11. Contessa
Contessa
Iwake up with my face pressed against something warm and solid—a man’s chest—and for one disorienting moment, I can’t remember where the fuck I am.
Then everything comes rushing back. Matteo.
The charity gala. The hallway. His bedroom.
The filthy things he did to me. The filthier things I begged him to do.
The bedroom is still dark, but the faint glow of dawn seeps through the edges of the black curtains.
I carefully extract myself from Matteo’s grip, freezing when he stirs.
He mumbles something in Italian before rolling onto his back, one arm flung over his head.
I release the breath I’ve been holding and slide out of bed.
My dress is still crumpled on the floor where I stepped out of it. I pick it up, shaking out the wrinkles before slipping it over my head. No underwear since he ripped mine to shreds—just another reason to get the fuck out of here before he wakes up.
I tiptoe around the room, gathering my heels and clutch. My thighs are sore, my pussy tender in the best possible way. Evidence of a night well spent, but not a reason to stick around for morning-after awkwardness.
Glancing back at his sleeping form, he looks different.
Almost peaceful instead of predatory. The sheets are tangled around his waist, exposing his broad chest and the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the silk.
For a second, I’m tempted to crawl back into bed, to feel those strong arms wrap around me again.
With those type of thoughts, I need to get the fuck out of here immediately.
The house is silent, massive, and imposing in the morning light. I make my way down the grand staircase, my bare feet silent against the polished marble.
At the bottom, I pull out my phone, opening the rideshare app. I stare at the screen for a long moment before reality sinks in. There’s no way I can call a car. He’d have my ass for giving his address to anyone.
I consider waking up his staff to ask for help, but that would just alert Matteo that I’m trying to sneak out. And something tells me he wouldn’t take that well.
I’m scrolling through my contacts, wondering if I can call someone to pick me up like fifteen minutes up the road without making it obvious I just had a one-night stand with my father’s best friend, when the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
That familiar sensation that tells me I’m being watched.
I turn around and there he is, leaning over the railing, looking like some dark angel with the way the sunrise is illuminating him.
“Trying to sneak out, stellina?” His voice is rough with sleep, but his eyes are sharp and fully alert. “I’ve been awake since I felt you slip out of my bed.”
Caught red-handed. I straighten my spine, refusing to look guilty. “I was just—”
“Running away?” He cuts me off, descending the stairs with predatory grace, wearing nothing but low-hanging sweatpants. His chest is on full display, making my mouth water despite myself. “Without even saying goodbye?”
“I didn’t want to wake you,” I lie, clutching my heels and clutch tighter.
He reaches the bottom step, towering over me with that infuriating smirk. “Bullshit.”
My face heats because he’s absolutely right. “I have work to do.”
Matteo studies me for a long moment, his eyes traveling from my tangled purple hair to my wrinkled dress to my bare feet. Then he sighs, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.
“Go to the kitchen. Have some coffee. Then we’ll leave.” His tone makes it clear that this isn’t a suggestion.
“I can call Nat—”
“No.” The single word cuts through the air like a knife. “I’ll drive you. But coffee first.”
I want to argue, to tell him to fuck off with his commands, but my head is pounding and the promise of caffeine is too tempting to resist. “Fine.”
I follow Matteo to the kitchen, trying not to stare at his back muscles flexing with each movement. The morning light streams through the massive windows, illuminating the high-end appliances that probably cost more than my rent.
“Sit,” he commands, pointing to one of the barstools at the island.
I roll my eyes but comply, dropping my heels and clutch on the counter. “Yes, sir,” I mutter sarcastically.
He ignores my tone, moving to a professional-grade espresso machine that takes up half the counter space. Of course he has a fucking espresso machine. Probably imported directly from Italy, with gold-plated fixtures and blessed by the Pope himself.
I watch as his hands move with practiced precision, grinding beans, tamping them down, adjusting settings.
The muscles in his back ripple beneath his skin with each movement—tensing, releasing, shifting beneath the surface.
I can’t help but wonder if that’s what they looked like last night when he was above me, inside me, his body working with the same intensity.
There’s something hypnotic about watching his large, capable hands—the same hands that spanked my ass raw—performing such a delicate task.
