I feel him pulsing and erupting as my cunt still tenses around him, until finally we’re both still and sated, listening to the waves crash through the open window. A breeze blows in, wafting the gauzy white curtains up against the bed, and for a moment, everything is perfect. Everything is serene and hopeful.
Matteo guides me down to the bed, so I can lie on my side and he can lie behind me. He kisses the back of my neck and the blades of my shoulders as I snuggle into the downy white pillow and crisp sheets. It’s hard to believe that just four months ago, I was standing over the corpse of my uncle, the gun hot in my hand, watching the crimson pool of blood spill out from his body. I’d thrown up right then and there on the floor, collapsing before Matteo could catch me. I knelt like a sinner in church, refusing to move until Matteo lifted me bodily off the floor and carried me downstairs.
His consigliere handled most of the business—alerting the boys that Jimmy was dead, managing the gruesome cleanup of the scene. All while Matteo cradled me against his chest and told me it would be okay, that he was here with me, that I would never have to face this memory alone if I didn’t want to. I’d nodded numbly, already stricken with the deep, horrific realization that I wasn’t nearly as remorseful or filled with guilt as I should be.
Did it make me a monster that I didn’t regret murdering my own uncle? Or did it make me a good daughter that I avenged my parents? Or did it even matter, given that he’d been about to shoot me? Because after all was said and done, my life wasn’t entirely my own in that moment. It belonged to the child that I’d pledged to keep and protect. Maybe it was more Mama Bear than Dutiful Daughter that shot Jimmy in the heart, and how could I feel ashamed for protecting my own baby?
To this day, I wouldn’t change a thing about that night. Matteo, the baby, and I survived, and that’s all that matters.
Without my uncle, the boys had fled back to the shop, and Matteo unleashed hell on them. He used every non-corrupt political force he knew of to mobilize against them, he had his men disrupt all of their trades, and within weeks, there was nothing left of theirs to defend. The city belonged to Matteo.
I, especially, belonged to Matteo.
We took special care to destroy Nate’s career and lay waste to his prospects. Matteo wanted him at the bottom of the Missouri River, or dumped unceremoniously somewhere between Cliff Drive and the train tracks, but I intervened. Not because I gave a shit about Nate, but because I’d already been responsible for one death and I couldn’t stomach another. But ruining his life? That I took perverse joy in, and it wasn’t long before the law discovered all the money-laundering and fraud he’d been up to. His trial will be any day now.
In the here and now, Matteo’s hand slides over my belly and gently chafes my skin, trying to find the little feet and knees that love to stick out when our baby moves around. “I have a present for you tonight,” he whispers in my ear. His hand moves up—predictably—to my breast and starts toying with my nipple. Despite our earlier sex, my body thrums back to life under his touch and I arch my back to press my ass against his groin.
He’s already hard again.
He carefully lifts my leg and slides inside me. I’m still slick from my own arousal and his semen, and he’s able to bury himself to the hilt without any resistance.
“I love fucking you when you’re all tight and just getting warmed up,” he tells me. “But God, I love it even more when you’re all wet and open. You’re so fucking soft like this.” He buries his face in my hair as he moves in and out. “So…fucking…soft…”
He bites my shoulder and strokes the inner thigh of the leg that’s still raised up, and we move like this for a long time, slow and relaxed, wet and open, until I finally shudder and tighten around him, coming long and hard on his thick cock. He rewards me with a final, hard bite on the shoulder and several fierce, shallow jabs into my pussy. He comes so hard that I can feel his cock swell as he prepares to erupt inside me, and then I can feel the heat of his release as he empties his body of cum, teeth still dug into my shoulder the whole time.
We don’t say anything as our orgasms subside, but I eventually drift into a happy sleep in his arms, waking only when the sun has set below the horizon.
I sit up and stretch, disappointed to see that the bed is empty next to me and that the room seems to be deserted. Thick, white candles are lit everywhere, covering almost every flat surface of the room. Draped across the foot of the bed is a long swath of white chiffon with a note resting on top of it.
