A Hunger for the Forbidden Page 9

  “Oh.”

  He pushed a few more buttons. “I have disabled the security camera now. Unless you like the idea of being on film.”

  She had to admit, she had a certain amount of curiosity as to what it looked like when Matteo Corretti made love to her. It was a video she wouldn’t mind owning, in all honesty. But she didn’t want it on security footage, either.

  “Not in the mood to provide security with any early-evening jollies.”

  “No worries, I have now deleted that little stretch of footage. There are advantages to being a control freak. Having an app on your phone that lets you see all the security at your hotels, and do as you please with the cameras, is one of them.”

  He discarded his suit jacket and tie then, throwing them onto the floor of the elevator, tossing his phone down on top of them.

  “Have you used that trick before?” she asked, before he lowered his head to kiss her again.

  “With a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Hell, yes,” she said, not worried if he knew it. She wanted this moment, this desperation that was beyond anything she’d known, to be as foreign to him as it was to her.

  “No, I haven’t.” He kissed her again, his tongue sliding against hers, and she forgot her lingering concerns.

  Forgot about everything but what it felt like to have Matteo kissing her. Caressing her.

  “Later—” he kissed the hollow of her throat “—I will do this right—” lowered his head and traced the line of her collarbone with his tongue. “I’ll taste every inch of you. Take time to savor you. Take your clothes off slowly. Look at those gorgeous curves.” He kissed her neck, bit her lightly like she’d done to him earlier. “Now, though … now I just need to be inside you.”

  He started to gather her skirt up in his hands, the slippery fabric sliding up her legs easily. “Take your panties off,” he said.

  She complied, her hands trembling as she worked her underwear down, kicking them to the side with her heels. He pushed her dress up around her hips, his hand hot on her thigh. He tugged her leg up around his, her back pinned against the wall of the elevator.

  He tested her with his other hand, teasing her clitoris, sending streaks of white heat through her body with each pass his fingers made through her slick folds. “You didn’t lie,” he said. “You do want me.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Tell me,” he said.

  “I want you.”

  “My name.”

  “I want you, Matteo.”

  He abandoned her body for a moment, working at his belt, shoving his slacks and underwear down, just enough to free his erection so that he could sink into her. It was a shock, all those weeks without him, and she’d forgotten just how big he was. Just how much he filled her. She let her head fall back against the wall of the elevator, pleasure building deep inside her, her internal muscles tightening around his length.

  And then there was no more talking. There was nothing but their ragged breathing, Matteo moving hard and fast inside her, blunt fingertips digging into her hips as he held her steady, thrusting into her.

  He lowered his head, capturing her nipple in his mouth again. A raw sound of pleasure escaped her lips and she didn’t even care. She wasn’t embarrassed at all.

  Because this was Matteo. The man she’d always wanted. Wanted enough to break out of what was expected of her for the first time in her life. The man who had saved her, the man who made her angry and hurt her, the man who made her feel things she’d never felt before.

  Matteo scared her. He confused her. He made her feel more than anyone else ever had.

  And right now he was driving her to a point she’d never even imagined, to the edge of a cliff so high she couldn’t see the bottom of the chasm below.

  She was afraid to fall, afraid to let the pleasure that was building in her break, because she didn’t know what would greet her on the other side. Didn’t know what would happen. And something would happen. Something would change. There was no question. None at all.

  And then he looked at her, those dark eyes meeting hers, and she saw him. Not the mask, the man. Raw need, desperation and a fear that mirrored her own.

  He lowered his head, his lips pressing against her neck, his thrusts losing their measured rhythm. And something in her broke, released. And she was falling, falling into that endless chasm. But she wasn’t afraid anymore.

  Release rolled through her in waves, stealing every breath, every thought, everything but the moment.

  And when she finally did reach bottom, Matteo was there, his strong arms around her. He was breathing hard, too, sweat on his brow, the back of his shirt damp, his heartbeat raging, so hard that, with his body pressed so tightly against hers, she could feel it against her own chest.

  He stepped away from her slowly, running his hand over his hair, erasing the evidence that she’d ever speared her fingers through it. That she’d messed with his well-ordered control.

  He adjusted his pants. Bent and collected his jacket, putting his phone back into his pocket. And she just stood there, her back to the wall, her dress still pushed partway up around her hips, the top resting at her waist, her underwear on the floor by her feet.

  Matteo put his tie around his neck and started straightening it, too, before he looked at her. “Get dressed,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Get dressed,” he said. “We have to go back to the party.”

  “W-we do?”

  “It’s my charity,” he said. “I have a speech to make.” He checked his wristwatch. “And it seems I’m not too late for it so I really should try to manage it.”

  “I …”

  “Turn around,” he ordered, his voice harsh. She did as he asked. He put her straps back into place, zipped the dress back up. “My bra …”

  “You don’t need it,” he said.

  “What should I do with it?”

  He opened up his jacket and indicated his inner pocket. She bent and scooped up her bra and panties and handed them to him, and he put both tiny garments into his pocket.