“How do you take it?” he asks, not looking up from his work.
“Black, like my soul,” I reply, because I’m still feeling bitchy about being caught trying to sneak out.
He chuckles, the sound rumbling from deep in his chest. “Cappuccino it is.”
“I said black.”
“And I said cappuccino.” His tone tells me he knows I don’t drink black coffee and I’m just being difficult on purpose.
It’s almost mesmerizing as he steams my milk to perfection, creating a microfoam like a professional. When he finally sets a perfectly crafted cappuccino in front of me, complete with a little heart design in the foam, I’m torn between being impressed and irritated.
Picking up the cup, I take a sip. It’s fucking delicious, which only irritates me more.
He makes himself a straight espresso, downing it in one swift motion before leaning against the counter opposite me.
The domesticity of the moment hits me like a freight train. Here I am, sitting in Matteo Marino’s kitchen, drinking coffee he made especially for me, after a night of mind-blowing sex. If I didn’t know better, we could be any normal couple.
Except we’re not normal. He’s literally older than my father. He IS my father’s best friend. I used to call him “Uncle Matteo” when I was younger, for fuck’s sake. And now I’ve seen his dick and had it inside me in ways that would make even the most experienced porn star blush.
Not to mention the small detail that he’s basically a mob boss or whatever the fuck they call themselves these days. “Businessman,” my ass.
“I’ve been thinking,” he says finally, his voice deceptively casual. “About last night.”
“It was fun,” I say quickly, already sensing where this is going. “A one-time thing we can both move on from.”
His eyebrow arches. “Is that what you think it was?”
“That’s what it was,” I insist, ignoring the way my pulse quickens under his steady gaze. “A hookup. Amazing sex. The end.”
“Hmm.” The sound rumbles from his chest, noncommittal but somehow threatening at the same time. “But what if it wasn’t?”
I freeze with my cup halfway to my lips. “What do you mean?”
“What if I told you I want you to be exclusively mine?”
I stare at him, certain I’ve misheard. “Exclusively yours? Are you fucking insane?”
He quirks an eyebrow at me and all I can do is sigh. He absolutely is fuckign insane.
“Do I have a choice?” The words slip out before I can stop them.
His eyes soften just a fraction. “We always have choices, stellina. I’m showing you my hand, Contessa.
I want to fuck you again. Many times.” He leans in, his breath hot against my ear.
“I want to eat your cunt and your ass. I want to fuck your mouth and paint your face with my cum. I want to use every toy you design on you and force you to watch in the mirror while I make you come until you can’t remember your own name. ”
“This isn’t some love story for the ages. Like a forty-something-year-old mob boss and his best friend’s daughter? I’m sure Hallmark is already writing the script.”
He rolls his eyes, legitimately rolls his eyes at me.
He crosses his arms over his chest, muscles flexing in a way that makes my mouth go dry. “I want your body. I want your submission. I want exclusivity.”
“And if I say no?”
His eyes darken. “Then you say no. I’m not a monster, Contessa.”
But he doesn’t look like a man who hears the word no very often. The way he’s standing there, nothing but power and dominance radiating from him, makes me think he always gets exactly what he wants.
“So you want to date? Is that what this is?”
His lips quirk up in that infuriating half-smile. “Do you want me to court you, stellina? Because I will.”
The way he says it—like he’d show up at my door with flowers and take me to candlelit dinners—makes heat rush to my face. I can feel my cheeks burning, and I hate it. Hate that he can make me blush like some virginal schoolgirl with just a few words.
“No,” I say firmly, even as my traitorous body betrays me with that flush. “Absolutely not.”
Because if Matteo actually tried to charm me—if he put his mind to romancing me properly instead of just fucking me senseless—I’d be completely fucked. I can already barely think straight after one night with him. If he started bringing that intensity into actual romance? Game over.
He watches me with those knowing eyes, seeing too much as usual. “Well, you have a few days to think about this little arrangement.” He pushes off the counter, stretching his arms above his head in a way that makes every muscle in his torso ripple. “I’m gonna go get dressed and I’ll take you home.”
“I don’t need a few days,” I call after him as he turns to leave. “The answer is still no.”
He just chuckles, not bothering to look back. “We’ll see.”