Instead, he turns to his brothers. “Find out what her problem is. Don’t come back until morning.”
Marco tilts his head. “You sure?”
“I’ve got a fucking headache. Go.” And just like that, the brothers disappear, leaving only the sound of the lock turning behind them.
Matteo moves, dragging a chair close to the bed, facing me. I stay still. The knife from earlier sits on the table on the side, silent but screaming. My hands are clenched in the fabric of my clothes so tight I feel the imprint in my skin.
He studies me. “Next time,” he says, voice low, “you tell me. Don’t keep this shit to yourself. You get a threat like that, you run. Straight to me.”
I look up, his eyes burn with something that scares me more than the note did. Not because he’s angry, but because I can feel how much he cares. And I don’t know what to do with that.
“I didn’t want to be a problem,” I whisper.
“You already are,” he murmurs, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “The kind I’ve started a war for.”
I don’t smile.
“You know,” Matteo says, voice low and rough as his fingers trail along the side of my thigh. “There are ways to get rid of a headache.” His lips curve into a crooked smile. “Some even come with benefits.”
I roll my eyes, but my breath catches when his hand grips just a little tighter, because god I want him touching me like that again.
“You’re impossible.”
“I’m honest,” he murmurs, the words brushing my skin like smoke, warm and heavy and addicting. “And a man with a headache.”
“You’re also a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.”
He leans in, slow, deliberate, until his mouth is a whisper above mine. “Tell me to stop.”
I don’t.
My hands are already in his shirt, gripping the fabric as he presses me gently back onto the mattress. His mouth finds mine with a hunger he barely reins in, teeth scraping my bottom lip, tongue sweeping in like he owns the rhythm between us.
Maybe he does.
Because I can’t think. I can’t breathe. My name in his voice is a prayer and a warning.
He kisses me like I’m the only relief left in the world, like if he can just get close enough, deep enough, it’ll make everything else go quiet.
My hands find the back of his neck, pulling him closer, desperate for the weight of him. The tension, the fear, the knife in my pillow with the note, all disappears under his mouth.
“I should stop,” he says against my neck, breathing hot. “You’ve had a hell of a day.”
“Don’t,” I whisper.
He doesn’t.
The rain taps softly against the windowpane, a faint, steady rhythm that blends with the quickening beat of my heart. What starts as Matteo half-joking about a headache unravels us slowly, then all at once. Matteo’s mouth moves lower, trailing open kisses down my throat, across my collarbone, into the sensitive dip between my breasts. Each press of his lips brands me, the faint rasp of stubble scraping my skin, the warm puff of his breath raising goosebumps. My head falls back against the pillow, I look down, his eyes lock with mine, dark, ravenous,pupils blown wide. That look alone sends fresh heat blooming low in my belly, thick and insistent.
I ease out of the warm curve of his arms; the sheets cling to my skin for a second before letting go. I kneel beside the bed, watching him rise, muscles shifting under the low lamplight, a faint sheen of sweat already gathering along his sternum. He pushes his trousers and boxers down in one smooth motion.
My breath catches, I let my gaze travel him slowly, broad shoulders, dark trail of hair narrowing over his abdomen, sharp cut of his hips. A soft, involuntary sound slips from my lips, I press them together.
Everything about this moment feels new, tremblingly new, but giving myself to Matteo, trusting him with every first feels like the only right thing I’ve ever done.
I reach out, my palm cradles the warm, heavy weight of his balls, the skin there is fever-hot. My other hand wraps around his shaft, silky over iron and I guide him to my mouth. I glance up, heart hammering against my ribs. His eyes soften, a small nod, the barest curl at the corner of his mouth. Permission. Encouragement. Love.
The first taste floods me with clean skin, faint musk, and subtle salt. I swirl my tongue around the smooth ridge of the head, feeling it flare against my lips, feeling the tiny slit weep another bead that I lap away. My hand strokes slowly, matching the rhythm of my mouth. A low, gravelly grunt rumbles from his chest the sound vibrates straight down my spine and settles throbbing between my thighs. I smile around him, emboldened, and take him deeper, cheeks hollowing, lips stretching, the corners of my mouth stinging sweetly.