  “Solved,” he said.

  She looked down at her chest, cupped her breasts for a moment. “I’m sagging.”

  “You are not.”

  He hit the button on the elevator and it started moving again, the doors sliding open. Then he hit the button for the first floor and they waited for the doors to close again.

  Alessia felt … used. No, not even that. She just felt sad. Angry, because he was able to do that with her and then go back to his purely unruffled self.

  Maybe she’d been making more out of them, and the sex, than she should have. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe it didn’t mean anything to him. Nothing more than just sex, anyway, and a man like Matteo surely had it quite a bit.

  They rode in silence, and the doors opened again. The photographer was still out there, wandering the halls. Looking for a photo op, no doubt.

  Matteo put his arm around her waist and led her through the hall, that false smile back on his face. They started back toward the ballroom and she had the strangest feeling of déjà vu. Like they were back at the beginning of the night. Like their interlude in the elevator hadn’t happened at all. But it had. She knew it had.

  The photographer snapped a picture. And Alessia didn’t bother to smile.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MATTEO WASN’T SURE how he managed to get up and speak in front of the large crowd of people. Not when he could see Alessia in the audience, her face smooth, serene, her dark eyes the only window to the storm that lurked beneath.

  A storm he was certain would boil over and onto him once they were alone.

  He found he didn’t mind. That he welcomed the chance to take her on because it was better than the overwhelming, biting need to take her back to the elevator and have her again. To let the elevator continue up to his suite where he would have her again. And again. Tasting her this time, truly savoring her.

  Yes, fi
ghting was infinitely better than that. He would rather have her yelling at him than sighing his name in his ear.

  Because he didn’t know what to do with her, what to do about his desire for her.

  It wasn’t what he was used to. Wasn’t normal in any way.

  Sex was simply a need to be met, like eating or breathing. Yes, he liked some food better than he liked others, but he wasn’t a slave to cravings. He believed in moderation, in exercising control in all areas of life.

  Alessia was the one craving he didn’t seem to be able to fight, and that meant he had to learn how.

  Anything else was inexcusable.

  “Thank you all for coming tonight, and for your generous donations. I am happy to announce that I am personally matching all of the donations given tonight. And that thanks to your generosity, it is now possible for the Corretti Education Foundation to branch out into college grants. It is my belief that a good education can overcome any circumstance, and it is my goal that every person be given that chance. Thank you again, enjoy the rest of the evening.”

  He stepped down from the podium, not paying attention to the applause that was offered up for his speech. He could hardly hear anything over the roar of blood in his ears. Could hardly see anything but Alessia. Which was one reason he allowed himself to be pulled to the side by some of the guests, interrupted on his way back to where his wife was standing.

  He stopped and talked to everyone who approached him, using it as a tactic to keep himself from having to face Alessia without his guard firmly back in place. Cowardly? Perhaps. But he found he didn’t care. Not much, at least.

  Alessia didn’t make a move to approach him; instead, she made conversation with the people around her. And every so often she flicked him a glare with those beautiful eyes of hers, eyes that glittered beneath the lights of the chandeliers. Eyes that made promises of sensual heaven, the kind of heaven he could hardly risk trying to enter again.

  Every time he touched Alessia, she tore down another piece of the wall, that very necessary wall of control he’d built around himself.

  People started to disperse, and as they both went along the natural line of people that wanted to converse with them, the space between them started to close. Matteo’s blood started to flow hotter, faster, just getting nearer to Alessia.

  No matter there were still five hundred people in the room. No matter that he’d had her against a wall an hour earlier. Still she challenged him. Still she made him react like a teenage boy with no control over his baser urges.

  Yes, think about that. Remember what that looks like.

  Blind rage. Two young men, still and unmoving, blood everywhere. And then a calm. A cold sort of emptiness. If he felt anything at all it was a kind of distant satisfaction.

  And then he’d looked at Alessia. At the terror in her eyes.

  And he’d done what he’d sworn he would never do.

  He’d wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into his chest, brushing away her tears. He’d made her cry. Horrified her, and he couldn’t blame her for being horrified. It wasn’t the kind of thing a girl of fourteen, or any age, should ever have to see.

  When he pulled away, when he looked down at her face, her cheeks were streaked with blood. The blood from his hands. Not the only blood he had on his hands.

  He breathed in sharply, taking himself back to the present. Away from blood-soaked memories.

  Except it was still so easy to see them when he looked at Alessia’s face. A face that had been marred with tears and blood. Because of him.

  The gap between them continued to shrink, the crowd thinning, until they met in the middle, in the same group. And there was no excuse now for him not to pull her against his side, his arm wrapped around her waist. So he did.

  Alessia’s body was stiff at his side, but her expression was still relaxed, her smile easy. A lie. Why had he never noticed before that Alessia’s smile wasn’t always genuine?

  He’d assumed that it was. That Alessia displayed and felt emotion with ease and honesty. Now he wondered.

