Chapter 8- Group Chat Chaos & Billionaire Perks
Sasha
Matteo’s words vibrate through me, right to my core. His breath is warm against my ear, his hand firm at the small of my back, guiding me through the unfamiliar steps of the waltz.
“I do want you,” I admit. “That’s not the problem.”
His eyebrows lift slightly, green eyes darkening as they hold mine. "Then what is the problem, Sasha?"
The way he says my name—rolling the 's' just slightly, lingering on the final syllable—makes my knees weak. I falter in my steps, but his strong arms keep me upright, never missing a beat in the dance.
"I saw Brandon," I confess finally. "With Alyssa. Here in Rome."
Matteo's expression remains neutral, but I feel his hand tighten at my waist. "Your ex-fiancé? The one who—"
"Yes, that Brandon," I confirm. "They're on my honeymoon. Using my itinerary. Staying in the hotel I booked."
"And this is why you called me? Why you suddenly wanted to attend the gala?" His voice is carefully controlled, but I detect a hint of disappointment. "To make him jealous?"
"No! I mean, not entirely." I stumble over my words as Matteo expertly spins me under his arm before drawing me back against his chest. "It wasn't planned. I just saw them and... panicked. Called you without thinking."
"And now you're introducing yourself as my girlfriend?" He pulls me closer, his thigh pressing between mine as we move across the floor. "That seems like more than panic, Cara Mia."
The endearment, coupled with the pressure of his body against mine, sends heat flooding through me. "I'm sorry about that. It slipped out."
"I'm not complaining," he murmurs, his lips brushing my temple. "Just trying to understand what game we're playing."
"No game," I insist, though even I can hear the uncertainty in my voice. "I just... I don't know what I'm doing, Matteo. Everything's happening so fast."
He guides me through another turn, his movements fluid and precise. I follow his lead, surprising myself with how naturally our bodies move together.
"Let me see if I understand," he says, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "You ended your engagement, flew to Rome alone, slept with me, avoided me for days, then decided you wanted to be my girlfriend the moment your ex appeared in the city."
Put that way, it sounds terrible. I close my eyes briefly, embarrassed. "I'm making a mess of things, aren't I?"
To my surprise, Matteo chuckles, the sound rich and warm. "Life is messy, mio dolcezza.”
Before I can answer, a flash goes off nearby. We both turn to see a photographer lowering his camera, nodding in satisfaction before moving on to capture other guests.
"The society pages," Matteo explains, his hand still warm against my back. "My mother invites them every year. Good publicity for the charity."
Another flash, this one from a different angle. The photographer, a sleek woman in a tailored suit, gestures for us to move closer together.
"The De Luca heir and his mysterious date," she calls out in accented English. "One more, please!"
Matteo looks down at me, a question in his eyes. I nod slightly, and he draws me against him, one arm circling my waist possessively.
I place my hand on his chest, feeling his heartbeat through the fine fabric of his tuxedo shirt.
The camera flashes again, immortalizing the moment—his head bent toward mine, my face tilted up to his, our bodies fitting together as if designed we were meant to be.
"Beautiful!" the photographer declares before disappearing into the crowd.
"Well," Matteo says, not releasing me even though the photo op is over. "It seems your status as my girlfriend is now documented for all of Rome to see."
"I'm sorry," I begin, but he shakes his head.
"Don't be. In fact..." He leads me away from the dance floor toward a quiet corner partially hidden by potted palms. Once we're relatively secluded, he continues, "I have a proposition for you."
My pulse quickens. "A proposition?"
"A mutually beneficial arrangement," he clarifies, his eyes never leaving mine. "You need a distraction from your ex. I need a companion for social events."
"You want us to fake date?" I ask.
"I prefer to think of it as an exchange of services," he says with a slight shrug. "You attend functions like this with me—galas, business dinners, charity events. In return, I'll show you parts of Italy that tourists never see. The real Italy."
I narrow my eyes, suspicious. "Why would you need a fake girlfriend? I'm sure women throw themselves at you constantly."
"They do," he agrees without a hint of modesty. "That's precisely the problem. Having a steady girlfriend, even a pretend one, would provide a convenient shield from the more aggressive pursuits."
