14. Contessa
Contessa
I’m about to let the most dangerous man in New Haven cut my steak and I can’t decide if that makes me a masochist, an idiot, or just hopelessly fucking addicted.
Portofino is packed, standing-room-only by the bar, but Matteo waltzes past the hostess and every table like the mafia Jesus parting a sea of Birkins and Brooks Brothers. His hand never leaves the small of my back. It rests there, hot and firm, a warning and a brand.
We walk straight to the rear, and there’s an empty booth, deep red velvet, shadowed and private. I clock the three dudes in suits at the corner table who go silent as we pass, all three pointedly not watching us, which means they’re definitely watching us.
Matteo slides me out of my coat with one practiced motion, like he’s undressing a princess or a hostage, and eases me into the booth. I try to sit opposite him, and he gives me this stern eyebrow as if to say, ‘don’t even try it’ and slides in right beside me.
He unbuttons his suit, slowly, the way a surgeon might take off his gloves after rearranging someone’s insides, and my thighs clench reflexively. I hate that it works on me. I hate that I want it to.
Matteo glides in after me, barely leaving more than a whisper of space between us on the leather bench.
He’s close enough I can feel the heat coming off his thigh, and when I look down under the table, he’s already splaying his legs wide, king of the booth, the city, probably the universe.
I feel like a snack on a plate, and I don’t hate it.
“Wine?” he asks, already scanning the wine list like he’s memorized it.
I’m too busy staring at the veins running up his hand to answer. The sleeves of his jacket are tailored so tightly they could double as compression gear. He catches me looking and gives a slow, knowing grin.
I clear my throat and reach for the menu, because someone in this relationship is going to pretend this is a business dinner.
“Eyes up, Contessa.”
“I was just deciding if I should order the Malbec or the Chianti,” I lie.
He leans over, voice pitched low. “You were checking to see if my hands would look as good wrapped around your throat as they did last week.”
I flush so hard it feels like my blood is made of napalm. “Maybe I just like the view.”
“You can have the Malbec. But I’m choosing your meal.”
The server materializes, a nervous smile matching his nervous posture. Matteo orders for both of us without bothering to ask what I want, and I let him because the only thing more humiliating than being bossed around by a man is how much I crave it when it’s him.
His hand slides onto my thigh, just above the knee, thumb tracing lazy circles. I cross my legs and it slides higher. I start talking, because if I don’t talk I’ll start moaning.
“I’ve got two prototype lines ready for production,” I say. “The gold is crazy expensive, but the margins are—Matteo, are you even listening?”
His eyes fix on my mouth like I’m the entrée, and the best part is rare. “I’m listening, stellina. I just prefer to multitask.”
I snap the menu shut and look at him dead-on. “We said business first.”
He leans in, his lips brushing my ear. “We said dinner. You said business. But go on. Tell me about the toys.”
I want to slap him and fuck him and possibly both at once. I settle for a withering look while showing him my phone.
“I’m calling this collection Immortal.”
He glances at the phone, then at me. “Which one’s your favorite?”
“The Persephone.” I swipe to the right image—a glossy, deep plum wand, curved like a sickle moon, with gold inlay at the handle. “It’s dangerous. Pretty, but sharp. The kind of thing you want to show off, not hide in a drawer.”
I don’t admit I already fucked myself raw with it and it’s the only toy I’ve ever made myself come with in under thirty seconds.
Instead, I just hand him the phone. He turns it over and gives a low whistle.
“Is it waterproof?” he asks, because of course he does.
“Military-grade sealant. Doubles as a self-defense baton in a pinch.”
He flashes teeth, and I’m sure he’s picturing all the ways I could use it against him. “And the settings?”
I can’t help it, I lean in too, like some kind of Pavlovian idiot. “Seventeen presets. Variable pulse. The top gear is illegal in five countries.”
He grins wider, then he does that thing where he stares at me like he’s psychic and also the devil. “You’ve already tested it.”
It isn’t a question. He just knows. My cheeks flush, so I keep my chin up like a challenge.
“Of course I did. I won’t sell what I haven’t road-tested.”
He hums, pleased but dark, and sets the phone down. His hand slides farther up my thigh, bunching the fabric of my dress like he owns the right. “I want this one. Tonight,” he says, voice just for me. “Since you’ve already tested the merchandise, I’ll need to make sure it meets my standards.”
“Worried you can’t compete?” I murmur, teeth grazing his ear.
He laughs, low and dangerous. “I’m not worried, Contessa.”