Follow the candles reads Matteo’s sharp, masculine handwriting.
The moment I pull the dress off the bed, I know what it is and I know where the candles lead. My throat swells with the happiest kind of unshed tears as I slip into the dress and zip it up. It fits me perfectly and has the expensive feel of a couture custom gown, but for all that, it feels airy and light to wear. The sleeveless bodice sparkles ever so slightly with subtle crystals sewn under the first layer of chiffon, but after that the dress is pure, snow white, all the way down to its fluttering hem and short, elegant train.
I pin up my hair, brush on some light, natural makeup, and leave our room barefoot, following the candles down the hall and down the stairs. Every so often I find a present from Matteo—a bouquet of white roses or a pair of white, strappy sandals—and by the time I make it to the beach, my tears are no longer unshed. Because the line of candles extends almost all the way out to the surf, and at the end, the candles curve into a large, flickering heart.
In the middle of the heart stands Matteo and a chaplain holding an open book.
My chest tightens like a vise squeezes around it.
The sand is warm and dry under my toes as I step into the heart shape made of candles, and the breeze ruffles the delicate hem at my feet. Matteo extends one large hand, and I take it, gratified to feel that he’s trembling slightly too. He gives me a long slow look, his eyes roving from my feet to my eyes, and when our gazes meet, his expression holds both desire and undiluted love and affection.
I want to melt into the sand at that look.
“One more thing,” he whispers, and he pulls something glimmering out of his pocket. It’s a small sapphire pendant on a thin gold chain. “Here’s your something old and something blue. It was my grandmother’s. Oh princess, you have to stop crying or I’m going to start crying too.”
I sniffle and try to get my tears under control as he steps forward and clasps the antique necklace around my neck, his fingers gentle and sweet against my skin.
“I know my roses are my something new, but what about my something borrowed?” I tease through my tears.
“That’s actually my dress you’re wearing. I’ll need you to dry-clean it before you give it back, I’m going to a fancy party next week.”
My laughter breaks the spell of my tears, and I can finally smile without my chin trembling. “You’re amazing, Matteo Moretti. Amazing and dangerous and perfect.”
“Not nearly as perfect as you are. Jessica Simmons, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”
I look down at my giant, pregnant stomach. “In for a penny, in for a pound, I suppose.”
Matteo raises an eyebrow at my quip, but underneath his smirk, I see a flicker of uncertainty, a fear that I won’t say yes, that I don’t actually want him. I grab his hand and press it against my heart. “Yes, I will marry you,” I say, looking into his eyes meaningfully. “I love you.”
Relief spills across his features. “I was worried you’d say no,” he confesses. “I certainly haven’t given you much reason to say yes.”
“You are enough reason to say yes, and always will be.”
Finally, he smiles his wide, panty-melting smile, his dimple flashing. “That’s what I like to hear.”
I raise his hand from my heart to my lips and kiss his palm.
“And I promise to give you a Catholic wedding when we get home,” he says. “But I wanted us to have this. Just us and our little one inside your belly. Just us and the oce
an.”
“I’d like that too,” I say, meaning it more than I’ve ever meant anything.
Hands laced together, we turn and face the chaplain, ready to begin our new life.
Matteo
Epilogue
I hear a stirring from the other side of the bed, the unmistakable diaper rustle of a stretching baby followed by a short, sleepy fuss. Jessica lets out a world class sigh—her own version of a sleepy fuss—and then gently scoops our daughter out of the co-sleeper attached to her side of the bed. Before long, Elisa and her mother are snuggled back down, Jess on her side facing the baby, and the baby nursing noisily next to her.
I smile and move closer to my wife, pressing my body against her back. These are my favorite parts of the night; the quiet, slow moments when I can nestle against the woman I love as she nurses my firstborn child. I stroke Jessica’s arm as Elisa finally slows down, pulling off abruptly to squawk at the ceiling.
I chuckle—Elisa’s three-month-old chatters are my favorite sound in the world—but Jessica heaves another giant sigh. “Why won’t she go back to sleep?” Jess groans, and I don’t need to see her to imagine the frown on her lovely face.
