1. Contessa
Contessa
I’ve spent three hours listening to women squeal over baby onesies and watching Matteo Marino stare at me like no one else is in the vicinity. Like my dad isn’t here. Now I’m so close to escaping I can taste it.
My hand is on the doorknob when his voice stops me.
“Contessa.”
Just my name in that gravelly baritone makes my thighs clench. I don’t turn around. “I’m just leaving, Uncle Matteo.”
His footsteps approach from behind. “What’s taking so long with the initial prototypes? If you’re having trouble, there’s no harm in asking for help. Do you need a little muscle, hmm?”
I spin around, coming face-to-chest with him.
Even in my heels, Matteo towers over me, broad shoulders, trim waist and expensive cologne.
Mid-forties, and he’s still unfairly hot—salt and pepper at his temples only making him look more authoritative.
I don’t have daddy issues, but someone would think I do if they knew what I thought when it came to him.
“Stop thinking you can strong-arm your way into my business and shit,” I snap. “You’re my investor, not my babysitter.”
His eyes darken. “Watch your mouth before I clean it out.”
The air between us feels as if it could literally ripple.
My nipples harden against my silk top, and I hate my body’s instant reaction to him.
It’s been like a year since I’ve gotten laid.
It’s been long enough that I’ve lost track.
No wonder my pussy’s practically sending smoke signals at the first man who talks to me like he can throw me around and make me see stars.
I swallow hard. “I’ll email you an update next week.”
Matteo’s fingers find my chin, tilting my face up with a touch so gentle it makes me want to scream. “I’ll be looking forward to it,” he murmurs, then leans in to press his lips against my cheek.
The kiss lingers a beat too long. When he pulls back, I catch a flash of something possessive in his eyes before he turns and walks away.
I stand frozen, watching his commanding stride as he moves down the pathway. His driver jumps to attention, opening the door to his sleek black Bentley. Matteo slides in without a backward glance.
The car pulls away, and I exhale before I end up passing out. His ego is infuriating, suffocating, and unfortunately attractive as hell.
Fuck him and fuck me for wanting him to look back.
I make a beeline for my car, jabbing the unlock button on my key fob like it personally offended me. My hands are still trembling when I slide into the driver’s seat of my Audi. My dad had to practically force it on me because I’m stubborn as shit.
The engine purrs to life, and I’m peeling out of the parking lot before anyone can stop me. I need distance, space, air that doesn’t smell like Matteo’s cologne.
I grab my phone and tap my best friend Natalia’s contact, putting her on speaker as I merge onto the highway.
“About fucking time!” Natalia’s voice fills my car. “I was starting to think you died in a cloud of baby powder and formula.”
“Worse. I almost died of sexual frustration.” I grip the steering wheel tighter. “Matteo is everywhere. Breathing down my neck about the prototypes. Looking at me like he might want to bend me over the gift table.”
“And this is a problem because...?” she laughs. “Girl, you need to get dicked down so bad I can hear your pussy crying through the phone.”
“Jesus Christ, Nat.”
“What? It’s been what, a year? Two? Your vagina probably looks like the Sahara Desert by now.”
I snort despite myself. “You’re disgusting.”
“I’m right, though.” I can practically hear her smirking. “So what’s the deal with the prototypes, anyway? Marino’s got a point. I’ve been waiting forever to test those vibrators you promised me. My nightstand drawer is getting lonely.”
“They’re just not ready,” I snap, taking the exit toward my apartment.
“Bullshit. You’re just being a control freak as usual. Some of us need new toys, bitch. My rabbit died last week and I’m down to my backup bullet.”
“You have like seventeen vibrators!”
“Eighteen, actually. And a girl needs options.” Natalia’s voice turns serious. “For real, though, Tessa, you can’t keep everything to yourself forever. Let people help you. Let people in.”
“I don’t need—”
“If you say ‘help’ I will literally drive to your apartment and slap you. You’ve been designing luxury dildos for almost a year, and I haven’t seen a single prototype. What are you afraid of?”
The question hits harder than it should. What am I afraid of? Failure? Success? Matteo seeing how much I want his approval?
“I’m not afraid,” I lie. “I just want everything perfect before I show anyone.”
“Perfectionism is just fear wearing a cute outfit,” Natalia says. “And speaking of outfits, did Daddy Marino wear one of those suits that make his ass look like it was carved by Michelangelo?”
“Don’t call him that,” I groan.
“He’s forty-five, not ancient, so I can’t call him Granddaddy Marino,” Natalia counters. “With those hands? Girl, I’d let him rearrange my guts.”
I nearly swerve into the next lane. “There’s something seriously wrong with you.”
“You know you’re fucking drooling over him too.” Nat’s cackle blasts through my speakers. “I’ve seen you watching those hands when he gestures whenever I’ve been your plus one to family get-togethers. Thinking about them between your thighs?”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“No, you’re not.” She’s right. I’m not. “Just admit you want him to bend you over his desk and make you call him Daddy while he—”
“Jesus fuck!” I slam on the brakes at a red light. “Can you stop with the pornographic fan fiction for five seconds?”
“Fine, fine. But seriously, when am I getting something to test? My electric toothbrush is starting to give me side-eye.”
I pull into my apartment building’s garage, sliding into my designated spot. “Your toothbrush?”
“Don’t judge me. A girl’s gotta work with what she’s got. And what I’ve got is a Sonicare with three vibration settings and a desperate need for something designed for actual orgasms.”
I kill the engine, laughing despite myself. “That’s the saddest shit I’ve ever heard.”
