Page 27 of Tempting Tessa

The door closes behind us with a heavy thud that echoes through the cavernous entryway. I don’t give her time to take in her surroundings, steering her directly toward the staircase.

“No tour?” she asks, a hint of that sarcasm back in her voice.

“The only room you need to see right now is my bedroom, and you’ve been here before.” I guide her up the stairs, my hand drifting lower to cup her ass. “Unless you’d prefer I fuck you right here on these steps?”

She stumbles slightly, and I tighten my grip on her, steadying her. “I’m not an animal, Matteo.”

“No?” I squeeze her ass harder. “Could have fooled me with the way your pussy gushed all over my fingers earlier. It was very animalistic of you.”

Her sharp intake of breath tells me everything I need to know. She loves the filth coming out of my mouth, even as she pretends to be offended.

We reach the second floor, and I guide her down the hallway to the double doors at the end.

My suite takes up the entire east wing, a testament to the rewards of a life spent in service to men more powerful than myself. I push open the doors with one hand, keeping the other firmly on Tessa’s lower back, guiding her inside.

“Welcome back to where it all began, stellina,” I say, hitting the switch that illuminates the room in soft amber light.

She steps into the center of the room, her eyes taking in the massive four-poster bed, the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the garden and pool.

I shrug out of my jacket, tossing it onto a nearby chair. “You know how many nights I’ve spent in this bed thinking about you?”

She lifts her chin. “I don’t care.”

“Liar.” I unbutton my cuffs, rolling up my sleeves to expose my forearms. Her eyes track the movement hungrily. “I’ve jerked off to thoughts of your pussy more times than I can count.”

Another twitch, more pronounced this time. Her thighs press together.

“Do you want to know what I think about when I stroke my cock?” I ask, fingers moving to the buttons of my shirt.

She doesn’t answer, but she doesn’t look away either.

“I think about spreading those thick thighs of yours and burying my face in your cunt.” I pop open the top button of my shirt. “I think about how you’ll taste on my tongue, how you will clench when I suck on your clit.”

Her breathing quickens, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Sometimes—” I undo another button, exposing more of my chest “—I think about bending you over my desk, shoving that tight little skirt up around your waist, and fucking you until my cum is dripping down your thighs.”

She lets out a small sound, something between a gasp and a moan. Her nipples are visible now, hard points pressing against the silk of her dress.

“Other nights—” another button falls open “—I fantasize about those gorgeous tits of yours. How perfect they’ll look with my cock sliding between them, how your pretty mouth will open to catch the head each time I thrust up.”

Her hand moves to her throat, fingers pressing against her pulse point, trying to slow her racing heart. Her eyes never leave my hands as I continue unbuttoning my shirt.

“I think about how your pussy will feel when I finally slide inside you.” I shrug the shirt off my shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. The St. Christopher medal gleams against my chest in the low light. “How tight you’ll be, how wet, how you’ll stretch around me.”

Her eyes widen as they travel down my torso to the trail of dark hair disappearing into my waistband.

I unbuckle my belt slowly; the leather sliding through the loops with a soft hiss. “I think about marking you. Leaving bruises on your thighs, your neck, your tits. So everyone knows who you belong to.”

Her lips part, but no sound comes out. I can see her struggling with herself—the part that wants to tell me to fuck off warring with the part that wants to beg me to fuck her.

I unbutton my pants, dragging the zipper down with deliberate slowness. “Do you touch yourself and think of me, Contessa? Do you fuck yourself with your fingers and pretend they’re mine?”

“I—” she starts, then stops, her cheeks flushing.

“Tell me,” I demand, pushing my pants down my hips until they pool at my feet. I step out of them, standing before her in nothing but black boxer briefs that do nothing to hide my raging hard-on.

“Sometimes,” she admits, the word barely audible.