Chapter Thirty-Two
Erin
I breathe hard, still dazed by the orgasm that shattered me. Matteo is poised over me, staring down at me with an intense glint in his eyes. My mind is a jumbled mess and my body is spent. Every part of me feels raw, exposed, like he has cracked me open and there is no hiding from him anymore.
He doesn’t move away. Instead, his hand slides to my face, tilting my chin up until I have no choice but to meet his gaze.
His eyes are dark, pupils blown so wide that I almost can’t distinguish the dark brown of his irises.
He brushes his thumb over my lower lip, the gesture so achingly tender that I feel my heart constrict painfully.
“Come,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that leaves no room for argument. “You’re a mess, little ghost. Let me clean you.”
Before I can protest, he scoops me up as if I weigh nothing, cradling me against his chest. My limbs are weak, my whole body feels boneless, and I hate myself for not resisting. He carries me through the open door to the bathroom, into the shower.
“Matteo, I can—” I start, but he silences me with a sharp look and a raised brow.
“Can what?” he growls softly, setting me on my feet but keeping a hand on my hip as if I might bolt. “You can barely stand. Stop fighting me for once.”
He turns on the shower and water pours down from the rain shower head above. He steps into the spray first, then pulls me in after him. Warm water encompasses me, soothing and grounding. I feel my mind settle, and my body relax.
Matteo reaches for a bottle on the shelf on the side and opens it. A familiar, subtle flowery scent begins to permeate the shower stall. My stomach drops.
That’s…my shampoo.
I freeze, staring at the label. I hadn’t noticed it when I showered this morning, but there’s no mistake, it’s the same brand I always buy. My blood turns cold.
How…?
“Relax,” Matteo murmurs when he feels me tensing up. “You’re a mess, amore . Let me take care of you.”
Take care of me? My mind spirals. He knows everything about me, what I use, what I wear, obviously what I eat for breakfast. The thought sends a chill through me and I shiver despite the warm water running down my skin.
He pours a bit of shampoo on his palm and moves behind me, slides his hands into my hair to massage the suds in with slow, soothing circles. The gentleness of his touch feels wrong because I know that what my mind wants to believe is tenderness is actually control and obsession.
“I can do it myself,” I whisper.
“No,” he says simply, his tone tolerating no argument. “You’re mine to take care of.” He slightly tightens his fingers in my hair, and the light display of control oddly grounds me.
I don’t answer, my throat is dry and I can’t seem to form a coherent thought anymore.
He tilts my head back, letting the water wash the lather away, then he reaches for soap.
He lets his hands travel over my body in slow, possessive circles.
I try not to shudder when his hands circle over my waist, my hips or my breasts, or when he lingers for a beat too long on the bruises marring my skin.
“You’re trembling,” he notes with a quiet voice. “Are you afraid of me, little ghost?”
I manage a small shake of my head, knowing full well that it’s a lie.
He leans in, lips brushing my ear as he murmurs, “Maybe you should be.”
My breath hitches and I stay silent, letting him wash me.
I don’t move, even when he releases me to wash himself.
After he is finished, he turns off the water and steps out.
Then he wraps me in a soft towel and turns me toward him.
I see him fully for the first time, and I must admit that he is breathtaking.
He is built like someone who hits the gym regularly, his muscles are lean, rippling under his inked skin with every movement.
His broad shoulders taper down to a narrow waist, and…
Oh my, God why? Under all his tattoos, he has that hot V-shaped groove traveling down to his very nice-looking— My mind blanks out.
“Like what you see?”
My eyes snap up to his face and I see that he is smirking.
I feel my face burn in humiliation. I huff and turn around to step out of the bathroom and into the closet.
He follows suit after wrapping a towel around his hips.
Before I can pick out something to wear, he holds out one of his shirts. I look up at him with confusion.
“Whenever we are here by ourselves, you’ll wear one of my shirts.”
It was not a suggestion but a command. I narrow my eyes at him, assessing if it would be worth it to ignore his order. But it would only rile him, so I rip the damn shirt from his hands and throw it on after I’ve put on the first set of underwear I get my hands on.
I am pretty sure I hear him chuckle behind me. I turn around to see that he has thrown on a black shirt and black jeans.
Wait, where did those come from? I look at him in shock, I’ve never seen him in anything else than his beloved black-suit-white-shirt look.
And this look makes him appear more…dangerous.
The T-shirt hugs him like a second skin and his muscular arms are visible, as are the dark swirls covering muscle and sinews.
Definitely dangerous for my sanity .
He doesn’t seem to notice my inner turmoil, he just steps to me to grab my hand and drag me after him to the dining room. At least he lets me walk and is not carrying me around over his shoulder like some caveman.
When we reach the dining room, I see that a room service cart has been wheeled in, although I haven’t heard anyone come in. The table is set for two, and our plates are sitting on the table with silver cloches covering them. My steps falter. So someone else came in here. Maybe I can —
“Don’t even think about it, they’ll only come in when I’m here,” Matteo says from a step in front of me in a bored tone. I inhale sharply. He has his back to me, how does he…
“Come sit, let’s eat.” He motions to the table and I step closer. It is way past lunchtime and I am starving. But before I can slide into a chair, Matteo grabs me around the waist and pulls me down so that I am sitting sideways on his lap. I gasp.
“Wh-what are you doing?”
“Shh, little ghost. Indulge me.” He coils his arm around my waist, pinning me to him.
“I can sit on my own chair,” I retort, annoyed at him and his overbearing manners.
I push against his chest to try to disengage myself, but he only tightens his grasp.
Then he casually leans to the table to uncover his plate.
It smells so good that my stomach starts to grumble.
I have been around Lily enough to recognize the small golden spheres glistening on the plate, surrounded by thinly sliced prosciutto and small stems of roasted asparagus.
I am suddenly starving. But when I reach for the plate, he grabs my wrist.
“No, amore ,” he says, tone calm but firm. He releases my wrists and picks up an arancini with his long fingers to hold it out to me. “You’ll eat when I feed you.”
I gape at him, heat rising in my cheeks. “Matteo, I can feed myself.”
“Not today.” His gaze is dark. “Now, you do as I say.”
I grit my teeth, weighing my options. I could tell him to go to hell. Bet then again, my hunger is gnawing at me, making me almost lightheaded.
He seems to read my dilemma and holds the bite to my lips with a knowing look.
“Open,” he orders in a low voice.
After what feels like an eternity of indecision, I scoff and part my lips to let him push the bite in my mouth.
The crust gives way and the smooth interior flows over my tongue. The flavors explode in my mouth—truffle risotto with melting Parmesan. My eyes flutter shut and I let out a moan despite myself.
“Good girl,” Matteo murmurs hotly into my ear. Then he brushes his finger over my lower lip, as if to catch a stray crumb. I feel a flutter in my belly and squeeze my thighs together to alleviate the fire he ignited with just two words and a touch.
I am in so much trouble .