22. Matteo
Matteo
I’ve been wearing her down for months, and the payoff is sweeter than I ever imagined.
It’s late afternoon, and Contessa’s sprawled across the leather couch in my living room, her hair fanned out against the cushions, her swollen belly rising and falling with each breath.
She’s six months pregnant with my child now, round and gorgeous and finally—finally—mine in every way that matters.
I stand in the doorway, watching her sleep. Her bare feet are propped up on a stack of throw pillows I arranged myself, her toes painted a deep burgundy that she let me do last week. The memory of her squirming and giggling while I painted each nail makes my cock twitch behind my zipper.
Two months ago, she was still fighting me. Still trying to sneak out of the house, still insisting she could manage on her own, still pretending she didn’t need me. But I’m a relentless man when it comes to what I want, and what I want has been her.
I cross the room silently, not wanting to wake her. She’s been working too hard again. The Immortal collection launches next week, and she’s been pushing herself despite my warnings. But she’s finally learning to listen to me, to trust that I know what’s best for her and our baby.
I kneel beside the couch and gently lift her belly, cradling the weight in my palms. She makes a soft sound in her sleep, her body instinctively relaxing as I take the pressure off her lower back.
The baby kicks against my hand—a strong, healthy movement that sends a surge of pride through my chest.
My child. My heir.
I shift to sit on the edge of the couch, keeping one hand under her belly while the other reaches for the bottle of massage oil I left on the side table. I pour a generous amount into my palm, warming it between my hands before sliding it under her shirt.
Her skin is stretched tight over her belly, silky and warm beneath my fingers. I work the oil in slow circles, feeling the baby move beneath my touch. She sighs in her sleep, her lips parting slightly.
“Good girl,” I murmur, though she can’t hear me. “Let me take care of you.”
I’ve become an expert at this. Rubbing her back, massaging her feet, lifting the weight of our baby when it becomes too much for her small frame. Every touch is calculated. Every gesture designed to show her how much better life is with me. How much she needs me.
And it’s working. The resistance is gone from her eyes when she looks at me now. The defiance has been replaced by something softer, something that looks suspiciously like trust and love.
I ease her onto her side, careful not to wake her, and work my thumbs into the muscles along her spine. She’s been complaining about back pain for weeks, and I’ve made it my mission to relieve every ache, every discomfort.
Her body belongs to me now—her pleasure, her pain, her comfort. All of it is mine to manage, mine to control.
I spend the next twenty minutes working the tension from her muscles, my hands moving in practiced patterns across her skin. When I reach her feet, I take my time, pressing my thumbs into her arches until she makes that little moaning sound that drives me fucking crazy.
“Matteo?” Her voice is thick with sleep when she finally stirs.
“Right here, stellina.” I press a kiss to her ankle. “Go back to sleep.”
She shifts, rolling onto her back with a wince. “My back is killing me.”
“I know.” I slide my hands under her, lifting her belly again. “Better?”
She nods, her eyes fluttering closed. “Much.”
Letting go of her belly, I continue the massage, watching her face relax as I work the tension from her muscles. This is what I’ve been working toward.
“The baby’s been kicking all day,” she murmurs, her hand coming to rest over mine on her belly. “I think he’s practicing for soccer.”
“He?” I raise an eyebrow. We’ve decided not to find out the sex, but she keeps referring to the baby as “he.”
She smiles, eyes still closed. “Or she. Whatever. Just someone with your stubbornness and my bad attitude.”
“Perfect combination,” I say, leaning down to press my lips to her belly. I feel the baby move against my mouth, and something primal surges through me. Possession. Pride. A fierce, overwhelming need to protect what’s mine.
I’ve been patient for months, slowly breaking down her walls, making her dependent on me in ways she doesn’t even realize. The doctor’s appointments I schedule, the vitamins I make sure she takes, the way I’ve rearranged my entire life to revolve around her needs.
And now she’s finally stopped fighting me. Stopped pretending she doesn’t need me.
I slide my hand higher, cupping her breast through her shirt. She’s bigger now, fuller, her nipples constantly sensitive. She arches into my touch with a soft sound.
“Matteo,” she whispers, but there’s no protest in her voice. Just need.
“Shh,” I tell her, thumb brushing over her nipple. “Let me take care of you.”
I lower my head to her breast, mouthing at her through the thin fabric of her shirt. She whimpers, her hand coming up to tangle in my hair.
“Please,” she breathes, and I know exactly what she’s asking for.
I’ve trained her well these past months. Taught her that pleasure is just another way I take care of her, another way I remind her who she belongs to.
Sliding my hand between her thighs, I find her already wet through her leggings. “Always ready for me,” I murmur against her breast. “Such a good girl.”
She spreads her legs wider, giving me better access. I push the fabric aside, finding her bare beneath—another small victory, getting her to stop wearing panties around the house. Why would she need them when she’s mine to touch whenever I want?
I circle her clit with my thumb, feeling her jerk beneath me. She’s so sensitive now, her body responding instantly to my touch.
“That’s it,” I praise as she begins to move against my hand. “Show me how much you need me.”
Her hips roll in a rhythm that matches my strokes, her breathing growing ragged. I watch her face, cataloguing every expression. The way her brow furrows, her lips part, and her eyes flutter closed as pleasure builds.
“Matteo,” she gasps, her back arching off the couch. “Don’t stop.”
“Never,” I promise, increasing the pressure. “I’ll never stop taking care of you.”
Her orgasm hits hard; her body tensing before releasing in a wave that has her crying out my name. I work her through it, gentling my touch but not stopping until she’s spent and trembling beneath me.
When I finally pull my hand away, she’s boneless, her eyes glassy with satisfaction. I bring my fingers to my mouth, sucking them clean while she watches, her pupils dilating at the sight.
“Good?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
She nods, reaching for me. “Come here.”
I lower myself over her, careful of her belly between us. She wraps her arms around my neck, pulling me down for a kiss that’s slow and deep and full of something that makes my chest ache.
“Thank you,” she whispers against my lips.
I brush her hair back from her face, studying her. The fight is gone from her eyes, replaced by something softer. Something that looks like contentment. Like she’s finally accepted that this is where she belongs.
“You’re welcome, stellina,” I say, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
And I mean it. Every moment of manipulation, every calculated gesture, every time I’ve worn her down until she gave in—it was all worth it for this. For her, surrendered and trusting in my arms.
I’ve won. She’s mine now, completely and irrevocably. And I’ll spend the rest of our lives making sure she never forgets it.