Page 11 of Tempting Tessa

“Take me home,” I order, sliding into the back seat.

“Yes, sir.”

As the car pulls away from the pier, I pull out my phone and text Alvarez.

Is she still at the club?

His response comes immediately.

Alvarez

No. Just left in an Uber with her friend. I’m following to make sure they get home safe.

Good. Keep me updated.

I toss the phone onto the seat beside me and lean my head back, closing my eyes. The ache in my knuckles is a pleasant reminder of what I just did. My cock is still hard, the violence doing nothing to diminish my need for her. If anything, it’s made it worse.

Blood always did get me going. Especially blood spilled protecting what’s mine.

I flex my fingers, feeling the slight burn where the brass knuckles chafed against my skin. Worth it. Every fucking drop of that piece of shit’s blood was worth it. My only regret is that I didn’t take more time with him, make him suffer longer for daring to touch Contessa.

Chapter 3

Matteo

My house is silent as I enter, and I can’t wait until the sounds she makes fill the estate. It’s only a matter of time, and I’m already playing it out in my head how to speed up my plan.

In my bathroom, I flick on the light. The space is all black marble and gold fixtures, designed to my exact specifications. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the ocean, the glass treated so no one can see in, but I can see everything outside. The moon reflects off the water, casting silver light across the marble floor.

I turn on the rainfall shower, steam already beginning to fill the room. The water pressure is perfect. Hard enough to pound the tension from my muscles. While it heats up, I move into my walk-in closet, a space bigger than most people’s living rooms.

I begin removing my jewelry piece by piece. First the Rolex—platinum and understated, unlike that fuck’s gaudy gold monstrosity. Then my signet ring with the Marino family crest. The platinum chain my father gave me when I turned eighteen. Each item goes into its designated spot in the custom-built safe behind the wooden panel.

I strip methodically. My jacket, tie, and shirt are hung or placed where they belong.

When I’m naked, I examine myself in the full-length mirror. At forty-five, I’m in better shape than most men half my age. My chest and arms are covered in tattoos. Reminders of my past, symbols of power and protection. The ink stops at my wrists, allowing me to hide my true nature behind expensive suits when necessary.

Back in the bathroom, I step into the shower. The water hits my skin, hot and punishing. I close my eyes, letting it soak my hair, run down my face, my chest, my back. The marble beneath my feet is heated; another small luxury I afford myself.

I grab the soap—some expensive shit that smells like cedar and vetiver—and work it over my body, scrubbing away the night’s work. Blood has a way of seeping into the pores even if you aren’t coated in it. It’s the smell. I pay special attention to my knuckles, watching the pink-tinged suds swirl down the drain.

My cock stands rigid against my stomach, thick and heavy with need. Water cascades down my shoulders, and I wrap my hand around my shaft.

“Fuck,” I growl, squeezing harder than necessary, punishing myself for wanting her so badly. I know it’s wrong, and while my morals are questionable at best, it won’t stop me from feeling marginally bad about lusting after my best friend’s daughter.

I stroke slowly from base to tip, twisting my wrist just under the head. In my mind, it’s Contessa’s hand. Those delicate fingers with the rings she’s always twisting when she’s nervous, wrapped around my cock, learning how to please me.

The water pounds against my back as I brace my free hand against the shower wall. I imagine her on her knees in front of me, that purple hair wrapped around my fist as I guide her mouth onto my cock. Those big brown eyes looking up at me, watering as she takes me deeper.

“Fuck, Contessa,” I groan, my voice echoing off the walls.

I slow my strokes deliberately, bringing myself to the edge and then backing off. My balls are tight, aching for release, but I deny myself. Just like I’ve been denying myself her for a while.

I imagine her bent over my desk, that perfect ass in the air as I spank it red. The sound she’d make when I finally push into her tight pussy. How she’d beg for it once I showed her what she’s been missing with those boys she wastes her time on.

“You’d be so fucking tight,” I growl, speeding up again, my hand a blur on my cock. “So fucking perfect for me.”

I’m close—too close. I stop, squeezing the base of my shaft hard enough to hurt, forcing the orgasm back down. Not yet. I want to savor this.