3. Matteo
Matteo
My house is silent as I enter, and I can’t wait until the sounds she makes fill the estate. It’s only a matter of time, and I’m already playing it out in my head how to speed up my plan.
In my bathroom, I flick on the light. The space is all black marble and gold fixtures, designed to my exact specifications.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the ocean, the glass treated so no one can see in, but I can see everything outside.
The moon reflects off the water, casting silver light across the marble floor.
I turn on the rainfall shower, steam already beginning to fill the room. The water pressure is perfect. Hard enough to pound the tension from my muscles. While it heats up, I move into my walk-in closet, a space bigger than most people’s living rooms.
I begin removing my jewelry piece by piece.
First the Rolex—platinum and understated, unlike that fuck’s gaudy gold monstrosity.
Then my signet ring with the Marino family crest. The platinum chain my father gave me when I turned eighteen.
Each item goes into its designated spot in the custom-built safe behind the wooden panel.
I strip methodically. My jacket, tie, and shirt are hung or placed where they belong.
When I’m naked, I examine myself in the full-length mirror.
At forty-five, I’m in better shape than most men half my age.
My chest and arms are covered in tattoos.
Reminders of my past, symbols of power and protection.
The ink stops at my wrists, allowing me to hide my true nature behind expensive suits when necessary.
Back in the bathroom, I step into the shower. The water hits my skin, hot and punishing. I close my eyes, letting it soak my hair, run down my face, my chest, my back. The marble beneath my feet is heated; another small luxury I afford myself.
I grab the soap—some expensive shit that smells like cedar and vetiver—and work it over my body, scrubbing away the night’s work.
Blood has a way of seeping into the pores even if you aren’t coated in it.
It’s the smell. I pay special attention to my knuckles, watching the pink-tinged suds swirl down the drain.
My cock stands rigid against my stomach, thick and heavy with need. Water cascades down my shoulders, and I wrap my hand around my shaft.
“Fuck,” I growl, squeezing harder than necessary, punishing myself for wanting her so badly. I know it’s wrong, and while my morals are questionable at best, it won’t stop me from feeling marginally bad about lusting after my best friend’s daughter.
I stroke slowly from base to tip, twisting my wrist just under the head. In my mind, it’s Contessa’s hand. Those delicate fingers with the rings she’s always twisting when she’s nervous, wrapped around my cock, learning how to please me.
The water pounds against my back as I brace my free hand against the shower wall. I imagine her on her knees in front of me, that purple hair wrapped around my fist as I guide her mouth onto my cock. Those big brown eyes looking up at me, watering as she takes me deeper.
“Fuck, Contessa,” I groan, my voice echoing off the walls.
I slow my strokes deliberately, bringing myself to the edge and then backing off. My balls are tight, aching for release, but I deny myself. Just like I’ve been denying myself her for a while.
I imagine her bent over my desk, that perfect ass in the air as I spank it red. The sound she’d make when I finally push into her tight pussy. How she’d beg for it once I showed her what she’s been missing with those boys she wastes her time on.
“You’d be so fucking tight,” I growl, speeding up again, my hand a blur on my cock. “So fucking perfect for me.”
I’m close—too close. I stop, squeezing the base of my shaft hard enough to hurt, forcing the orgasm back down. Not yet. I want to savor this.
I turn the water off and step out of the shower, not bothering with a towel. Water drips down my body onto the heated floor as I approach the mirror, my reflection growing clearer as the steam dissipates.
I look like a fucking animal—eyes dark with lust, muscles tense, cock jutting out obscenely. That’s what she does to me. Reduces me to my most primal self.
I resume stroking, watching my hand work my shaft in the mirror. The sight is filthy and perfect. I imagine Contessa watching me, those full lips parted in awe. Learning exactly how I like to be touched.
I slow my pace, twisting slightly at the head, collecting the pre-cum that’s already leaking. Using it to slick my way back down, I set a torturous rhythm.
I groan, watching my cock slide through my fist, imagining her mouth, her pussy, her ass—anywhere I can bury myself in her.
The fantasy shifts to her riding me, those tits bouncing as she grinds down on my cock. I’d hold her hips in a bruising grip, guiding her movements.
My pace increases, hand working furiously as my orgasm builds. I’m not gentle with myself. I never am. My grip is punishing, just shy of painful, exactly how I like it.
“Gonna fill you up, gonna fucking breed you,” I snarl, the words escaping without permission. The thought of her swollen with my child sends me over the edge.
My cock pulses in my hand as thick ropes of cum shoot across the bathroom counter. I keep stroking, milking every last drop as it spatters across the top, marking the pristine surface with streaks of white.
“Fuck,” I grunt, giving my cock one final squeeze, watching the last drop of cum ooze from the tip.
I stare at the mess I’ve made, breathing hard, muscles twitching with aftershocks. What a fucking waste. Next time this happens, it’ll be inside her tight little pussy, where it belongs.