Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 125243 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 626(@200wpm)___ 501(@250wpm)___ 417(@300wpm)
He pushes my dress up until it reaches the underwire of my bra, and then he rips my damp panties off my body.
I’m confident he’s about to bury his head between my legs and eat me for dessert, but I learned early on that it’s better to be safe than sorry.
“Remember… no penetration.”
Matteo frees his lower lip from his menacing teeth, confused. Understandably so. I’ve heard about the rules the Carusos have been striving to implement, but they’ve not stretched as far as Turkey just yet.
I blame the cum clinging to my tonsils for the huskiness of my following words. “I can’t marry Antonio if I don’t pass the purity test.”
Even though Matteo doesn’t speak, his reaction is immediate. He stills, his jaw flexing. As his fingers tighten around the edge of the seat, he inhales through his nose, slow and controlled, the way someone does when they’re struggling not to break something.
He locks his eyes on me, but he doesn’t see me. He’s looking past me.
I wait for him to argue. To scoff. To tell me I’m ridiculous.
He doesn’t do any of that.
He tugs down my dress, stuffs his rapidly deflating cock back into his boxers, then pushes the intercom button on the doorframe.
“Find a way through the traffic,” he tells the driver, voice flat. “I don’t care how.”
Chapter 4
Azra
The driver murmurs in agreement before he merges into the emergency vehicle lane.
Ignorant of my slack-jawed expression, Matteo turns his face to the window. He rests his elbow on the door and presses his fingers to his mouth. Even if he weren’t glaring at the passing motorists as if they offended him, I’d still know he’s angry. It radiates from him in invisible waves.
He’s not angry at the people stuck in peak-hour traffic with us, though.
He’s pissed at me.
And somehow, that’s worse.
I understand why he’s upset, but I’m also confused. He’s Matteo Caruso. The man who doesn’t do relationships. The man who doesn’t commit. The man who is so well-known as a playboy that even I’ve heard of him.
He’d have to know this shouldn’t have gone further than a kiss. I came to Sicily for one reason: to marry Antonio. I’m not his to keep. He knows this, and until five minutes ago, I thought he was happy about that.
So why does he look like I just betrayed him?
I turn my gaze to the window too, mirroring him without meaning to. The silence between us grows thicker than fog settling in a valley.
What was I expecting? Maybe a smug smirk of arrogance or a devil-may-care shrug. Maybe even a careless, “You can do whatever you want, princess. I already got what I wanted.”
I didn’t expect this.
It hurts, and I hate that more than anything.
Emotions were never meant to enter the equation.
They’ll only complicate things, so I must shut them down immediately.
When the SUV slows, I straighten my shoulders, ready to step into the next phase of the plan—the part where Antonio sees me moving on with Matteo, and for the jealousy Matteo promised to root.
Just my flushed cheeks and stretched lips should commence an avalanche, not to mention the driver’s steely glare in the rearview mirror. He may not have been able to see or hear anything, but I’m sure his imagination is running wild.
The driver doesn’t pull down a long driveway lined with lemon groves. He glides us past the departure terminal of a local airport before driving through heavily manned gates. In this part of the airport, there are no terminal buildings, no crowds, and no neon signs pointing toward baggage claim or security checkpoints.
Instead, there’s a long stretch of tarmac shimmering in the low-hanging afternoon sun and a sleek white jet waiting at the end like a secret someone poorly tried to hide.
My stomach drops when I realize the jet is idling.
I aim to keep my voice calm and miserably fail. “Why are we here?”
Matteo doesn’t answer me. He exits the SUV, walks around to my side, and opens the door. The driver removes my suitcase from the back seat and wheels it toward the private jet.
With an unreadable expression, Matteo offers to assist me out of the limousine. It’s not cold or cruel, more detached.
I don’t move. “Tell me why first.”
He doesn’t enjoy being barked at, but he’s a pro at masking his expressions. “This is a way out.”
“Out of what?”
“Out of this.” The simplicity of his reply hits me harder than any explanation he could have given. “Out of us.”
Reaching into the SUV, he snatches up my hand and drags me out. His demeanor is brutish but also businesslike, implying that he’s trying to wedge a barrier between us that didn’t exist an hour ago.
As he guides me across the tarmac, a cool wind blows over the airstrip. It messes up my hair and headpiece more ruefully than his fingers did, and briefly, I feel small against the vastness of the sky and the coldness in Matteo’s eyes when he hands me over to the flight crew.