Page 60 of The Kingpin’s Bride

“Bedroom,” he said. “Let’s go.”

In charged silence, we moved to the bed in my room.

He sat me on the edge of the bed, opened the sealed tube, and warmed a generous amount between his palms.

He started at my lower abdomen. Slow, firm circles. The cream absorbed into my skin leaving a subtle sheen that caught the late light. My muscles tensed under his hands. He worked lower, over the soft curve of my hips, the sensitive crease where thigh met body, until every stroke made my breath catch and my pulse stutter.

When he reached the insides of my thighs he pushed them wider. I tried to resist for half a second, some last scrap of pride rising even now. He held me open with one hand and continued with the other, massaging the cream into the soft skin in long thorough strokes that climbed higher with each pass. Heat bloomed under his palms. My clit began to throb in earnest, a deep insistent ache that made my hips restless against the sheets.

I rarely wore panties now. My sheer dress had ridden up, and I was exposed for him.

A faint flush spread across my chest and up my neck. The sensitivity the doctor had promised was beginning, turning every brush of air into something sharper, hungrier. I was wet before he even touched the center of me.

The knowledge made shame coil tight in my stomach, but the need was stronger. It always was with him.

Matteo moved there without pause.

Two fingers parted my swollen folds. I was soaked, the evidence of how thoroughly the cream worked glistening against his skin. He applied more directly where it would matter most, coating every sensitive surface with slow circling pressure.

Over my clit first, the swollen bud so sensitive that the first firm stroke dragged a broken sound from my throat before I could lock it down. Along the entrance that had taken him, tender, marked by everything he had done. Just inside, enough to coat the first tight inch, the cream making the stretch burn in the best and worst way.

I jerked hard. A helpless whimper escaped me. My hips lifted off the black sheets against my will, chasing the pressure even as my mind screamed that I should not want this, that wanting it made me exactly what Dario had always called me.

A slut.

Matteo did not tell me to be still.

My clit was swollen and slick under his thumb, the cream turning each careful circle into a pulse of heat that radiated outward through my entire body. My entrance fluttered around the tip of his finger each time he pressed inside, greedy for more even while I tried to hold myself rigid.

Soft involuntary sounds kept escaping me despite every effort I made to stay silent. The chain stayed tight in his fist as my thighs trembled. By the time he wiped his hands on his own mouth, I was flushed from chest to cheeks, aching so deeply it bordered on pain, and openly dripping onto the black sheets beneath me.

He stepped back. Still fully dressed. Still out of reach.

“Hands on the sheets,” he said, voice low and absolute. “Legs open. You do not get to touch yourself. You do not get to close them. You asked for the cream. Now you feel exactly what it does while I decide whether you earn more.”

I obeyed. The position left me completely exposed. Knees bent. Thighs spread wide. The evidence of the cream shining between them in the low light. Cool air brushed over places that felt too hot, too sensitive, and the simple act of holding made my clit throb harder.

He stayed just far enough that I could see everything. The dense black ink on his forearms. The way his jaw flexed when he looked at me. The quiet control in every line of his body.

He unbuckled his belt, a well-known sight to me by then.

The sound was loud in the quiet room, leather sliding free with a soft hiss that made my stomach drop. He drew it free, opened his trousers, and freed himself. He was hard. Thick. Heavy. Like always, the head was wet with the first bead of precum.

He wrapped his hand around the base and stroked once, slow, eyes locked on me the entire time like he was memorizing the way I looked spread open and denied.

“I can’t believe you broke for me,” he murmured. The words were quiet, almost conversational, and somehow that made them worse. “Cream making that pretty pussy drip onto my sheets. You asked for this. Now you watch me make it worse, baby.”

He stroked himself with deliberate control. Slow at the base, tighter over the head, thumb spreading the wetness that gathered there until the sound of skin on skin filled the space between us. Every movement was for me. He edged himself, stopped when the muscles in his stomach flexed and his breath went rough, started again when the urgency faded. All the while he described what he was looking at in that same low clinical voice that made heat coil tighter and tighter in my belly until I felt dizzy with it.

“So wet the cream is running down to the sheets. Clit swollen and obvious,” he laughed. “You’re clenching around nothing. Desperate for the cock you’re not allowed to have yet. Look at the way your hips keep lifting. You can’t help it, can you?”

I whimpered. The sound was broken. Shameful. My hips tried to lift again, chasing friction that was not there. My clit throbbed so hard it bordered on pain. Every slow stroke of his hand made the need climb higher, made the empty ache between my legs feel like a living thing. I was so close to the edge that the simple act of watching him was almost enough.

The sight of his cock, thick and flushed and glistening under his fist, the way the veins stood out along the shaft, the controlled power in every movement of his wrist. I wanted it inside me so badly my thighs shook with the effort of staying open and still.

“Please.” The word slipped out before I could stop it, raw and desperate. “Matteo, please.”

He slowed. “Not yet. You asked for the cream, right? You didn’t ask to come.”