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)
I squeeze her clit until speech becomes impossible, and then I ram my hips forward.
“Matteo…”
After several painful seconds, the gleam in her eyes grants me permission to pull out. I withdraw only to the tip before stuffing my cock back inside. She can’t take all of me. I’m barely halfway in, but it feels amazing. The slickness of multiple orgasms coats my shaft, along with the faint red coloring of her virginity.
“You’re so fucking sexy like this. Drenched and spread out for me.”
Azra rocks against me, meeting each grind, moaning and panting as the sparks of a fresh orgasm filter across her beautiful face.
“Matteo…” she moans again, her hips circling. “Wake up.”
I peer down at her, lost by her last two words.
Leaning down, I capture her mouth in mine and kiss her roughly. Perhaps if she tastes herself on my lips as I pound into her, she’ll realize she’s not dreaming.
This is as real as it gets, and it’s fucking amazing.
“Matteo… wake up!”
This time, Azra doesn’t circle her hips. She flattens her hand on my chest and gently shakes me.
I only shake my head for half a second to loosen my confusion, but it changes everything. Azra is no longer below me. She hovers above me, and instead of her eyes being filled with lust, they’re crammed with worry.
“You were having a nightmare,” she murmurs, peering down at me, fully clothed. “You were grunting and…” She runs her hand over my forehead, gathering multiple beads of sweat. “You’re sticky and clammy.” I hate the worry in her eyes. “Do you normally have nightmares?”
“No.” I push back, flattening against the pillow fort still wedged between our sleeping zones. It’s so high she must have clambered around the bed to comfort me. “I wasn’t having a nightmare. I was…”
I can’t say it.
I refuse.
I’m thirty-fucking-three years old.
I do not have wet dreams—especially not ones that portray me as a sentimental schmuck.
“I was fuming.”
“Over?” Azra asks, unconvinced by my excuse.
I hate myself the moment the words leave my mouth, but my humiliation won’t let me hold them back. “That you sent Tuesday packing before I could get my fill.”
Instantly, the concern in her eyes shifts to anarchy, and just as fast, she storms into the bathroom and slams the door shut behind her.
Chapter 9
Matteo
Ididn’t sleep. Well, aside from that brief micro-nap I apparently had. It, along with the erotic dream it inspired, has left me feeling more disoriented than rested. It’s understandable. One minute, I was balls-deep inside Azra. The next, she was shaking my shoulder.
I reacted badly. Worse than bad. I snapped at her as if she were to blame for every fucked-up thought circling my head.
Not all of them belong on her shoulders.
Giovanni’s smug, needling taunts about me being “next to fall” and the reminder of how Valentina softened him from a ruthless killer to a family man terrify me that Azra could do the same to me.
The worry won’t quit echoing in my head. He said his taunt with an infuriating grin that made me want to throw something at him, but for some fucked-up reason, it buried itself somewhere I don’t want to examine too closely.
If I dig, shit I’m hesitant to acknowledge might come out. Like how fucking good it felt when I thought Azra had chosen me over Antonio.
Our exchange wasn’t real. It was a dream. A stupid, vivid, treacherous dream. But the barbs it speared into my chest sank so deep that waking up to the reality that her plan is still in motion, that she’s still aiming herself toward a dick turd like Antonio Adami, is a bitter pill to swallow.
I hardly know her, but I don’t hesitate in saying she deserves someone better than him.
Me? No. I’m not worthy either.
But surely I’m a rung or two above an Adami.
I condemn myself to hell. Shit like this will get me killed. I shouldn’t be having the thoughts I am.
I am Matteo fucking Caruso.
Your worst nightmare.
I will not allow a woman to cripple me.
I refuse.
The pillow fort has slumped overnight. It leans to one side, as exhausted from the effort of existing as I am, but still intact enough that I can slip out of bed without disturbing Azra. I move quietly, careful not to let the mattress creak and not to look at her longer than necessary. Her dark hair spills across the pillow, and her breathing is slow and even. The image of her in my bed tightens my chest for reasons I don’t have the patience to unpack.
My head is pounding. Not the pounding Giovanni would joke about. The proper kind that throbs behind my eyes and tilts the world off-center. A long shower will fix it. Or at least dull the pain.
After entering the bathroom, I close the door behind me with a soft click. The tiles are cold beneath my feet, but the mirror is foggy, as if last night’s dream was real. I turn on the water and wait for it to heat up. When it’s semi-respectful, I stand under the spray. Warmth beats against my shoulders and fills the room with steam, drowning out thoughts I am trying to escape.