Our food arrives with comedic timing; the waiter hovers, eyes wide, probably wondering if he should pretend he didn’t just see my date’s hand disappear into my lap. Matteo sits back, but his fingers never leave my skin.
He cuts my steak for me, precise and practiced, then forks a bite and holds it out. I glare at him.
“I can feed myself.”
He just holds the fork closer, his eyes heavy-lidded and challenging. “Didn’t plan on feeding you the entire meal, but I’m not opposed. Open.”
I hold my ground for a second, then take the bite anyway, refusing to break eye contact as I chew. “You’re insufferable.”
“That’s not what you think when I’m making you cum,” he says, quiet but sharp, and slides another forkful between my lips.
I chew, swallow, and smirk. “You’re really going to make me do this here?”
“I’m going to make you do it everywhere.”
He brings the wineglass to my mouth, and I drink, just to show I can play this game as well as he can.
I cut my steak, sip my wine, and try to keep my legs together under the table.
He eats with one hand while the other keeps inching up the inside of my thigh until his fingers are pressed to the damp crotch of my panties and I’m certain anybody walking past could clock exactly what’s happening.
I should swat him away, make a scene, but the heat pooling in my gut makes my bones go soft and rubbery.
I’m already halfway wet and he hasn’t even said anything filthy yet.
Matteo’s thumb strokes lazy circles, not enough to get me off, just a constant reminder that he can. I swallow another bite and almost choke when he casually says, “Take off your panties.”
I nearly choke. “Excuse me?”
He doesn’t flinch. “You heard me.”
“No.” I go for a laugh but it comes out harsh, like my throat’s already dry from the thought.
His eyes flick to the side, a warning that he’s not playing. “That wasn’t a request, Contessa. Do it.”
He’s not loud, but fuck if the words don’t vibrate all the way to my spine. I set my fork down, making a show of dabbing my lips with the napkin. “You’re deranged.”
He shrugs. “You want to add public disobedience to your punishment? Be my guest. But I’d rather not spank you in the restaurant restroom but I fucking will.”
The instant mental image—me, bent over the granite sink, dress hiked up, his palm printing my ass red—makes my thighs clamp so hard I’m surprised the table doesn’t shake.
I hate how quickly he gets to me, how he can short-circuit three degrees and a lifetime of therapy with two sentences and a look.
I glance around. No one’s looking, but I know better than to assume anything in Matteo’s world is ever truly private.
“Right here?” I hiss.
He grins, sharp and wolfish. “Yes, stellina.”
I want to say I’ll wait. I want to say I’m not some girl who’ll slip her underwear off at a table because her father’s best friend tells her to. But the pressure between my legs is already too much, and if I’m honest, I want him to know exactly how wet I am from a single command.
So I shift, slow, and let my right hand slide under the table, bunching the hem of my dress higher.
Inch by inch, the silk slides up my thighs.
He tracks every millimeter like a predator, and when I finally hook a thumb into the band of my panties he leans back, arms stretched across the booth, giving me the floor, as if to say ‘show me’.
I tug them down, careful not to flash the entire restaurant, and shimmy them over my knees. The table’s too low for modesty, so I just step out, balled-up lace clutched in my fist.
I look him dead in the eye, daring him to mock me. “Happy now?”
He crooks a finger. “Not yet. Hand them over.”
I glance under the table, half ready to launch the panties at him like a grenade, but he’s watching me with that dead-cold mafia king stare. He tilts his head, eyes flicking to the table, then back up at me.
“Above the table, Contessa. Let’s not pretend.”
It’s less a suggestion and more a dare. I know damn well who’s watching, who’s not, who’ll pretend they never saw a thing out of respect or fear or just because they know if they mention it, they’ll end up at the bottom of the ocean.
Still, it’s not exactly subtle. The panties are tiny—purple, a couple of shades lighter than my hair. Drenched, too, which is humiliating and hot at the same time.
“Matteo—”
He fixes me with a look that says don’t make me repeat myself.
I swallow, lift my hand above the table, and set the panties onto the white linen like I’m making a goddamn offering. My imagination has the lace making a wet sound as it hits the tablecloth.
“Slide them over, little star.”
He says it like a joke, but the way his eyes bore into me, I know he means it.
I push the panties toward him, slowly, like it’s a chess piece and not a piece of my damp, ruined dignity. The lace bunches a little, leaves a faint sheen on the pristine linen before his hand lands on them, big and tanned, veins bulging under the skin.