With a kiss on her shoulder, I roll out of bed and walk around to the other side. “I’ll rock her. You go back to sleep.”
“Mmph,” is all I get after I pick up Elisa and her blanket. Jessica rolls over, the covers hiked up to her shoulder, and all I can see of her when I sit down in the glider is her mass of thick blond hair.
Elisa continues to coo in my arms as we start rocking. I sing back to her, crooning a low Italian lullaby my grandmother used to sing to me, making sure that she’s completely warm and comfortable in her blanket.
She looks more like me than Jessica—that was apparent even before she was born and the delivery nurses started exclaiming about her full head of dark hair. Her skin has my darkly Mediterranean tone, and her eyes have stayed the same deep blue of newborns, just like mine. But there’s so much of Jessica in her too—the full swoop of her little lower lip, the heart shape of her face, the way she glares at me sometimes if I don’t get to her fast enough with a bottle or a fresh diaper.
I wanted to name her Isabella, after my mother, and Jessica wanted to name her Elena, after a character on a vampire show she watches, but we ended up naming her Elisa, after my grandmother. Now I can’t imagine any other name for her. Elisa seems stamped onto her very features, in her long, dark eyelashes and chubby cheeks.
After about ten minutes of rocking, Elisa’s coos fade away, and she silently blinks up at the ceiling, each blink getting slower and further apart until, finally, her precious blue eyes close and she’s breathing deep baby breaths. But as I get up to put Elisa in her co-sleeper, proud that I’ve given Jessica a short respite, my wife sits up in bed with an unhappy expression. Without a word she gets out of bed and shuffles grumpily to the shower.
As I hear the water start hissing, I lay the snoozing Elisa down, and then I pad into the bathroom to see what woke Jessica up. I pause at the entrance to our walk-in shower, leaning against the wall and taking in the view of Jessica washing herself. She’s not intentionally trying to be sensual--I can tell from her slow movements and hooded lids that she’s still half-asleep--but goddamn, that woman can’t help but be sexy to me no matter what she’s doing. Her tits are full and heavy, and her pregnancy with Elisa gave her wider hips and a softer stomach--all things that make me want to pin her against the wall and get her pregnant again.
I like that idea a lot, actually.
Without a word, I strip out of the loose linen pants I wear to bed and my boxer briefs, and then I join her, running my hands along her soapy shoulders and pressing my lips to the side of her neck.
With a sleepy, contented purr, she leans back against my bare chest, allowing me to slide my hands to her breasts, where I cup them carefully in my hands. Her nipples stiffen the second I run my thumbs over them.
“Couldn’t sleep?” I ask in her ear.
“I tried to, but I kept leaking milk all over myself. I decided to go wash up.”
“That’s a shame,” I murmur.
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to get you dirty again.”
She gasps as I pinch her nipples and then drop a hand to find her clit, which I start rubbing gently. With a moan, she spreads her legs and leans against me, and I slide my other arm around her stomach to keep her upright as I finger her.
Her head drops back against my shoulder.
“That feels good,” she breathes.
“You deserve to feel good,” I tell her. “You deserve to be pleasured. Taking care of Elisa all day, taking care of the house, taking care of me…” I nuzzle her neck as my fingers work faster over her swollen bud. “I’m going to give you everything, princess. Let me give you everything.”
“Okay,” she manages, her hips squirming against my hand. Her soap-slicked ass grinds against my exposed erection, and I bite back a groan.
Fuck, that feels good.
“Matteo,” she says, not as a prelude to anything else, but more like my name is a lifeline, a word to anchor herself against the onslaught of pleasure. I nibble at her neck, holding her tight against me so I can grind against her ass as I coax her to orgasm.
For a minute or two, there’s nothing but the wafting steam and the sound of water against tile, but then the white noise is broken open by a sharp cry as Jessica comes against my fingers. She bucks wildly, panting and moaning, and unable to resist, I slip a finger inside her cunt to feel it fluttering and releasing.
