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I have no clue what he’s talking about and at the rate he throws dollar amounts around, who cares? “Because I hate my body.” The words come out of nowhere and they hit me hard. The truth of it all surfaces, as if I’m on a precipice of life and death. Which this is. My mom’s last words to me still haunt me. You’re fat. You can’t be a senator’s daughter and walk around like that. I’m taking you to a dietician tomorrow. We’ll talk about it tonight.
I take a step back. Something got him pissed. Fury etches his face and then he moves—fast. His hands grip the hem of the T-shirt and he rips it up, forcing my arms to lift, tearing it over my head, but then he pulls the T-shirt down, basically trapping me with it before my arms can slip free. He spins me around, my arms pinned at my sides as he fists and twists the material in one hand at the center of my back.
The cat is tired of playing with the mouse.
I’m out of breath at the sudden swift and precise attack, as if he’s done this move a million times. I’m facing the mirror now, his body trapping mine against the vanity, the cold marble pushing into my hips. I’m conscious of the length of his legs as they hug mine, the warmth of his body as his gaze meets mine in the mirror.
“Don’t say those words ever again,” he growls. “Do you understand?”
I can’t respond. Not while his free hand gathers my hair where strands spill over my chest, uncovering my breasts one by one as he looks on. Heat spreads over my face at my nipples’ response, but I can’t look away. He leans in and blows a cold stream of air that flows over my skin, down to where my hardened nipple puckers even more as the air ghosts over it. I sag against his chest, too weak to protest, too aroused to resist.
Matteo’s breathing becomes ragged as his knuckles slide down my shoulder, over my arm to my ribcage, and then he trails his fingertips over my stomach, higher, so that he strokes the underside of my breasts. As he brushes his thumb over my hardened nipple, I gasp, wanting to reach out for him, but I’m trapped.
“You are pure perfection,” he whispers, his lips warm against the shell of my ear. “Just look at you.”
All I can do is moan. I’ve become aware of his erection where it’s pressed against my butt, hard and long, and all I want to do is rub against it. Encourage it. Beg for more.
“Open your eyes, kitten,” he whispers, and as if drugged I struggle to lift my lids, blinking at him in the mirror. “We’re going to work on this. You’re fucking perfection,” he murmurs. “Do you understand?” When I say nothing, he brushes his lips along my temple. “Answer me, kitten. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” My voice is small, my heart in my throat.
He lets go of the T-shirt and the tension in the fabric gives way as my legs almost do too. He holds me up though, his legs pressing me against the vanity for two seconds, allowing me to find my balance.
“Now, for the last fucking time, strip and get into the shower.”
15
MATTEO
She’s merch, you fucking idiot. Get it into your head.
Il Consiglio started with staple operations of drugs and gambling to feed every addiction. To get involved with any of our merch would have been a death sentence. We might have moved on to more ‘above-board’ operations, but some rules still stand. Scaleras don’t touch the merch. So not only is Natasha Armstrong nothing more than weakness personified, but she can also ruin the whole operation by messing with my head.
That perfect body of hers is going on auction and I have no business touching her, teasing her, watching her reaction in the mirror as if I’m starving.
I rip open my closet, breathing shallowly as I listen to the shower running in the adjacent bathroom. My hands burn to run down her body, to soap her down, to trace the line of her slit and rub and suck that sweet clit until she succumbs. I’m so hard, it’s painful. It’s been too fucking long.
I shrug my jacket off and loosen my belt and zipper. My hand fists my cock as I brace with the other against the wall, fighting the temptation to walk back into the bathroom and jerk off in front of her. The visual is there though, her reaction to me still fresh in my mind. My fingertips still echo with the feel of her soft skin and the contrast of that perfect hardened nipple I wanted to suck into my mouth. It takes only a few hard strokes for me to crash-land into a release that isn’t even satisfying. All this is going to do is to keep the beast in check.
I cover up and reach for the T-shirt she wore where I tossed it into the corner for Rosalia to deal with. I find a clean spot and wipe up the cum that’s running down the wall. My ears prick. She’s closed the faucet. Time to work on Miss Armstrong’s self-confidence. The idea of other men’s gazes on her grinds against me, but the notion only makes me want to get my fill while I can. It’s not as if I’ll be touching her. What happened earlier can’t and won’t happen again.
My resolve is firm now that my dick is not, and I pad over to the bathroom and lean against the door jamb. She’s reaching for a towel, water glistening on her skin, which is rosy from her hot shower. Her wet hair clings to her back where’s she’s rinsed it down, opening her up completely for inspection.
Every inch of her is pure feminine beauty, from the weight of her breasts that I can still feel against my fingertips, to the length of her legs and the sweet little slit that leads to heaven. How can she not love what she sees in the mirror when she looks at herself? Women are sometimes so fucked in the head.
The bathroom is thick with steam scented with my male products, all herbal and fresh alpine shit or something. Whatever they call it, it doesn’t suit her. She’s strawberries and cream. The kind I want to lick off her body.
When she becomes aware of me, her movement stalls where she’s dragging the towel down the heated railing. Then she tugs it free and wraps it around her breasts with such speed, I have to suppress a smile.
“You’ll see a doctor tomorrow,” I say as she steps out of the shower.
“I will? Why? I don’t need a doctor.” She rolls her eyes. Actually freaking rolls her eyes at me. “I mean, I’m becoming a doctor and I know I don’t need one… yet.”
I should fucking gag her, but her ramblings are somewhat entertaining. I walk over to the vanity and pull open a drawer where I keep spare toothbrushes. I put one on the countertop for her.
“How long am I staying for?”
“Until the job’s done.”
