Page 43 of Wicked Bloodlines

The morning light, faint through the curtains, painted him in hues of silver and shadow. His eyes, fixed on mine, were dark with raw desire, but also with an intensity that pulled at something deep inside me. He wasn’t just looking at my body. He was looking at me.

This time, he took his time, kissing me slow and deep. His tongue traced mine, tasted the raw edges of the fear and relief simmering within me.

He shifted, rising slightly, hovering above me. His cock, thick and hot, nudged against my entrance. I hooked my leg around his hip, digging my heel into his ass. The other foot I braced on his calf while he flexed his hips. My pussy welcomed him with a gush of moisture to ease his passage and I gasped. He pushed in, slowly, inch by exquisite inch. I kept my gaze locked on his, needing to watch his every expression.

“Yours,” he whispered, each word a grunt against my mouth, as he plunged deeper. “All of me. Always.”

I gripped his back, nails digging into his tense muscles. The sensation of him filling me, completely, was overwhelming. My breath hitched, a sob escaping my throat. But my eyes stayed open, wide, meeting his.

He moved in a slow, deliberate rhythm that built the pleasure gradually, inexorably. I canted my hips to meet his, eager and desperate. I watched his face, saw the tension in his jaw, the deep furrow between his brows, the way his eyes never left mine. His passion was a mirror to my own.

Through the haze of building pleasure, through the tremors starting to rock my body, I saw the man beneath the mafia, the tender core hidden beneath layers of hardened steel. He gave me every complex emotion inside him and I welcomed him.

When my climax hit, it was a tidal wave, ripping through me, tearing a ragged scream from my throat. I bucked, digging my nails into the skin of his back and I shattered, piece by piece, only to be reformed by the exquisite agony of the pleasure Matteo gave me. I squeezed my eyes shut for a moment, unable to hold the intensity, but then I forced them open again, finding his face, watching him follow me into bliss.

His own release followed swiftly, a deep groan buried against my neck, his body shuddering as he shot his hot cum into me. He collapsed, heavy and warm, pinning me to the mattress, his breath ragged. We lay there, skin slick with sweat, both just trying to catch our breath.

I clung to him, not letting go, my face pressed against his chest. His arms wrapped around me, a safe harbor after the storm. Exhaustion pulled at me, a deep, bone-weary fatigue that had nothing to do with physical exertion and everything to do with the emotional battlefield of the past twenty-four hours.

The morning sun finally broke through the curtains, painting warm rectangles on the floor, gradually reaching the bed. I felt myself drifting, secure in Matteo’s arms, feeling his heart steady beneath my ear. The last thing I heard before sleep claimed me was the slow, even rhythm of his breathing.

Noon had passed when I finally opened my eyes. The room was bright with sunlight, and I blinked, disoriented for a moment. Then I remembered everything from the previous night and sucked in a small breath. Matteo still held me, one arm a warm, heavy weight across my waist. My head rested against his chest, listening to the slow, steady drum of his heart. Satisfaction I hadn’t known possible filled me, but I was completely drained. Like every cell in my body had been wrung out, and maybe it had.

Matteo stirred, his fingers stroking my hair. “Morning, sleeping beauty,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep.

“Is it morning?” I mumbled, not moving. “Or afternoon?”

He chuckled, a deep rumble that vibrated through my body. “Probably closer to afternoon. We definitely missed breakfast.”

My stomach growled in protest, a loud, embarrassing sound. I pulled back slightly, looking up at him. His eyes, though still tired, held a soft warmth. “Hungry?” he asked.

“Starving,” I admitted. “And a little sore.”

“I’ll have some food brought up.” He shifted, about to sit up, but then a soft knock came at the door.

“Matteo? Sofia?” Belle’s voice, hushed but urgent, came through the wood.

Matteo frowned. He sat up, grabbing the sheet to pull over his hips, then gestured for me to stay put. He crossed the room, pulling on a pair of pajama bottoms from the floor, and opened the door a crack.

Belle stood outside, looking harried. “Maria’s awake. And lucid. She’s asking for Sofia.”

My heart lurched. Maria. My beautiful sister. I scrambled out of bed, grabbing a silk robe from the back of a chair. I didn’t care what I looked like. I needed to see her.

Matteo led the way, a short distance down the hall to the room where Maria had been resting. Two guards stood sentinel outside Maria’s door, nodding respectfully as we approached. Matteo pushed the door open, then stepped aside, letting me go in first. He lingered in the doorway, a silent, watchful presence. Belle stood just inside the door as well in case she was needed.

The room was bright, warm morning sunlight streaming through the tall windows. Maria lay on a plush bed, propped up on pillows. Her face was pale and thin, and there were bandages on her wrists, stark white against her delicate skin. Her hair was still a little wild, though it looked like there had been an attempt at untangling it. Her wide brown eyes held lucidity and life, though uncertainty clung to her every breath.

“Sofi?” she whispered, her voice reedy.

I sank onto the edge of the bed. “Hey, honey,” I breathed, reaching out, careful not to hurt her. She was so fragile, so small. I gripped her hand in mine until she gave a small sob and reached for me.

Maria clung to me, burying her face in my shoulder. I could feel her shuddering, a silent, profound release of fear and trauma. I held her, rocking her gently. “It’s over, baby. You’re safe. You’re home.”

“I was so scared,” she mumbled, her words muffled against my shoulder.

“I know,” I said, my own voice thick with unshed tears. “I know.”

When she finally pulled back, her eyes, wet and shining, found Matteo in the doorway. He hadn’t moved, just stood there, his face unreadable, watching us.