Something like approval twists his features. “Such a good girl,” he praises, beginning to move. “Taking me so well.”
I shouldn’t react to the simple praise, but I do—a flush spreading across my chest, a clench around his length that makes us both groan. He notices, of course he does.
“You like that?” he murmurs, establishing a delightfully punishing rhythm. “Like being my good girl?”
“Yes,” I admit, the word punches out of me as he hits a spot that makes stars explode behind my eyelids.
“Say it,” he commands, fingers digging into my flesh hard enough to leave marks. I want them to. Want evidence tomorrow that this wasn’t a dream.
“I like being your good girl,” I gasp, and he rewards me by reaching between us, thumb finding my clit with unerring accuracy. “Tonight.”
“Come for me then,” he says, voice rough and demanding. “Show me how good you are.”
The orgasm crashes over me unexpectedly, tearing a scream from my throat that he captures with his mouth. My body convulses around him, wave after wave of pleasure that has me clawing at his shoulders.
He doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow—just rides out my climax and keeps going, chasing his own release with powerful thrusts that nudge the couch across the polished floor.
Just when I think I can’t take anymore, he pulls out completely. Before I can protest, he flips me over and has me kneeling on the couch with my tits pressed against the back of it. The cold leather feels good against my heated skin.
“Fuck, your ass is a thing of beauty,” he growls, hand tracing down my crack, spreading the globes.
“The most beautiful sight you’ll ever see,” I quip in a breathy tone.
Then he’s pushing back inside my drenched pussy, the new angle making me see white. His hand tangles in my hair, pulling hard enough to make me arch my back at a precise angle that has him hitting places I didn’t know could feel this good.
“Matteo,” I moan, the name a prayer and a curse.
“That’s it,” he encourages, his rhythm becoming more erratic as he approaches his peak. “Say my name again. Let me hear how much you love this.”
“Matteo!” This time it’s a cry, torn from somewhere deep inside me as another orgasm builds, impossible but inevitable.
“Such a good fucking girl,” he groans, and then he’s coming, his body shuddering against mine, inside mine, his release triggering another climax that has me sobbing with the intensity.
We stay like that for several heartbeats, connected, panting. Then he carefully withdraws, disposes of the condom, and lifts me into his arms. I’m boneless, floating in a post-orgasmic haze as he carries me to what must be his bedroom.
The night doesn’t end there. We recover, explore, discover. He takes me on his massive bed, the sheets cool against my overheated skin. I ride him, watching his face contort with pleasure as I control the pace.
We break only for water, for breath, before coming together again and again, each time learning more about what makes the other shatter.
It’s nearly dawn when we collapse, sweaty and spent, my body bearing the delicious ache of thorough use. Matteo’s arm drapes possessively over my waist, his breathing slowing toward sleep.
“Stay here,” he murmurs against my shoulder, pressing a surprisingly tender kiss to the skin. “I’m going to shower and then I’ll feed you before round five.”
I laugh, stretching like a satisfied cat as he rises from the bed. His body is a masterpiece even in exhaustion—all lean muscle and ink, with marks from my nails and teeth joining his collection of scars. I watch him disappear into the ensuite bathroom, hear the shower start.
Only when I’m sure he’s occupied do I slip from the bed, my legs still trembling slightly. The bedroom is like what little I’ve gleaned from the rest of the penthouse—expensive but impersonal.
No photos. No mementos. Just quality furniture and tasteful art that could belong to anyone with money.
I move around the space, curious fingers trailing over surfaces. His nightstand is almost empty save for a sleek lamp, a glass of water, and then I see it. A silver lighter much like the one I saw him play with earlier.
Either he has multiples, or he stashed this one in here when he went to get condoms. Which is very likely since I was entirely too drunk on my intense orgasm to notice much.
I pick it up, turning the lighter over in my palm. It’s heavy, clearly expensive, with a wolf engraved on one side—teeth bared in a snarl that matches the tattoo on his ribs. It’s so pretty and shiny.
Without hesitation, I close my hand around it. I can’t help the thrill I get from stealing from my conquests. It’s almost like a twisted version of Cinderella. Instead of leaving anything behind, I take something with me.
Though I’ll admit, if I was waiting for Prince Charming to find me this way, my romantic life is nothing but a big disappointment. No one ever chases me down and calls me out on my theft. If they ever notice, they let it go.
