7. Matteo
Matteo
I’ve had to kill a lot of men in my life, but there’s nothing quite like the sweet anticipation of breaking into a woman’s apartment. Especially when that woman is Contessa fucking Gallo.
Her doorman practically bows when I walk through the lobby. “Mr. Marino, good evening.”
“Evening, Tom.” I slip him a hundred-dollar bill with the practiced ease of a man who’s been greasing palms since before this kid was born. “I’m heading up to see Ms. Gallo.”
“She’s not in, sir. Left about twenty minutes ago.”
I give him my most convincing frown. “Shit, that’s right. She mentioned dinner plans. I was supposed to drop off these contracts.” I pat my briefcase. “Mind if I leave them in her apartment? She gave me a key for emergencies.”
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Of course, sir.”
Five minutes later, I’m standing in Contessa’s penthouse, surrounded by her scent.
I breathe it in, my cock hardening instantly.
It’s been a week since she stormed out of my office, a week of her ignoring my calls and texts.
A fucking week of thinking about how her pussy felt clenching around that vibrator, how she soaked me when she came.
I take my time exploring. Her apartment is exactly what I’d expect—modern, sleek, with pops of bold color.
Purple throw pillows on a white couch. Abstract art on the walls.
A bookshelf filled with business books and erotica.
I run my fingers along the spines, smirking at titles like “His Forbidden Touch” and “Daddy’s Best Friend.
” Fucking hell. The irony isn’t lost on me.
The kitchen is barely used—takeout containers in the trash, an expensive coffeemaker on the counter. She doesn’t cook. I file that away for later. When she’s mine, I’ll make sure she’s properly fed.
In her home office, I find sketches for new toy designs. I flip through them, impressed despite myself. My little stellina has talent. One drawing catches my eye—a cock ring with a built-in vibrator for clitoral stimulation. I pocket it. She can explain it to me in detail later.
But it’s her bedroom that I’m really here for.
I push open the door and my breath catches. Her bed is a massive California king with a purple velvet headboard and white satin sheets.
I check my watch. According to my source, she’ll be at her father’s for at least two more hours. Conrad always drags out these family dinners, especially when he’s trying to convince her to come work for him instead of pursuing her own ventures.
Poor bastard doesn’t realize she’d rather burn her company to the ground than work under his thumb. It’s one of the many things I admire about her. That stubborn will.
The same will I’m going to bend until it submits to me.
Moving to her closet, I slide the door open to reveal rows of colorful clothes. My fingers trail over silks and cottons, stopping at a black dress I recognize from a photo from a charity event.
The bathroom yields more intimate details—her preferred shampoo, the expensive face creams lined up by the sink, a waterproof vibrator suction-cupped to the shower wall. I grin at that, picturing her fucking herself while hot water streams down her curves.
I open her medicine cabinet, scanning the shelves for what I’m really after. Moisturizers, makeup remover, a bottle of Advil, and the small plastic case with days of the week marked on each pill slot.
Picking it up, I examine the blister pack inside. The sequence is messed up. Tuesday’s pill is missing, but Wednesday’s is still there. Then Friday and Saturday are gone, but Sunday remains. Little Contessa can’t even remember to take her birth control properly.
This is almost too perfect. I pull out the package from my inner jacket pocket—identical in appearance but containing nothing but sugar pills, specially compounded by a pharmacist who knows better than to ask questions when I hand him ten grand.
I carefully punch out pills from my fake pack to match the exact pattern of her current one, making sure the days line up perfectly. The swap takes less than a minute. I slide the sugar pills into her case and put it back exactly where I found it.
“This is what happens when you run from me, stellina,” I whisper to the empty bathroom. “I find another way.”
My cock strains against my zipper at the thought of what I’ve just done. Contessa swallowing these useless pills, thinking she’s protected while I fill her with my cum.
She’ll be pregnant within weeks. My baby will be growing inside her. My claim staked in the most primal, permanent way possible.
Some might call this wrong. Unethical. A violation. I call it securing what’s mine. Contessa has always been meant for me, and I’m tired of waiting.
I walk back into her bedroom just to take one final look around and pull open her nightstand drawer. A few toys, a bottle of lube, and a small journal.
I reach for the first toy, a sleek black butt plug with a jeweled end—probably real fucking crystal knowing Contessa’s taste.
It’s medium-sized, not for beginners but not intimidatingly large either.
I roll it between my fingers, imagining her working it into her tight ass while she fucks herself with one of her vibrators.
I like knowing my girl is filthy and I’m going to be able to fuck her there as I set it aside.
Picking up the sleek leather-bound journal, I flip it open and immediately recognize her handwriting. Bold, slanting script that takes up more space than necessary. Just like her.
The first several pages are filled with product ideas, sketched designs with measurements, and material notes in the margins. Notes about silicone grades, motor strength, and battery life.
I turn the page and find a series of doodles—abstract shapes, flowers, and what looks like a crude sketch of her purple-haired self on a throne. “Queen Contessa” is scrawled beneath it.
I flip further, finding random thoughts scattered throughout.
Called Dad again. Straight to voicemail. Ass.
Natalia says the G-spot stimulator needs more curve. She’s right.
Need to fire Marcus from R&D. Keeps hitting on the testers.
Then I see my name, and my pulse quickens.
Had a dream about him last night. Woke up soaking wet. This is getting ridiculous.
My cock throbs against my zipper. She dreams about me. Gets wet for me even in her sleep.
Decided to approach Matteo for funding. Risky, but I don’t want my dad funding me. Better the devil I know than the one who raised me.
Met with M today. He agreed too easily. Something’s off. The way he looked at me...like I was something he wanted to devour.
I scan further down the page and what I saw has me ready to pull my cock out and cum all over her pretty purple pillows.
Had a dream where he bends me over his desk and makes me call him Daddy while he fucks me. Woke up soaking wet. What the fuck is wrong with me? He’s Dad’s best friend.
I turn the page, hungry for more of her dirty thoughts about me, and my cock nearly bursts through my zipper when I read her latest entry.
After what happened in his office, I can’t stop thinking about his face between my legs.
How it would feel to grip that thick black hair and just ride his mouth until I cum all over him again.
I’ve never squirted before. Never lost control like that.
What is he doing to me? It’s like he knows exactly which buttons to push.
I hate how much I want him. How much I crave his voice calling me his good girl.
I touched myself three times yesterday just thinking about it.
So my little stellina wants to ride my face? Wants to grip my hair and grind that sweet pussy against my mouth? I’m rock hard just picturing it—her thighs clamped around my head, her juices coating my chin as she uses my tongue like her personal fuck toy.
I close the journal and put it back exactly where I found it, making sure everything is exactly as it was when I entered.
On my way out, I pause at her dresser and open the top drawer. Lace panties in every color stare back at me. I select a pink pair—the same style as the ones I took from her in my office—and pocket them. A memento. Something to keep me company while I wait for my plan to unfold.
I make sure to lock her door when I leave. After all, I wouldn’t want anyone else breaking in. She’s mine to violate. Mine to claim. Mine to breed.
The lobby is busier now, with a few residents milling about. I nod at Tom as I pass.
“Have a good evening, Mr. Marino,” he calls.
“Oh, I will,” I respond, patting my pocket where her stolen panties rest.