The new angle is deeper. Intense. I watch his abs flex with every thrust, the tattoos on his torso rippling with movement. Skulls. Guns. Fire. Everything about him screams danger.
Everything about him makes me feel safe.
The pressure builds low in my pelvis, tightening with each stroke.
“I’m close,” I breathe.
“I know.” His hands find my breasts, kneading roughly. “Feel you squeezing me. Come on my cock, Sierra. Let me feel it.”
The command pushes me over. My second orgasm doesn’t crash so much as pull me under. Slow. Deep. Relentless. My thighs shake against his shoulders and I grab his forearms just to anchor myself. He’s watching my face, eyes dark and focused, and I can’t look away. Can’t hide. I moan his name as my bodyclenches around him, drawing out the pleasure until I’m wrung out and gasping.
“Fuck, yes.” Matteo’s rhythm stutters. “That’s it. That’s?—”
He drives deep one final time and groans, pulsing inside me as I’m still clenching around him. We ride it out together, and when the pleasure fades, I’m left with something I don’t know what to do with.
When he pulls out and gathers me into his arms, I hold on tighter than I mean to. There’s a question sitting in my throat. Something likewhat is thisordo you feel that too.
But I’m scared of the answer. Scared he’ll say it’s nothing and I’ll feel stupid. Scared he’ll say it’s something and I won’t know whether to believe him.
So I stay quiet. We’ve done enough emotional excavating for one night.
I press my cheek to his chest, listen to his heartbeat slow, and let sleep take me before I can say something I can’t take back.
I wake to an empty bed and the sound of water running.
I stretch against sheets that still smell like him. Like us. My body aches in the best possible way, muscles I forgot I had reminding me exactly what we did last night.
If the first time was good, last night was something else entirely.
I pull on my robe and pad toward the kitchen, humming some random song I can’t name. The normalcy of it all feels surreal.Making coffee. Scrambling eggs. Frying bacon while my fake fiancé showers down the hall.
Except nothing about this feels fake anymore.
I eat slowly, giving him time. Matteo takes forever in the shower, and I don’t mind. It gives me space to think about things I probably shouldn’t be thinking about.
Like how I’m starting to look forward to mornings with him.
Like how this house feels less like temporary shelter and more like somewhere I belong.
Like how I might be in way over my head.
The bathroom door opens just as I’m heading back to the bedroom. He emerges in his usual uniform: dark jeans, black t-shirt, damp hair. Looking entirely too good for this early in the morning.
“Made breakfast,” I smile. “If you have time.”
His eyes rake down my body slowly, lingering on the gap where my robe parts at my thighs. The blue of his irises darkens by several shades.
“I like this robe.” His palm connects with my ass, and I yelp. “Maybe you should wear it while making me breakfast every morning.”
“You assume I’ll cook for you every morning?”
“Assume. Hope. Same thing.”
I roll my eyes, but I can’t quite kill the smile tugging at my mouth. The banter feels easy. Natural. Like we’ve been doing this for years instead of weeks.
“Go eat. I need to shower.”
“Didn’t you take a bath last night?”