  The last of the guests started to file out, leaving Alessia and Matteo standing in the empty ballroom.

  He looked around, at the expansive room. This was his hotel, separate from his family dynasty, and often, looking at it, at the architecture, the expanse of it, filled him with a sense of pride. He had hotels all over the world, but this one, back in Sicily, a hotel that belonged to him and not to his family in any part, had always filled him with a particular amount of satisfaction.

  Now it just seemed like a big empty room.

  He picked up his phone and punched in a number. “Delay cleaning until further notice, I require the ballroom for personal use for a while.”

  Alessia looked at him, her dark eyes wide. “What do you need the ballroom for?”

  He shrugged. “Anything I want.” He walked over to the edge of the stage and sat, gripping the edge. “It is my hotel, after all.”

  “Yes, and you’re a man who takes great pride in the ownership of whatever he can possess,” she said.

  “And why not?” he asked, loosening his tie, trying not to think of Alessia’s fingers on the knot, trying not to imagine her fingers at the buttons of his dress shirt as he undid the collar. “That’s what it’s always been about in my family. I go out of town—” and off the grid “—and my bastard cousin has taken over my office. My younger brother has managed to charm his way into the top seat of the fashion houses for Corretti. So you see? In my family, ownership is everything. And if you have to stab someone to get it, all the better.”

  “Metaphorical stabbing?” she asked, wrapping her arms around her waist, as if holding herself together. He hated that. Hated that he might cause her pain in any way.

  “Or literal stabbing. I told you, my family has a colorful history.”

  “You said you and your brothers weren’t criminals.”

  “We’re not. Not convicted, anyway,” he added, not sure why. Maybe because, in his heart, he knew he was one.

  Knew he could be convicted for assault several times over if evidence was brought before a court.

  “Why are you saying this?”

  “What do you mean, why am I saying this? I’m telling you the truth. Was what I did that day near your father’s gardens legal? Answer me,” he said, his words echoing in the empty room.

  “You saved me.”

  “Maybe.”

  “They would have raped me,” she said.

  He remembered it so clearly. And yet so differently.

  Because he remembered coming upon Alessia, backed up against a tree, a stone wall behind her, two men in front of her, pressing her back to the tree, touching her, jeering at her. They had her shirt torn. They were pushing her skirt up. And he’d known what they intended to do. The evil they meant for his angel.

  And then he remembered seeing red.

  He pushed off from the stage, standing and pacing, trying to relieve the restless energy moving through him. Trying to ease the tightness in his chest.

  He hadn’t simply stopped when he’d gotten those men away from Alessia. Hadn’t stopped when they quit fighting back. He hadn’t stopped until Alessia had touched his back. And then he’d turned, a rock held tightly in his hand, ready to finish what he’d started. Ready to make sure they never got up again, ready to make sure they could never hurt another woman again. Any other woman, but most especially Alessia.

  But then he’d looked into her eyes. Seen the fear. Seen the tears.

  And he’d dropped his hand back to his side, letting the rock fall to the ground. Letting the rage drain from his body.

  That was when he’d realized what he had done. What he had been about to do. And what it had done to Alessia to see it. More than that, it confirmed what he’d always known. That if he ever let himself go, if he ever allowed himself more than his emotionless existence, he would become a man he hated.

  “I did more than save you,” he said. “A lot more.”

/>   “You did what you had to.”

  “You say it as if I gave it some thought. I didn’t. What I did was a reaction. Blind rage. As I was, if you were not there, I wouldn’t have ended it until they were dead.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “That’s the thing, Alessia, I do know that. I know exactly what my next move was going to be, and trust me, it’s not something people get back up from.”

  “I wish you could see what I saw.”

  “And I wish like hell you hadn’t seen any of it,” he said, his voice rough.

  “You were … I thought … I thought they were going to get away with it. That no one would hear me scream. No one would stop them. I thought that they would do it. And then you came and you didn’t let them. Do you have any idea what that meant to me? Do you know what you stopped?”

  “I know what I stopped.”

  “Then why do you regret it so much?”

  “I don’t regret it, not like you mean.” He could remember his father’s face still, as he’d administered punishment to men in his debt. The calm. The absolute calm. But worse, he could remember his father’s face when someone had enraged him. Could remember how volatile, how beyond reason, he became in those situations.

  And always, the old man had a smug sense that he had done what must be done. Full and complete justification for every action.

  Just as Matteo had felt after Alessia’s attack. How he had felt after the fire.

  “To me you were just a hero,” she said, her words soft.

  They hit him hard, like a bullet, twisted inside of him, blooming outward and touching him everywhere, scraping his heart, his lungs. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe.

  “It’s so much more complicated than that,” he said.

  “Not to me. Not to the girl you rescued. You were like … You were every unfulfilled dream from my entire life, showing up when I needed you most. How can you not understand that?”

  “Maybe that,” he said, “is our problem now. You know a dream, a fantasy, and I am not that man. I’m not the hero of the story.”