his jaw, the fullness of his lips.
"It must be nice," I say, "having something so beautiful to come home to."
"It is," he agrees, but his eyes never leave mine.
A breeze stirs the air around us, and I shiver slightly, though the night is warm.
"Cold?" Matteo asks, setting down his wine glass.
"No," I admit. "Just... overwhelmed, I think."
He steps closer, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. "By the view?"
"By everything." I gesture vaguely with my free hand. "By Rome, by this place, by..." I trail off, not quite brave enough to finish the thought.
"By me?" he suggests, his voice dropping to a lower register.
I should lie. I should make a joke, deflect, maintain the careful distance we've been dancing around all evening. Instead, I find myself nodding.
"Yes," I whisper. "By you."
Matteo takes my wine glass gently from my hand and places it beside his on a nearby table. When he turns back to me, his eyes have darkened, the green almost swallowed by his dilated pupils.
"Sasha," he says, my name sounding like a caress in his accented voice. "I've been trying very hard to be a gentleman tonight."
"I know," I reply, my voice barely audible over the pounding of my heart. "I've noticed."
His lips quirk in a half-smile. "And is that what you want? For me to be a gentleman?"
I think about Brandon. About the wedding that never happened. About all the reasons I should say yes, thank Matteo for a lovely evening, and leave with my dignity intact.
But then I look at him. Really look at him, and see something in his eyes that I've been craving without realizing it.
Desire. Yes. But also, a kind of admiration. Like I'm something precious he's afraid to break.
"No," I say finally, stepping closer until we're mere inches apart. "I don't want you to be a gentleman. Not tonight."
Something flashes in his eyes—relief, hunger, triumph—before his hand comes up to cup my cheek, his thumb traces my lower lip, his touch feather-light yet burning. "Are you sure?" he asks, his voice a rough whisper. "Because once I kiss you, Cara Mia, I don't think I'll be able to stop."
The last thread of my hesitation snaps. "I don't want you to stop."
His mouth claims mine with a hunger that steals my breath. It's not just a kiss—it's fire. His lips are firm yet soft, demanding yet giving.
He tastes of expensive wine and I find myself melting against him, my hands sliding up his chest to tangle in his dark curls.
A low groan escapes him as I tug gently at his hair, and he deepens the kiss, his tongue seeking entrance. I open to him willingly, eagerly, the last of my reservations burning away in the heat between us.
His hands, those beautiful, strong hands I've been admiring all evening, roam my body—one at the small of my back pressing me closer, the other sliding up my spine to cradle the nape of my neck.
Every touch ignites something primal within me, a need I've never felt before, not even with Brandon.
I shouldn't be comparing them, but I can't help it. Brandon's kisses were familiar, comfortable. This is something else entirely—wild, consuming, dangerous in its intensity.
Matteo breaks the kiss, his breathing ragged. "Inside," he groans against my lips. "Now."
He takes my hand, leading me through the glass doors into the living room. The moment we cross the threshold, he pulls me back into his arms, his mouth finding mine again as we stumble backward through the penthouse.
My hands find the buttons of his shirt, fumbling in my eagerness to feel his skin beneath. He helps me, his fingers working quickly to undo each button before shrugging it off his shoulders. It falls to the polished floor, forgotten.
"God, you're gorgeous," I breathe, running my palms over the sculpted planes of his chest and abdomen. His skin is smooth and warm beneath my touch, muscles tensing as my fingers explore.
Matteo's eyes darken further as he watches me admire him. Then his hands are on me again, finding the zipper of my dress and slowly, torturously, drawing it down my spine. The fabric loosens, and with a gentle tug, it pools at my feet, leaving me in nothing but black lace underwear.
The hunger in his gaze as he takes me in makes me feel powerful, beautiful, desired in a way I've never experienced.
"Bellissima," he says, awe in his voice as his eyes travel the length of my body. "Sei perfetta."
His hands follow the path of his gaze, skimming my shoulders, tracing the curve of my waist, setting my skin ablaze with each touch.
I should stop this. I really should. But as Matteo's hands move across my skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake, logic abandons me completely.