Satisfied that I gave her what she needed, I press a palm in between her shoulder blades, forcing her to lean forward and brace herself with her hands against the shower wall. She’s still panting when I fist my root and slowly nudge myself inside her hole, but her panting stops the moment I fully press inside. Neither of us breathe until I’m fully sheathed in her, and even then, it’s hard to make myself inhale. Her pussy is so warm and wet, so tight and soft, and it takes everything I have not to start pounding towards the climax coiling at the base of my spine.
Instead, I coax her to lean over more, and I thrust slowly in and out, the kind of thrusts that lovingly caress her g-spot. I’m doing it to be a thoughtful lover and husband, yes. I’m also doing it because I love watching the way her ass presses against my hips as I push in and feeling the way her pussy grips my cock as I slide out.
“I love this pussy,” I growl at her as I continue riding her with long, steady strokes. “I love it so fucking much.”
“Go harder,” she begs, trying to press back against me. “Deeper.”
I deny her, continuing with the steady, even movements, and I give her ass a hard slap for asking.
She yelps.
“You want to come again, don’t you, princess?” I ask in a silky voice. “You want me to make you come with my big cock. But I’m not going to give you the kind of easy fuck you’ll forget about in ten minutes. I’m going to give you the ride of your life. I’m going to make it so you can’t even fall asleep after because your body is still buzzing.”
“You’re so mean,” she exclaims, but her conviction is stolen away by the moan that follows her words as I fondle her breasts.
“You won’t be saying that later,” I promise her. And I mean it. She’s my wife, the mother of my child, the one purely funny, intelligent, bright spot in my life. And if the least I can do is give her breathless, full-body orgasms in the middle of the night, then you better believe that I’ll do it.
I do it right, making it long and excruciating, feeling every press and squeeze of her pussy as I move in and out. I hiss at the feel of her ass pressed against my hips, bite my lip when I go so deep that I can feel the firm entrance of her womb, dig my fingers into her hips as the running water accentuates the nipped hollow of her waist and the juicy curves of her ass. She’s so woman now, so deeply, undeniably female. Maybe it’s biology, or just the way I’m wired, but as much as I loved her firm body b
efore our baby, I’m fucking obsessed with her new mother’s body. She’s so soft and squeezable and receptive, so deliciously female. I could stare at her forever, grope her eternally, fuck her always, and my dick would still never get enough.
We go long, until goosebumps cover her arms and a flush deepens her cheeks. Until my balls are aching and my groin feels like a storm about to break, and the instant I find her clit with my fingers to push her over the edge, she tumbles into her orgasm, her screams echoing against the tile.
She clenches around me, tight and frantic, her fingertips scrabbling at the tile as she endures onslaught after onslaught of deep pleasurable contractions, her pulsing channel suddenly melting into the softest, hottest home for my dick.
I live for that softness, crave it like an addict, because nothing, nothing, feels like a sated pussy on your cock. I let go of all control now, once again using my forearm to hold her upright because her knees have started to buckle, and I rut into her like an animal, pound into her cunt like a man possessed.
Her pussy is like hot silk, and the rest of her has gone ragdoll, and she’s murmuring my name, begging me to come. And at long last, I feel the storm break and I spurt long, thick shots of cum deep inside her. My balls are contracted tight against my body and I keep thrusting hard, riding her until every last drop has been milked from my cock.
It isn’t until the hard, fierce pulses of my dick subside and I can feel my cum dripping back out of her that I slow down and eventually stop. I never want to stop, really, I could fuck Jessica forever, but I make myself pull out and set her down on the corner ledge of the shower.
After washing myself up, I kneel and tend to her, cleaning the sweet pink folds of her cunt with a fresh, soft washcloth. The act makes me hard again, and she spreads her legs wide in wordless invitation. I waste no time in using her pussy once again, this time able to watch as that pink heaven welcomes me inside. I come hard after only a few minutes, my fingers digging into her thighs and my lips against her neck.
Made for Him: A Mafia Baby Romance Page 10
