Page 5 of Stefano
“Your jaw’s about to crack,” Severu mutters, dropping into the chair beside me with a fresh glass of whiskey.
“Mind your business,” I growl.
He follows my line of sight, then lets out a low whistle.“Ah.So that’s what’s got your balls twisted.Little Andrea.”
I snap my gaze to him, my voice sharp enough to cut.“Watch your mouth.”
He smirks, unbothered, sipping his drink like I didn’t just threaten his life.“Relax, brother.I’m not stupid enough to touch what you’ve already claimed with your eyes a hundred times over.Besides, I have a woman.”
“I haven’t claimed shit,” I bite out.
His smirk widens.“Keep telling yourself that.But if you don’t move soon, whoever’s on the other end of that phone will.”
My stomach knots.I want to demand the name, the number, the fucking address of whoever is making her glow like that.But I don’t.Because I can’t.Because I’m too much of a coward to cross the line I drew.
Hours later, I’m heading down the hallway toward my room when I see it.
Her door is cracked open.Light spills through, soft and golden.
I know I shouldn’t look.But I do.
Andrea’s lying on her stomach, blanket kicked down, bare legs crossed at the ankles.Her feet kick idly in the air as she types furiously, her smile brighter than I’ve ever seen.
I want to rip the phone out of her hands, demand to know who the fuck has her grinning like that.I want to smash it against the wall and replace every smile with ones I put there myself.
Instead, I walk away, fists clenched so tight my knuckles ache.
In my room, I pace like a caged animal.
I picture her texting some faceless prick.Laughing at his jokes.Biting her lip the way she does when she’s nervous.Maybe even agreeing to meet him.
The burn in my chest is jealousy, but underneath it is something uglier.Fear.Fear that she’ll slip through my fingers before I ever have the courage to hold her.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand.
Severu:If you keep looking at her like that, Guilia’s going to notice.Just saying.
I hurl the phone across the room, hitting the wall.I can’t stop imagining it.Some asshole sliding his hand over her thigh.Leaning close, whispering in her ear, making her blush.
The thought makes me sick.So I do the only thing I can.I imagine it’s me instead.
I strip off my shirt and drop onto the bed, groaning as my cock throbs against my zipper.I tug it free, my hand wrapping around the thick length, stroking slowly at first, then rougher, faster, matching the burn in my veins.
In my mind, it’s Andrea on top of me, straddling my hips, riding me slow while I grip her waist.Her hair falls around her face, her lips part, and she moans my name, her voice breaking on the sound.
‘Stefano.’
I imagine her nails dragging down my chest, her body clenching around me as I fuck into her harder, deeper, until she screams for me.
The image destroys my control.My climax rips through me, hot and brutal, spilling over my hand and across my stomach.My groan is ragged and guttural, echoing in the empty room.
I lie there, chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight my teeth ache.
The truth is clear.
If she’s looking for an escape, if she’s letting someone else into that soft heart of hers ...I won’t survive it.Because Andrea Rossi doesn’t belong with anyone else.She belongs with me.
Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