He leans closer, his voice dropping to a low rumble. "My mother has been introducing me to 'suitable' women for years. Having you on my arm would end that.”
I consider his offer, turning it over in my mind. "So I'd be your... what? Shield? Accessory?"
"Partner," he corrects, reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger against my skin. "For all appearances, we'd be a couple. Exclusive. Committed."
"And behind closed doors?" The question escapes before I can stop it.
His eyes darken, pupils dilating as they travel from my eyes to my lips. "That would be entirely up to you, mio dolcezza."
Before I know it, I'm caught in his gaze, the rest of the gala fading into background noise. The proposition hangs between us, tempting and dangerous.
"How long would this arrangement last?" I ask.
"Let's say... the remainder of your stay in Rome. Six weeks, was it?" His thumb traces my jawline, a touch so light it might be my imagination. "No obligations beyond that."
Six weeks pretending to be Matteo De Luca's girlfriend. Six weeks of galas and charity events, of being photographed on the arm of one of Italy's most eligible bachelors. Six weeks of watching Brandon's face when he sees the photos splashed across social media.
But it's not just about Brandon, I realize with startling clarity. It's about the way Matteo's looking at me now, like I'm something precious and desirable. It's about how alive I felt in his bed, how my skin tingles wherever he touches me.
"What about exclusivity?" I ask. "Would you really commit to that? No other women while we're... doing this?"
"I'm a man of my word, Sasha." His voice has a gravity that makes me believe him. "If we agree to this, I won't be with anyone else. Would you?"
The question makes me laugh softly. "I just left my fiancé at the altar. I'm not exactly in the market for multiple men."
"Just one, then?" Matteo asks, his eyes intent on mine.
I nod. "And what about..." I hesitate, unsure how to phrase my next concern.
"Sex?" he supplies bluntly, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
"As I said, entirely up to you. I won't pressure you into anything, Sasha.
If you want to keep things strictly professional between us, I'll respect that.
" His eyes darken. "Though I can't promise I won't think about that night. "
Heat blooms in my cheeks as memories flood back—his hands on my skin, his mouth trailing fire down my body, the weight of him above me. "I think about it too," I admit.
His pupils dilate, the green of his irises nearly swallowed by black. "Is that a yes, then? To my proposition?"
The rational part of my brain screams caution.
Then again, what do I have to lose?
"Yes," I say finally. "I accept your proposition."
Relief and something darker flashes across his features. "You won't regret it," he promises, reaching for my hand. His thumb traces circles on my palm, sending shivers up my arm. "We should discuss the details. Terms. Boundaries."
"Now?" I ask, glancing around at the crowded ballroom.
Matteo shakes his head, pulling me slightly deeper into our secluded corner. "Later. Right now, we should seal our agreement."
"With a handshake?" I suggest, though I know that's not what he means.
His laugh is low and warm. "Not quite what I had in mind, mio dolcezza."
He steps closer, eliminating the space between us until I can feel the heat of his body through the thin silk of my dress. One hand slides around my waist, his palm flat against the bare skin of my back, while the other cups my cheek with surprising gentleness.
"May I?" he asks, his voice a rough whisper.
In answer, I rise on my toes, closing the final inches between us. His lips meet mine, soft at first, almost questioning. But when I part my lips on a sigh, the kiss transforms—deepening, intensifying, consuming.
Matteo kisses like a man starved, like he's been thinking about this moment for days. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, tasting of expensive scotch and desire. I melt against him, my hands finding purchase on his broad shoulders as the world tilts on its axis.
He backs me against the wall, partially hidden from the party by the potted palms. The cool marble against my bare back contrasts with the heat of his body pressed against my front.
His hand slips lower, following the curve of my spine to the small of my back, pulling me flush against him so I can feel his arousal through the layers of our formal wear.
I gasp into his mouth, and he swallows the sound, his kiss growing more insistent. My fingers tangle in his hair, mussing the perfect style, but he doesn't seem to care. His thigh presses between mine, creating delicious friction against the center of my need.
"Matteo," I whisper against his lips, a plea or a warning—I'm not sure which.
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his breathing as ragged as mine. "If we don't stop now," he warns, his voice husky with desire, "I'm going to take you upstairs and fuck you until you’re screaming my name.”