Chapter 25
ELIZABETH
Matteo surprises me. I wasn’t sure how he’d be with all the seniors, but he’s a natural with everyone, with Arthur and Irene, and everyone he meets.
The ladies like him and I notice he's getting quite a bit of attention. People keep asking me if he's my beau. I laugh. I don’t deny it and I don’t admit it.
I just smile at them and keep them guessing.
I like having him here with me, and he’s taken to it very well. I keep reminding myself that this is my world, and that he comes from another universe; a different kind of life with different people. I'm certain this is the first time he's ever been around a big group of elderly people.
He looked at me strangely when I talked about Arthur and Irene. I didn’t mean to get so carried away and talk about love and how romantic these two are, but it occurs to me later, as we head home, that Matteo likely hasn’t seen this.
His relationship with his father is strained. He never talks about his grandparents, and I don’t know much about his mother, except that she’s in Italy. I have a mind to bring it up again when we get home later that evening.
We've just had dinner and he's helping me clear up. He hasn't made any move to leave, and when someone knocks on my door, he says it's for him. He's had a fresh change of clothes dropped off and then asks if I'd mind him staying another night.
Almost immediately, he reassures me that he's not trying to get into my bed or anything. He just likes being here. I like him being here, too.
“Is it odd?” he asks, rinsing the dishes. “Me asking to stay? Is it too soon?”
How sweet. The more I get to know him, the more I see that this man has a big, beautiful heart. He’s kind, caring and considerate.
“No.” I watch him wash the dishes and it doesn’t feel odd, and it's not too soon, because it feels right. What feels odd is that we haven't had sex. And that I want him so much.
He’s been walking around my apartment in a T-shirt, his tattoos on full display. The soft grey cotton stretching across his broad shoulders and hanging perfectly on his frame. It's impossible not to stare when he isn't looking. Not that I do a very good job of hiding it.
Last night when he fell asleep with his head in my lap, I was content to do nothing but run my fingers through his hair, listening to his steady breathing, and trying not to think about how right it felt.
This whole thing is a special kind of torture.
The touching. The lingering brushes of our hands. The lazy smiles. The kisses that start soft and sweet before deepening just enough to make my pulse race. Every time we begin to drift toward something more, one of us pulls back, and the pent-up frustration only worsens.
It's becoming unbearable.
Tomorrow we go back to work, and that will be strange. It’s not something I want to think about.
“Mind if I take a quick shower?” he asks, when he’s finished.
“Be my guest.” I give him a clean towel, then sit on my couch, trying to read a magazine and failing, because all I can think of is Matteo naked and taking a shower.
Vlad sends me another text about the wedding. I reply quickly, because the wedding date is creeping up and I need to book the time off work.
Elizabeth: I’m coming two days before your wedding, and will stay for three days after.
Vlad: Good. I want you to get to know Valentina. You haven’t met her.
Elizabeth: Cannot wait
Vlad: I’m booking you a room
I shake my head. No he won’t.
Elizabeth: I can take care of that myself. No need to.
Vlad: It’s my wedding, and I’ll do what I want.
Vlad: Also, you’re coming a long way
I quickly text back.
Elizabeth: You will not. I’m grown up now.
Vlad: Stop, mala. I insist.
He always uses the same affectionate nickname for me.
Mala. Little one. I put my phone away quickly when I hear footsteps and Matteo appears, still pulling on his fresh T-shirt over a slightly damp body.
I catch sight of the ridges and valleys of his abs, hard, like stone.
His hips narrowing to a V. He’s wearing stone-washed blue jeans, and he’s barefoot.
“Close your mouth, Elizabeth, you’re drooling.”
I promptly do, my eyes roving all over him. “Tease. You did that on purpose, come out half naked.” I tend to get very horny during this time of the month, and this man is getting harder to resist with each moment.
He walks over to me and sits down beside me. “That’s not half naked. That’s not even a quarter naked.”
“I saw skin,” I protest before slathering him with kisses. “You were looking for a chance to show off your physique.”
“Was not.”
“Was, too. Show off.” We kiss again, mouths meshed together, tongues duelling. I pull away to grab some air.
“This is showing off my physique.”
Before I can blink, his hands cross over and he peels off his T-shirt again.
I start to salivate, literally, salivate, at the sight of him.
His chest is broad and lean, his muscles carved to perfection.
His chest and shoulders are covered in more ink, sweeping black lines intertwined with geometric patterns and fragments of script.
They look less like decoration and more like pieces of a map, charting a life that's left its marks on him.
His biceps flex as he tosses the shirt aside, the definition in them impossible to ignore.
I pull back, my gaze roving all over him as heat curls low in my belly.
This man is truly beautiful.
I lean forward, kiss his chest, then drop kisses all over him.
My nipples turn hard, and he palms my breasts gently, painstakingly slowly, first one and then the other, his thumbs rubbing over the fabric of my clothes and making them tighten even further.
We kiss again, long, wet, and deep, so that I'm panting when we pull apart.
A familiar ache spreads between my legs.
I'm so desperate for him, but as I lean forward to kiss him again, he pulls away.
I swallow, wondering why, but I don’t let that thought linger. Resting my hand lightly over his arm, I trace along the curve of his bicep, feeling the warmth of his skin as my fingers skate over it.
Just like that, he kisses me again, and we end up making out on the couch; hands exploring over clothes, nothing too intimate, but the kissing deepens, like we’re deeply connected, and extracting maximum pleasure from each other.
His mouth lowers to my neck and soon he’s leaving wet kisses all along it, sometimes sucking on my skin, making my back arch off the couch. I can’t help but nibble on his earlobe, one hand tugging his hair, the other curled around his neck.
