10. Contessa
Contessa
Ifeel him jerk inside me, his cock pulsing as the first hot stream of cum shoots deep into my pussy. Then suddenly he pulls out, and I feel the next hot splashes landing on my mound, the warm stickiness pooling.
“Fuck,” I gasp, still trembling from my second orgasm, my brain foggy with pleasure.
Matteo groans above me, his hand working his shaft, milking every last drop onto my skin. His eyes are locked on the sight of his cum painting my pubic mound, his expression almost feral.
“Look at that,” he growls, his free hand coming down to smear his cum over me, rubbing it into my skin like he’s marking territory. His thick fingers slide through the mess, dragging some of it down to my already sensitive clit. “Gonna make sure every inch of this pussy knows who it belongs to.”
I should be disgusted. I should slap his hand away and tell him to fuck off. Instead, I’m arching into his touch as he works his cum into my clit with slow, deliberate circles. The filthy squelching sounds fill the room as he mixes his seed with my wetness.
“Jesus,” I whimper as new waves of pleasure ripple through me. My body feels boneless; my mind hazy. I can barely form coherent thoughts beyond more and please and don’t stop.
“Not Jesus,” he corrects, his voice rough as he continues to rub my clit. “Daddy.”
That word again. The one that shot through me like a lightning bolt when he said it before.
The one that made me come so hard I saw stars.
I didn’t know I’d be into that—never even considered it.
But something about the way he says it, commanding and possessive, makes my pussy clench desperately around nothing.
“Say it,” he demands, pressing harder on my clit, making me jerk. “Who made you come like that?”
I bite my lip, trying to hold back, but his fingers speed up, working my oversensitive bundle of nerves until I’m writhing beneath him.
“Daddy,” I finally gasp, the word falling from my lips before I can stop it. “Fuck, Daddy made me come.”
His eyes darken with satisfaction, and I watch as his cock twitches, already starting to harden again despite having just emptied itself all over me.
“Good girl,” he purrs, and those two simple words send another jolt of pleasure straight to my core. “Such a good girl for Daddy.”
I’m still half out of it, drunk on back-to-back orgasms and the filthy praise falling from his lips. My thighs tremble as he continues to rub his cum into my skin, claiming me in the most primal way possible.
He pushes my limp legs up and apart, spreading me wide open as he kneels between my thighs. The way he’s staring at my pussy makes me feel both exposed and powerful at the same time.
“Look how red and puffy you are,” he growls, running a finger along my swollen lips. “Fuck, this pretty little cunt took such a pounding.”
I try to close my legs, suddenly self-conscious, but his hands grip my thighs firmly, keeping me spread open for his inspection.
“Don’t hide from me,” he commands, his eyes locked on my used pussy. “I want to see what my cock did to you.”
His thumb traces around my entrance, which feels tender and stretched. The sensation makes me whimper.
“Your body was built to take me,” he says with such certainty it makes my core clench again. “Made for my cock. Tall and thick and utterly fucking perfect.”
I roll my eyes despite the flutter in my chest. “You’re not that special, Marino.”
But he just smirks, continuing to examine me like I’m his favorite toy. His fingers dip inside me again, making me gasp as he collects some of our mixed fluids and spreads them over my sensitive folds.
My stomach chooses that exact moment to let out a small but unmistakable growl. Heat rushes to my face as I realize I haven’t eaten since lunch.
Matteo tuts, his eyes narrowing at the sound.
“When’s the last time you ate something?” he asks, his voice shifting from sex-drunk to concerningly alert.
I shrug, trying to play it off. “I had a protein bar at some point.”
“At some point,” he repeats, shaking his head. “You mean this morning? Yesterday?”
“Does it matter?” I try to close my legs again, but he’s still kneeling between them, his hands now resting on my thighs.
“It fucking matters,” he says, and I swear I can see genuine worry flash across his face before it’s replaced by that commanding expression again. “Your body needs fuel, Contessa. A fueled body is a fueled brain.”
I snort. “Are you seriously lecturing me about nutrition while your cum is drying on my pussy?”
He doesn’t laugh. Instead, he slides his hands under my ass and hoists me up, pulling me to the edge of the bed. Before I can process what’s happening, he’s standing, scooping me into his arms like I weigh nothing.
“What the fuck?” I yelp, instinctively grabbing his shoulders to steady myself.
“We’re getting you something to eat,” he states, carrying me naked through his bedroom toward what I assume is an en-suite bathroom. “Then we’ll continue this...discussion.”
