Page 78 of Matteo

"Forty isn't old," he retorts, his brows arching in mock offense as he stands, defying his years with the grace of apanther on the prowl. "See, I can still stand without an easy chair."

"Is that how we now gauge age now?" I reply, my tone dry as desert sand.

He strides towards me, his movements sure and fluid. It's a dance we've done a thousand times, each step leading us deeper into a tango of darkness and desire. His hand reaches for mine, a silent invitation, and I place my palm in his, feeling the rough callouses against my skin. With a swift pull, I'm up, barely catching my balance before he sweeps me off them entirely.

"And I can still do this!" he announces triumphantly as he hefts me into his arms, bridal style.

A squeal slips past my lips, involuntary and high-pitched. "Shit, Matteo, warn me next time!" My hands slap against his chest—a solid wall of muscle beneath tailored fabric—and I can't help but laugh, the sound raw and honest. "I nearly popped a poopoo valve!"

Matteo's face dips close, his breath hot against my skin as he licks the tip of my nose—a signature move of his that never fails to disarm me. "This isn't another one of those, 'I have a present for you upstairs things,' and it just ends up being your dick with a red bow tied around it?" I challenge, half-hoping it is, half-scared of what else it might be.

"But you love that gift!" He feigns shock, his face a mask of mock innocence that doesn't fool anyone, least of all me.

"Ah, let’s just agree to disagree." My voice is a whisper, our private world shrinking down to the space between us as he carries me, ascending the stairs with predatory ease.

When Matteo sets me down, my gaze locks onto a box—an enigma wrapped in plain cardboard—perched on our bed like a promise. "Well, go on and open it," he urges, his voice laced with mystery.

"Can't hide your old age from me, mate," I tease, watching him rub at his lower back—a telltale sign of the years we've weathered together in this savage, beautiful life.

"Open the box, Princess." His smirk is a dare, an invitation to step once more into the chaos of his love.

I scramble across the bed, fingers itching to tear into the mystery. The lid comes off, and there it is—a dildo, so blatantly ordinary amidst our extraordinary world. I look up at him, amusement curving my lips. "Um, don't we already own enough?" My voice dances between jest and sincerity because, damn it, with Matteo, you can never have too much.

"Yes, we do, but none of them are me." He points to himself, pride swelling in his chest like a badge of honor.

"What do you mean 'you'?" Confusion knits my brows, but intrigue pulls me forward.

"Come here and have a good look." His tone is a velvet threat, and my body responds before my mind catches up.

On hands and knees, I crawl—the predator's prey—and my body hums with anticipation. I reach him, and with deft fingers, I unbuckle his belt and slide down his trousers. Freedom meets his hardening length as it springs from the confines of silk boxers.

"Fuck me," I whisper, thumb brushing the slick tip. His groan fills the room, raw and guttural, as I take him into my mouth, working him with a hand that knows every ridge and vein of his power and might.

"Princess," he growls, the sound vibrating through my skull, "that's it."

His hardness pulses against my tongue, a prelude to the violence of pleasure that always lies in wait with Matteo Ricci—my lover, my tormentor, the mafia king who owns every inch of my being.

I lean back, the weight of the silicone creation heavy in my hand. I like it against Matteo's now rigid length, a perfect replica down to the last vein. It's a twisted kind of flattery only he could dream up. "This way, I can take both your holes at the same time and know it’s only me inside you," his voice is dark chocolate laced with razor blades.

"Prove it." The challenge rolls off my tongue, baiting the beast in him.

"Turn around and shove your face into the doona." Matteo's command is iron-forged and non-negotiable. I comply, spinning around to present myself to him, my ass lifted high, face pressed into the fabric—vulnerability wars with excitement in my veins.

"Good girl," he approves, a low growl sending shivers down my spine. His tongue traces a fiery path from my clit to my ass, each stroke a shockwave that jolts me closer to the edge.

The cold, blunt tip of the dildo presses against me, and I brace for invasion. Inch by inch, he slides it home, stretching, filling every part of my core with a delicious fullness that borders on too much.

"Matteo..." I gasp, my knuckles whitening as they clutch the sheets. His hands grip my hips, anchoring me to the reality of his control, his ownership. This man, this mafiaking who's carved out a throne in the shadows of society, has now staked an even deeper claim in me. And god help me, I crave more.

"Swallow it, all of it," Matteo growls above me, his voice a dangerous purr that vibrates through my body. I arch against the sheets, desperate for release, as he fills me slowly, deliberately, with that replica of himself. The silk cover muffles my pleas, "Fuck, Matteo, that feels so good."

He's relentless, dragging me to the brink only to leave me teetering there, craving the fall. "Please, Matteo," I beg, my voice laced with need, but he's the puppet master, pulling strings and drawing out the moment until I'm nothing but a quivering mass of anticipation.

Abruptly, the pressure vanishes, and I'm hollow, the absence of the dildo leaving a void that aches to be filled. I hear the click of the lube bottle, feel the cool liquid kiss my skin, and then his fingers are there, working me open, prepping me for what's to come. His touch is both fire and ice as he presses the molded silicone to my back entrance and pushes inside.

"Ooh my God, Fuck, Matteo!" The words escape me in a breathless exhalation as I press back into him, seeking that delicious fullness. My muscles yield to him, welcoming the foreign and familiar intrusion.

Matteo's rough hands chart a path of possession down to where I’m most sensitive. He circles my clit with a practiced touch, sending jolts of pleasure radiating through me while the dildo moves in a maddeningly slow rhythm.

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