He lifts me effortlessly, my legs wrapping around his waist as he carries me toward the floating staircase. His mouth never leaves mine, kisses growing more desperate with each step. I can feel him hard against me, the evidence of his desire pressing insistently through his pants.
"Bedroom," he murmurs against my lips, navigating the stairs with surprising grace considering our entangled state.
At the top of the stairs, he turns down a hallway and through a set of double doors into what must be the master suite. It's massive—a California king bed dominating the space, floor-to-ceiling windows offering the same spectacular view as the terrace below.
He sets me down gently at the foot of the bed, his hands cradling my face as he kisses me again, slower this time, deeper, like he's memorizing the taste of me.
"Last chance to change your mind," he says, his voice rough with restraint.
In answer, I reach behind me and unhook my bra, letting it fall away. His sharp intake of breath is all the validation I need.
"I want this," I tell him, my voice steadier than I feel. "I want you."
That's all it takes. The last of his control shatters. His hands and mouth are everywhere at once—cupping my breasts, thumbs circling my nipples, lips trailing fire down my neck. I arch into his touch, hungry for more.
My fingers fumble with his belt, desperate to feel all of him. He helps me, stepping back just long enough to rid himself of the rest of his clothing.
When he stands before me, fully naked, I can't help but stare. He's magnificent—all lean muscle and golden skin, his dick impressive and unashamed.
"Like what you see?" he asks, a hint of his earlier playfulness returning despite the raw desire in his eyes.
"Very much," I admit, reaching for him.
He comes willingly into my arms, lowering me onto the bed with a gentleness that contrasts with the urgency of his kisses. His weight above me feels right. Perfect.
His mouth trails down my body, pausing to lavish attention on my breasts before continuing lower. When he reaches the edge of my panties, he looks up, seeking permission.
I nod, lifting my hips to help as he slides the lace down my legs and tosses it aside. Then his mouth is on me, his tongue finding my clit with spot on precision, and I cry out, fingers clutching at the sheets.
He's relentless, skilled in a way that makes me wonder how many women he's pleased like this before. The thought dissolves into pure sensation as his tongue circles my clit, licks my folds and plunges into me.
His hands gripping my thighs to hold me open as I writhe beneath him.
"Matteo," I gasp, teetering on the edge already. "I'm going to—"
"Let go," he murmurs against me, the vibration of his voice sending new waves of pleasure through me. "I want to taste you."
His words push me over the edge. My back arches off the bed as pleasure crashes through me. He doesn't stop, drawing out my orgasm until I'm trembling, oversensitive, pulling at his hair to bring him back to me.
He kisses his way up my body, a satisfied smile on his lips. "Beautiful," he whispers, brushing sweat-dampened hair from my forehead.
I reach between us, wrapping my fingers around his length, and it's his turn to groan. "I need you," I tell him, stroking him slowly. "Now."
Matteo reaches into a bedside drawer for a condom, rolling it on with practiced ease before positioning himself between my thighs. He pauses, the tip of his dick just barely pressing against my entrance, his eyes locked with mine.
"Sei sicura?" he asks, his accent thicker in his arousal.
"Yes," I breathe, pulling him closer. "I'm sure."
He enters me slowly, allowing me to adjust to his size, his eyes never leaving mine. When he's fully seated within me, he stills, his forehead pressed to mine, our breath mingling.
"Perfetta," he whispers, and then he begins to move.
The pace he sets is exquisite—deep, deliberate thrusts that hit exactly where I need him. My nails dig into his shoulders as pleasure builds again, faster this time, more intense.
"Faster," I urge, wrapping my legs around his waist to take him deeper.
He obliges, his control slipping as he drives into me with increasing urgency. The sound of our bodies meeting, our mingled gasps and moans, fills the room.
"Touch yourself," he commands, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "I want to feel you come around me."
I slide a hand between us, finding my sensitive bundle of nerves. The combination of my touch and his thrusts sends me spiraling toward another climax.
"That's it," he encourages, watching my face as pleasure overtakes me. "Let go, Cara Mia."
I shatter around him, waves of ecstasy pulsing through me, clenching around his length. He follows seconds later, his rhythm faltering as he finds his own release, my name a hoarse cry on his lips.
We collapse together, a tangle of limbs and rapid heartbeats. Matteo rolls to his side, taking me with him.