15. Matteo

15

She's merch, you fucking idiot. Get it into your head.

Il Consiglio started with staple operations of drugs and gambling to feed every addiction. To get involved with any of our merch would have been a death sentence. We might have moved on to more ‘above-board' operations, but some rules still stand. Scaleras don't touch the merch. So not only is Natasha Armstrong nothing more than weakness personified, but she can also ruin the whole operation by messing with my head.

That perfect body of hers is going on auction and I have no business touching her, teasing her, watching her reaction in the mirror as if I'm starving.

I rip open my closet, breathing shallowly as I listen to the shower running in the adjacent bathroom. My hands burn to run down her body, to soap her down, to trace the line of her slit and rub and suck that sweet clit until she succumbs. I'm so hard, it's painful. It's been too fucking long.

I shrug my jacket off and loosen my belt and zipper. My hand fists my cock as I brace with the other against the wall, fighting the temptation to walk back into the bathroom and jerk off in front of her. The visual is there though, her reaction to me still fresh in my mind. My fingertips still echo with the feel of her soft skin and the contrast of that perfect hardened nipple I wanted to suck into my mouth. It takes only a few hard strokes for me to crash-land into a release that isn't even satisfying. All this is going to do is to keep the beast in check.

I cover up and reach for the T-shirt she wore where I tossed it into the corner for Rosalia to deal with. I find a clean spot and wipe up the cum that's running down the wall. My ears prick. She's closed the faucet. Time to work on Miss Armstrong's self-confidence. The idea of other men's gazes on her grinds against me, but the notion only makes me want to get my fill while I can. It's not as if I'll be touching her. What happened earlier can't and won't happen again.

My resolve is firm now that my dick is not, and I pad over to the bathroom and lean against the door jamb. She's reaching for a towel, water glistening on her skin, which is rosy from her hot shower. Her wet hair clings to her back where's she's rinsed it down, opening her up completely for inspection.

Every inch of her is pure feminine beauty, from the weight of her breasts that I can still feel against my fingertips, to the length of her legs and the sweet little slit that leads to heaven. How can she not love what she sees in the mirror when she looks at herself? Women are sometimes so fucked in the head.

The bathroom is thick with steam scented with my male products, all herbal and fresh alpine shit or something. Whatever they call it, it doesn't suit her. She's strawberries and cream. The kind I want to lick off her body.

When she becomes aware of me, her movement stalls where she's dragging the towel down the heated railing. Then she tugs it free and wraps it around her breasts with such speed, I have to suppress a smile.

"You'll see a doctor tomorrow," I say as she steps out of the shower.

"I will? Why? I don't need a doctor." She rolls her eyes. Actually freaking rolls her eyes at me. "I mean, I'm becoming a doctor and I know I don't need one… yet."

I should fucking gag her, but her ramblings are somewhat entertaining. I walk over to the vanity and pull open a drawer where I keep spare toothbrushes. I put one on the countertop for her.

"How long am I staying for?"

"Until the job's done."

"What does that mean?"

"Shut up and wrap it up, kitten."

She reaches for the toothbrush and rips it from its wrapping. This one has a temper that I might find a bit too amusing. "And what about clothes? Right now?—"

I take the toothbrush from her, squirt some toothpaste on and push it into her gaping mouth. There. That makes her shut up. "Brush."

She does so, all the while glaring at me until she's forced to spit.

Fuck. Even that I find arousing.

"Clothes we'll sort out once we've established your base worth."

"My base worth?"

I ignore her question. If she hasn't figured it out yet, I can't help her. For a moment I toy with the idea of locking her back in the safe room, but then decide against it. The other room is on the same level, and if the doc comes first thing, it would be less involved to just have her there already.

"This way." I nudge her towards the door, take hold of the luxury throw at the foot of my bed in passing and guide her to the room at the end of the corridor. "In you go."

As she walks past, I tug down the towel and toss the fake fur throw towards the empty bed. "Sweet nightmares, kitten. We'll touch base in the morning."

I close the door and lock it. The last glimpse I get of her is how my kitten flexes her claws, ready to pounce, but then scrambles to cover her body. She's an innocent little kitten, finally finding her claws. That doesn't bother me. Natasha Armstrong might be fighting fit, but she'll never be a match for me or any of my men, trained as we are.

What plays in my mind's eye as I pad back to my own room is that naked body of hers and how she'll react to the feel of the faux fur against her skin. And whether she is going to seek her own release now that she thinks nobody is watching her.

I hammer back hard at the idiocy of wanting to look on, so I refrain from fetching my phone and logging into that room's security camera footage.