“Then give me something better! I’m begging you. Literally begging. Like on my knees, which is good practice for later.”
“Fine,” I concede, grabbing my purse. “I’ll bring you a prototype tomorrow. But it’s still in development, so don’t—”
“Yes! Hallelujah!” she whoops so loudly I have to pull the phone away from my ear. “My clit thanks you in advance.”
“You’re fucking deranged.”
“Speaking of getting fucked, you’re meeting me tonight at Solstice.” Of course she’d pick the most pretentious cocktail lounge in the city. “Nine o’clock. Wear something slutty.”
“I have work to do, Nat.”
“You always have work to do. For once in your life, prioritize your pussy over your portfolio.”
I step into the elevator, punching the button for my floor. “I’ll think about it.”
“Don’t think, just do. Like that hot bartender with the sleeve tattoos I'm planning to climb like a tree tonight.” She pauses. “Unless Marino shows up. Then I’ll generously step aside.”
“He’s not going to show up there.”
“Why not? Rich guys drink too.” The elevator doors slide open on my floor.
“I hate you.”
“Love you too, bitch. And bring me something that vibrates harder than my toothbrush, or I swear to god—”
I hang up because I simply cannot with her right now.
As I reach my apartment door, I spot a paper bag sitting on the floor. The sleek black and gold Cedar and Stone logo jumps out at me immediately. My stomach growls in response. What a fucking traitor.
“What the hell?” I mutter, fishing out my keys. There’s a small, black note card attached to the top with an elegant “M” monogram embossed in gold. I don’t need three guesses to know who it’s from.
I snatch the bag and unlock my door, dropping my purse on the entry table before pulling the card free. The handwriting is bold and masculine; the strokes heavy against the expensive cardstock.
You didn’t eat at the baby shower. Your body and brain need fuel. Stop skipping meals and working yourself to death, no matter how much my questioning about prototypes grates on you.
- M
Heat flushes through me—not just anger, though there’s plenty of that. It’s the unsettling realization that he noticed. While I was busy trying not to stare at him, he was watching me closely enough to see I didn’t eat.
“Fucking stalker,” I mutter, but my stomach growls again, louder this time.
I open the bag and the smell hits me—their rosemary garlic steak, the truffle mac and cheese I always order, and what looks like a slice of chocolate torte.
My mouth waters instantly. Cedar and Stone is impossible to get into without a reservation weeks in advance, yet somehow Matteo got my exact order delivered to my door. They don’t even fucking do delivery.
I want to throw it in the trash out of spite, but I’m not that stupid.
As I set the food on my kitchen counter, my phone buzzes with a text. Speak of the devil.
Matteo
Eat, Contessa.
Two words. That’s it. How the fuck does he even know the food arrived?
Are you having me followed? That’s creepy as shit.
His response comes instantly.
Doorman texted when it was delivered. Eat your dinner. I’ll know if you don’t.
I glare at my phone.
Last time I checked, you weren’t my father.
Three dots appear, disappear, then reappear. Whatever he initially typed, he thought better of it.
Thank God for that. Now be a good girl and eat.
The words “good girl” send a pulse straight between my legs. Fuck, this is so messed up. He’s literally like family. I called him uncle for years.
I’m not your good girl. I’m your business partner.
You can be both.
I stare at the message, my heart pounding. Before I can respond, another text comes through.
Just eat your food before your steak gets cold, stellina.
Little star. I hate when he slips into Italian, because it makes my thighs clench every damn time.
I toss my phone onto the counter and rip open the containers. The smell hits me again, and my stomach growls loud enough to echo in my empty apartment. God, I’m starving.
The first bite of steak practically melts on my tongue, and I make an embarrassing noise that I’m glad no one’s around to hear. I shovel the truffle mac into my mouth next, savoring the rich, creamy cheese and the earthy punch of truffle.
This is so good. You know how takeout never tastes quite as good once it’s traveled? This somehow tastes exactly like it came straight from the kitchen.
I demolish the meal in record time, scraping every last bit from the containers like I’m afraid someone will take it away. The chocolate torte is sinful. Dark and not too sweet, with a hint of sea salt that makes me close my eyes in pleasure.
When I’m done, I sit back, feeling both satisfied and pissed off.
Satisfied because the food was incredible.
Pissed because Matteo was right—I needed to eat.
And I hate when men are right. It doesn’t happen often, but it causes my eye twitch every time I have to admit a man said something I agree with.
I grab my phone, snap a picture of the empty containers, and send it to him.
Thanks for the fuel. It’s gonna all get burned off later tonight anyway.
Where?
Just one word, but I can feel the demand behind it. The possessiveness. The fucking audacity.
I don’t answer. Instead, I toss my phone onto my bed and strip off my clothes as I head to the bathroom.
The hot water feels amazing on my tense muscles. I take my time shaving everything, exfoliating, and conditioning my hair. I want to look good tonight.
I’m toweling off when I hear my phone buzzing repeatedly from the bedroom. I ignore it, slathering my body with scented lotion before wrapping myself in my robe.
When I finally check my phone, there are three messages from him.
I asked you a question, Contessa.
Are you ignoring me?
I don’t appreciate being ignored.
I could answer him, but I won’t.
I need to put him out of my mind, and put getting under or on top of someone tonight in.
Guy, girl, both. Nat is right, I need to pay a little more attention to my pussy than my portfolio and maybe an orgasm or two that’s not self-induced will clear the cobwebs and knock some sense into me.