“I can walk,” I protest, though my legs still feel like jelly from those back-to-back orgasms.
“Sure you can.” He smirks, kicking open the bathroom door with his foot. “But I like carrying you.”
The bathroom is bigger than my entire apartment’s living room, all marble and glass with a shower that could fit six people comfortably. He sets me down on the counter next to a massive sink, my ass cold against the marble.
“Stay,” he commands, like I’m a fucking dog, then turns to grab a washcloth from a nearby shelf.
“I’m not a dog,” I snap, but I don’t move. Partly because I’m curious about what he’s doing, and partly because my legs are still trembling.
He wets the cloth with warm water and turns back to me, stepping between my legs again. Without a word, he begins to gently clean between my thighs, wiping away the sticky residue of sex and cum.
“I can do that myself,” I mutter, but my protest lacks conviction. There’s something weirdly intimate about him cleaning me like this, more intimate than the filthy fucking we just did.
“I know you can,” he says, his touch surprisingly gentle as he works. “But I want to take care of what’s mine.”
I should argue with that possessive statement, but the warm cloth feels too good against my tender flesh. I lean back on my hands, letting my head fall back slightly as he continues his ministrations.
When he’s done, he tosses the cloth and steps back, his eyes roaming over my naked body like he’s memorizing every curve and dip.
“Wait here,” he orders, then strides out of the bathroom, still completely naked and apparently not giving a single fuck about it.
I take the opportunity to really look at the bathroom.
It’s ridiculous—a giant glass-walled shower with multiple showerheads, a soaking tub big enough to swim in, and what looks like heated floors.
Everything screams money, but not in that tacky, gold-plated way.
This is old money, the kind that doesn’t need to show off.
Matteo returns a minute later, still gloriously naked. His cock hangs heavy between his legs, not fully hard but definitely not soft either. The sight makes my center clench. Fucking down, girl.
He’s got two robes draped over his arm. One is a rich, charcoal gray that looks expensive as fuck, and the other—my breath catches—is a soft lilac color that matches my hair almost perfectly.
“Here,” he says, holding out the purple one. “Put this on.”
I slide off the counter and take it, running my fingers over the impossibly soft material.
“So how many women have worn this before me?” I ask, slipping my arms into the sleeves.
“None,” he snaps, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “I bought it explicitly for you. No other woman has been in this house except my housekeeper.”
His reaction startles me. I was just being a smartass, but his response feels too raw, too honest to be bullshit.
“Oh,” I say lamely, clutching the robe closer around me. It fits perfectly, wrapping around my curves like it was made for me. Which, apparently, it was.
Matteo shrugs into his gray robe, tying it with jerky movements that betray his irritation. “Contrary to what you seem to think, I don’t make a habit of bringing women here. This isn’t a fucking hotel.”
“I was just—”
“Just being a brat,” he finishes for me, stepping close again. His hand comes up to cup my face, thumb brushing over my lower lip. “You think I fuck every pretty thing that crosses my path?”
I shrug, suddenly feeling small. “You’re a powerful man with money and influence. I just assumed—”
“You’ve made assumptions about a lot of things,” he says, running his fingers through my hair. “Now, come on. Let’s get some food in you before you pass out.”
He takes my hand and leads me out of the bathroom, through the bedroom, and down a wide hallway. I’m too dazed to really take in the details, focused instead on the warmth of his hand around mine, the way his robe falls open slightly as he walks, revealing glimpses of his chest.
We descend the grand staircase and head toward the back of the house, ending up in a massive kitchen that looks like something out of a cooking show. All gleaming stainless steel, marble countertops, and professional-grade equipment.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the island in the center of the kitchen.
I slide onto one of the high-backed stools, adjusting my robe to make sure I’m covered. It feels strange sitting here in nothing but borrowed silk, watching Matteo Marino move around his kitchen like he knows what he’s doing.
“What are you making?” I ask, watching as he opens the massive refrigerator and begins pulling out ingredients.
“Cacio e pepe,” he replies, setting down a block of Pecorino Romano and some fresh pasta on the counter. “Simple but satisfying.”
My stomach does a weird flip that has nothing to do with hunger. Cacio e pepe was what my Nonna Gallo used to make for me when I visited her as a kid. It was comfort food, something she’d whip up late at night when I couldn’t sleep.
“How did you know?” I ask, my voice coming out smaller than I intended.