Not like this.
This wasn’t Matteo DeLuca—the charming, cocky flirt who grinned at press conferences and cracked jokes even under pressure. This wasn’t the man who teased me mercilessly in hotel lobbies or poked fun at the way I double-checked every schedule.
This Matteo—his body heavy between my thighs, voice gravel-thick with hunger, eyes black with need—wasferal.
He’d stripped me bare with the efficiency of someone who’d imagined this more than once. The moment his mouth hit my neck again, I arched off the bed, grasping at the sheets.
“Touch me,” I whispered, breath catching as his hand slid up my thigh.
“Already am, Princess,” he murmured, lips brushing my collarbone. “But if you want my fingers inside you, say it.”
I blinked up at him, stunned at the shift in his voice—deeper, darker. Every trace of his usual playful sarcasm was gone, replaced with heat that made my stomach clench.
“Say it,” he said again, mouth ghosting over my breast. “Use that smart mouth for something other than arguing.”
My jaw tightened. Of course he’d push me, even now. But god, he was so close, and my whole body was pulsing, desperate.
“I want your fingers inside me,” I said through gritted teeth.
His grin was slow, filthy. “That’s my girl.”
The praise landed low in my belly like lightning. Before I could react, his fingers slid through my slick folds, teasing, testing.
“Fuck,” he muttered, kissing the swell of my breast. “You’re soaked for me, Princess. All this from one kiss?”
I hated how smug he sounded. I hated that he was right.
He slid a finger in, then another, curling them expertly as his thumb circled my clit with maddening precision. My hips jerked.
“Stay still,” he ordered, and the sharpness in his voice nearly undid me. “You wanted this. Take it.”
I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood. His fingers moved faster, deeper, hitting that perfect spot with every thrust.
“Matteo—” I gasped, clawing at his back.
“What do you need?” he asked roughly. “Tell me.”
“You. I need—fuck—you.”
He withdrew his fingers suddenly, and I whimpered at the loss.
But then he was undoing his belt, and my breath hitched.
“Condom?” he asked.
“Mmhm, we…uh, yeah, we should,” I stuttered on the words, trying to make good decisions under this high of pleasure ripping through me. Matteo hurried himself away to get a condom, then he began ripping off the edge of the foil. I pulled the condom out, letting my eyes drop to him, watching him and his own want clear before me. I rolled the condom on with slow movements, letting my eyes drift back up toward him. He let out a strangled groan.
Once the condom was on, he didn’t tease, didn’t stall. He dragged my legs apart and slid into me in one slow, devastating thrust.
My back arched off the bed. “Holy shit?—”
He began to move—deep, punishing thrusts that left me gasping. Every stroke was precise, relentless. His mouth was on my jaw, my throat, murmuring filth into my skin like prayer.
“You love it when I take control, don’t you?” he growled.
“God—” I choked out, nails digging into his shoulders. “You’re such an asshole.”
He just smirked. “And you’re dripping for me. You gonna come on my cock like this?”