We’re a tangled, hot mess of sighs, and heavy breathing, slowly savoring and exploring one another.
“That’s not fair,” he husks, licking my earlobe when my hand reaches between us and presses on his hardness. I want to feel and touch him naked, and this is infuriating. It's also hard to stop, to not get too carried away.
He growls, low and rough. “Fuck, Elizabeth. You’re going to make me come in my boxers.”
His husky voice makes me more needy. I want him to come over me, inside me. His mouth lowers to my breast, and he kisses me over my T-shirt, sucking my nipple through the fabric. A heavy throbbing builds inside me as my nipples harden to aching peaks, the pleasure there, but muted.
I need more.
I need his mouth on my naked skin.
I need—
Driven purely by desire, I push him back, then straddle him in an instant, before I second-guess myself.
His eyes pop wide open, glinting at me in dark surprise.
“We’re not doing anything, remember?” he cautions gently.
My body sags into itself. Damn my seven-day long periods. I bend over so that my chest is on his chest, and my forehead against his. “This is agony, because I desperately want you now.”
“Ready when you are.” He presses a chaste kiss on my lips and I move off him. He slides his T-shirt back on again, and I snuggle beside him. My heart racing, my body sinking, against him, unsatiated.
“Why is your mom in Italy?”
“She lives there.”
“How come?”
“We were born in Italy. Me, Rio and Enzo, and we moved here later.”
I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about it, so I don’t pursue the conversation. The TV is on, and we stare at it, hands intertwined.
‘“When is your friend’s wedding?” he asks, suddenly.
“In two weeks. I need to put in for time off.”
His expression shifts slightly. “Two weeks? That might be tight.”
“What do you mean?”
“Policy. We usually need more notice.”
“You’re joking.” I turn and stare at him in disbelief. “I'm sleeping with the boss, surely that counts for something?”
He raises a brow. “Technically, you're not ... yet.” He watches me carefully. He's being serious, and my stomach drops.
“No, you don’t understand.” I lower my head, thoughts spinning furiously in my head.
I cannot under any circumstance miss Vlad's wedding.
He'd never forgive me. I move my hand out of his and stare at the floor, hating that I messed up so badly.
I was so preoccupied with the job, and wanting to do it well, I kept putting off everything to do with Vlad's wedding.
The corner of Matteo's mouth twitches. “Hey, Elizabeth, I’m joking,” he says, lightly. “Put in the request tomorrow. You’ll get it. Breathe, babe. I was just kidding.”
I look up at him. “You...”
“What?” I don’t even finish the sentence before I grab him, half laughing, half furious, kissing him because I don’t know what else to do with the relief.
It turns messy fast. I straddle him again, my knees on either side of his hips as I grind against him, while his hands move over my body, and our mouths mesh together into another toe-curling kiss.
“You’re unbelievable,” I mutter against his mouth, our breaths mingling.
“You’re welcome.”
“Wasn’t a compliment.”
“Still taking it as one.”’
I'm panting by the time I break away. Body fully aroused again, and desperate for him. His lips are moist and full, his eyes twinkling with desire and amusement.
And there's a very obvious, very impressive boner sitting between us.
“Put in for your leave tomorrow and you'll get it.”
“Are you going to see your mom?”
“Still thinking about it.” He turns pensive. Then, “Are you a bridesmaid or something?”
“No. I'm on the groom's side.”
“You never told me it was a he.”
“You never asked.” I catch his look of surprise. “Does it matter?”
“It doesn’t matter. I just assumed it was a she.”
It’s an easy assumption to make. I drop another kiss on his lips, just to soothe away the awkwardness of the moment.
“How did you meet your friend if he lives in Croatia?” Matteo isn’t finished, or distracted, and his voice has lost its soft playfulness.
“He didn’t always live in Croatia. He used to live here a long time ago.”
“You must be good friends if you’re going all the way there for his wedding.”
“We are.” I feel like he’s waiting for more. “He’s a very dear friend, and he lives there now.”
Matteo looks at me and it feels like we’re in a strange moment now, like I’ve said too much and not enough at the same time.
“He taught me a lot, about things …” I say carefully, wondering at the same time if I should tell him more. As it is he still doesn’t know Vlad’s name.
Matteo doesn’t push. But I can feel that he notices and he’s quietly waiting for me to elaborate, but I’m uneasy again, because talking about what Vlad means to me means exposing everything about my past that I want to forget.
“We could travel together,” I say lightly, watching his reaction.
“We could.”
But his answer sounds automatic and quickly given, almost like he's thinking about something else.
“Though I'm not sure that's a good idea. It would set tongues wagging at work.”
His hand settles over my stomach like it’s the most natural place for it to be.
“I don’t care.”
“That’s because you’re the boss, Matteo.” I look at him. “You get to not care.”
He doesn't reply, and the room feels too quiet again. A question lingers in the back of my mind. “Did you think it was odd that Joel was doing backups that day? He almost caught us.”
He exhales through his nose. “I’ve been thinking about that.” His hand moves gently, almost absent-mindedly, across my stomach. “It’s been bothering me, because he’s never there that late. He said Alex asked him to do the backup, but Alex can do it remotely.”
I sit up a little more. “Do we need to look at Joel?”
“I don’t know.” Another labored sigh leaves his mouth. “I don’t know who to trust anymore.”
Immediately my instinct and fears kick in. “You trust me, though, don't you?”
“Absolutely,” he says, looking at me like I'm crazy for even saying that. “With my life.”
With my life.
I breathe easier, and let his words settle gently over me.