Page 30 of Matteo

"Boss," Spike starts, cautious, "you reckon he knew about Niko?"

"Fuck no," I say, the very thought sent a surge of protective fury through me. "Eleanor... she kept our boy under wraps, away from the filth of our world."

"Damn good job too," Spike mutters.

"Yeah," I mutter back, the pride and fear warring.

There's silence for a heartbeat, two, then Spike breaks it with a question that's been eating at everyone since she walked back into my life. "You okay, Boss? With her being back?"

I stop dead in my tracks, my chest tight. "I am bloody ecstatic," I admit, but there's a 'but' - always a fucking 'but.' "She won't talk, won't spill why she bolted, why she didn't trust me to protect her and Niko." Our son. I can barely wrap my head around it.

"Give her time," Spike advises, downing the last of his whiskey, the liquid amber reflecting the dim light. "We yanked her out of her life, mate. Gotta be a shock."

"Time." The word tastes like ash. She had a decade. I want answers, but I know he's right. I can't force her hand. Not when I've already forced so much.

I knock back the last dregs of whiskey, the burn doing fuck all to scorch away the frustration gnawing at my insides. The glass hits the counter with a thud that mirrorsthe drumming in my head. "Fuck, I know you're right, Mate," I spit out, "but it's like swallowing glass, this waiting game."

He chuckles, that annoying sound of 'told-you-so' without the words. "One step at a time, Boss. She's back, ain't she? And the kid..." His grin widens. "Spitting image of you."

"Fuck," I laugh despite myself, the tension breaking for just a moment. "That's something, yeah." I glance toward the floor where my boy—our boy—is probably dreaming up ways to hack the Pentagon. "Speaking of Niko," I continue, "I want you to load him up with everything tech. Kid's got a knack."

"Sure thing, Boss." Angel rolls his eyes, but I catch the pride he tries to hide. "Kid'll probably be schooling me before long."

"Need me on watch, Boss?" Spike's already half-standing, itching for permission to bail.

"Nah, you're right. Fuck off home." I slapped his back, and a brotherly shoved out the door. "Six sharp."

The room's a fucking mess—takeaway containers breeding on the table like vermin. I wouldn't say I like disorder, and chaos in my space reflects the chaos in my head. Sleeves rolled, I get to work, clearing, cleaning, casting each piece of trash into the bin like it's a piece of the past I'm desperate to forget. The hum of the dishwasher is the only company I keep as I scrub away the remnants of the day.

Thirty minutes bleed away before I make the climb upstairs. The bedroom door creaks open, revealing her, Eleanor, curled up and vulnerable on the bed. Seeing herthere is like a punch to the gut and a balm to the soul all at once. She's here, in my den, my world. And she's mine.

I peel the clothes off my skin, letting them drop in silence. I'm raw, exposed, but it's nothing compared to the exposure of my heart. Crawling behind Eleanor, the cool sheets starkly contrast the heat brewing in me. I slide my arm beneath her pillow and wrap the other around her waist. She's a fucking fit against me—her ass a perfect curve to my front, her head nestled under my chin as if she was made to be there. Her scent is soap and my cologne, my brand on her skin. A deep, primal part of me stirs—she's mine, and fuck if she doesn't know it.

My hand traces the path down her stomach, fingertips itching to find out if she's as ready for me as I am for her. The thought alone has my cock twitching with possessive need. She's usually fucking drenched for me, always has been. My fingers slip past the waistband of my sweats, delving into the warmth between her thighs. The hair there's not to my liking—a reminder to run to Woollies come morning. But then, my finger slides through, finding her slick, wet, just like goddamn always. She never could hide how much she wanted me.

A tug, a lift, and her sweats are history. She's stirring now, the beast of consciousness waking in her, but I'm relentless. I want her bare, vulnerable, open. My lips press to the column of her neck, breathing her in. My arm scoops under her leg, drawing her open to me. That's when I feel it—the searing heat of her greeting me, inviting me in. One of her hands reaches my head, urging me closer. The kiss shegives me tastes of peppermint, fresh and sharp—fuck, it’s like a shot of adrenaline straight to my veins.

"Matteo," she breathes out, a whisper that shoots through me.

"Shh," I hush her, lining myself up. There's a slight resistance, but she's arching back, giving me the needed angle. I push in, slow, controlled, savoring every goddamn inch as I fill her. It's home. It's where I belong. It's everything.

"Fuck, Princess, I've missed this, I’ve missed you,” the words growled into her mouth, a tangle of need and raw emotion. Her response is muffled against my lips, a sound that's half sigh, half moan, “Oh, geez,” as I bury myself deep inside her.

"That’s it, you remember how my dick used to feel? You remember how much your pussy craves me?” The question is rhetorical, a filthy whisper, but she answers a breathless "Yes" that punches straight through me. That's all the fucking permission I need to pick up the pace, to start moving within her with rapid thrusts, each one a claim, a reclamation of what's mine. I can feel every inch of her wet heat coating me, driving me insane.

"Fuck, Princess, I can’t hold it any longer. I need you to cum for me," I demand, fingers finding her clit, circling with a precision born of memory and desire. She's always been responsive, and tonight's no exception—her legs tremble, her breath catches in sharp intakes that sync with my movements.

"Oh, fuck Matteo." Her voice is strained, edged with that sweet precipice of release. I pinch her clit, just right, and she detonates around me, her orgasm ripping through her bodyin waves, clenching around me so fucking tight. And I'm right there with her, my control shattering as her velvet walls milk me dry.

"Fuck, Princess, that’s it, strangle my cock; this cum is yours, and only yours.” It's a guttural declaration as I spill into her, hot and relentless. I want to mark her inside out, to brand her with my seed, to fill her womb until it swells with another piece of us. I've got to figure out her game with birth control and make sure nothing stops the natural order of my claim.

"Princess, I need you to marry me. I want you to carry my last name. I cannot lose you again,” I whisper fiercely into her ear, the words laced with a possessive edge that brooks no argument. Her voice is soft, still laced with the afterglow of our joining. “Okay,” she says, simply surrendering.

"Really?" Confusion laces my voice because I expected a fight, resistance. But she's acquiescing like she's been waiting for me to stake my claim, “Really, Matteo, I’m not going to fight you over it; I’ve wanted to be yours for twelve years. Just don’t break my heart.” Her words hit me harder than a bullet, a mix of vulnerability and an undercurrent of steel.

"Baby, we’ll talk more about me breaking your heart another time, but you gotta get up and clean up; I don’t want you getting a UTI,” I say, already uncoiling from around her, even as part of me screams to keep her close forever. Her body moves reluctantly, and she grumbles about my bossiness, but I know she secretly loves it. The darkness hides my grin, but I can't contain the sense of satisfaction spreadingthrough me like wildfire. My Princess. My future wife. My fucking world.

I smirk in the shadows, the darkness like a cloak around us. "I thought that you like me bossy." Her body tenses against mine, her breath hitching.

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