14. Contessa #2
He picks them up by the crotch, pinching the fabric between two fingers, and brings them to his face. He rubs the lace between his thumb and forefinger, then presses his nose to the wet patch and inhales, slow and deep, right there in public.
My cunt clenches so hard I almost moan out loud. There is no way the three suits in the corner miss that, but Matteo gives zero fucks.
“Soaked,” he says, voice thick, then lowers the panties to his lap and threads the lace through his fingers like rosary beads. He continues eating as if he didn’t just do that in front of this entire place. As if he has zero fucks to give.
I squirm, my legs pressed together from desire, embarrassment, fucking need.
I’m so wet it’s embarrassing, and he hasn’t even touched me with anything except his words. Not that it matters. When Matteo tells you to do something, you either do it or you get off on his punishment, which I’m not sure isn’t the point in the first place.
He keeps eating, every inch the dignified businessman while he thumbs the lace.
It’s so unfair. He wants everything—my body, my attention, my boundaries, my dignity—and I’m letting him have it because my cunt is basically running a coup on my brain.
I try to focus on the details. The way the candlelight glances off his cheekbone and the way he watched my every move like he’s plotting out a chess endgame, and I’m the queen.
The waiter reappears, hovering at the edge of the table, eyes skating everywhere but at us. Matteo orders dessert—espresso panna cotta with a side of amaretto, and when I shake my head, he doesn’t even acknowledge it.
I start to protest, “I don’t need—” but Matteo cuts me off with a look that could kill.
The waiter scurries off, and Matteo leans in, voice low and lethal. “You don’t need, or you don’t want?”
I clench my jaw. “I don’t want.”
“Liar.” He says it softly, not even as a challenge. “You want it. You just want to want it less.”
My cheeks burn. I hate how transparent I am, how easily he can x-ray my shame right through to the bone. “It’s not your business what I want.”
“It’s exactly my business.” He slides his hand under the table again, fingers splaying over my knee. “You listen to me, Contessa. I know what you want. I know what you need. I’m not going to let you starve yourself for anyone. Not even yourself.”
I try to twist away, but his hand clamps down, not hurting, just a reminder that I’m not getting up until he says so.
He squints at me, that dead-eyed, mafia mind-reader stare. “Do you actually not want dessert, or is this some fucking bullshit watching-what-I-eat thing?”
I want to say I skipped the panna cotta because I’m too busy trying not to cum in the booth, but the truth is, yeah, I want it.
I want the carbs, the sugar, the dopamine.
I want to be the kind of woman who purrs over dessert and licks the spoon clean, not the one who counts macros and pretends the hollow ache in her belly means control.
The blush burns so fast I think my skin might peel off. “Neither,” I bite, but it’s a lie, and he knows it. I want the fucking dessert. I want everything. But I don’t want to want it in front of him.
He pushes the plates aside and cages me in with his arms, mouth at my ear, so low only I can hear. “You’re not hiding anything from me, little star. You want it, you eat it. You want me, say it. No more denying yourself.”
The waiter arrives with dessert, hands shaking as he sets two tiny glasses of amaretto and a glossy bowl of panna cotta between us.
He picks up a tiny gold spoon and scoops up a perfect bite before I watch his mouth wrap around the cream. He makes a mmm noise.
He goes back for another spoonful, but I snatch the spoon out of his hand and shovel in three bites in a row, eyes locked on his the whole time. If I’m going to be ruined, I’ll do it on my terms.
He watches with the patience of a panther, waiting for me to finish. When the bowl is empty, he slides the amaretto glass toward me, and I down it in one burning swallow.
I look at him, defiant but shaky. “Happy now?”
He leans in until his lips are a hair’s breadth from my ear. “Not even fucking close, but I’m glad you aren’t denying yourself pleasures,” he whispers.
He tosses a black card onto the table without even glancing at the bill the server left.
He waits until the bill’s gone, then says, “Ready?”
I almost laugh. “Oh, is this a democracy now? I just assumed you’d be bossy and tell me when it’s time to go.”
He makes a face, as if I’m the one who’s impossible, then stands and offers a hand. It’s a gesture I could ignore, but I know exactly what he’s doing—he’s giving me a choice.
I could walk out on my own, or I could take his hand and let everyone see what I already know: I belong to him, in every way that matters.
I hesitate for half a second before I grab it—his palm swallowing mine, rough and hot. He helps me up, then tucks me into his side with the kind of subtle possessiveness that makes my skin buzz.
Outside, the air is sharp and wet, the taste of rain still floating in the city lights.
Matteo’s car is already waiting, a black Mercedes with windows so tinted they might as well be obsidian.
He doesn’t open my door like a gentleman.
He just crowds me into the back seat, climbs in after, and lets the driver pull away before he even buckles his belt.
I’m confused when I see we’re making our way back to my apartment and not his house. Why is he taking me home? Did I do something? I open my mouth to ask, and as usual he knows what I’m thinking.
“I already told you, I want The Persephone. We’re going to go get it and then yes, I’m taking you back to my place.”