57. Matteo

57

Tasha has pushed herself into the corner of the passenger seat, as far away from me as possible, staring out of the window. At least she's no longer crying because that shit shreds a man. It's one thing to swoop in, yank the carpet right out from underneath her with everything that happened in Sicily and Cannes. It's another thing altogether to bring her home, only to watch her look on as her world disintegrates, knowing you can do nothing to ease the pain.

If only I could hold her, soothe her, things would seem better, but she's turned cold and stoic. I don't blame her, but the truth is out now. I no longer have to hold my breath, wondering when she's going to realize how closely connected we are. I'm in for a ride which I refuse to get of from, whatever comes my way. I will bend her to my will. She will learn to love me. She will stay mine. That's the only way I can protect her. It's the only way I can have her.

When we drive into the apartment's underground parking, I pull up to the security booth. "Mrs. Scalera doesn't leave the premises again. Not without a security detail, understood?"

The man nods as he peers into the Maserati, straight to where Tasha can't be bothered to look in our direction.

"Understood, Mr. Scalera."

With an inner sigh I drive deeper into the building, allowing the two security SUVs to pass and get to the parking area ahead of us. Just in case.

It's only once we're in the elevator to the penthouse that I finally relax. As long as Tasha stays put in the apartment, she'll be safe. As long as she doesn't escape… well, she's a cat with nine lives.

I have her bag in my one hand and my laptop bag over my shoulder as we walk into the apartment. Rosalia won't be here at this time of day and it's for the better. The rest of the world will be having dinner soon, while I will be having a staring contest with my wife.

"Kitten."

She turns to me, arms folded over her chest, protective. She's wearing one of those damn dresses. One of the rippers, like the pink one she wore in Sicily and which I shredded on our arrival there. This one is a bright yellow which makes her look like sunshine. Those legs would look stunning in a pair of heels, but she wasn't allowed any. Nothing like a spike in the temple to cut life short, and she'll know exactly where to hammer it in.

"Husband." The way she says it mocks me.

Oh boy. Discipline. "That was your one sass for the day, kitten, done." Her lips twitch, but not in a way that makes me think she finds anything funny. "Go unpack your things. Rosalia made room for you in the master bedroom's closet. I'll get dinner ready."

I hold out her bag for her. She really didn't pack a lot. I'll make sure someone goes and fetches everything else for her at some point. She takes the bag and heads for the stairs. I go to the fridge to see what options we have. Everything in doubles. Nice. Rosalia doesn't need instructions, unlike my wife. I heat up the meals and wait.

And wait.

My patience is running thin as it is. Fuck it. I scale the stairs two at a time, even though I know she can't escape from the second floor. When I walk into the bedroom, she's on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

"You're wearing that?" I say. "In our bed?"

"You have a problem?"

She looks like a fucking middle schooler in red and grey plaid pajama pants and a grey sweatshirt straight from thrift store hell. In summer.

"I don't give a fuck what you're wearing, kitten, because you won't have it on for long." Her eyes widen. "I'm more concerned about how the clothes you're wearing make you feel." And I bet that mess makes her feel like shit, compounding her shitty day.

"If you think you're ever going to touch me again," she spits out, "I have some news for you."

"Is that so?" Challenge accepted.

With a shrug she rolls onto her side, her back to me. Not that it helps; the floor-to-ceiling mirrors are there for a reason. I shrug off my jacket, slip off my gun holster and gun, careful to put it right there where my kitten can be tempted. I unbutton my shirt, toss it to the floor, and carry on with my belt. Tasha's never been one to look away, and she can't resist me now. Soon I'm naked, erect, and ignoring my blushing bride as I head to the bathroom.

I take my time in the shower, shave again, then towel dry. I put on cologne for good measure, then step out into the bedroom, a towel around my waist. I drop it as soon as I'm in her line of vision, letting her see everything. My need for her isn't shy, and there it is… that little swallow and the lick of her lips telling me everything I need to know.

I ignore her as I walk to the closet and open it up. I get dressed in a fresh suit, taking my time.

"Where're you going?" she asks as I make to slip on the jacket.

"Since none is to be had at home, I'm going out for some company."

"Company?" She sits up and I quirk a brow at her.

"Yes." She doesn't need to know that I plan to hang out with Benedict. You can go to his place and not see anybody for days as he hides out in his dungeon.

"If you're going to go soil your cock with some whore's cunt tonight, like you did that night in Sicily, I swear to God I'll… I'll…"

I want to burst out laughing but bite my tongue. When did sweet Natasha Armstrong learn to use all those words. In that tone? Jealous much? And that night in Sicily? Fuck, I didn't know that pissed her off this much. This one's a keeper.

"You'll what, kitten?" I wait, but she's gaping like a fish out of water. The gun's right there, loaded. All she needs is to cock it and shoot.

"I'll… I'll…" She's breathing short little breaths now, angry, infuriated with being unable to give me a sharp comeback.

"You'll kill me?" I prompt. "Can I remind you how that went the last time?"

She glares at me, the anger in her eyes sparkling with lust. "Don't you dare?—"

"Dare what, kitten?" I toss the jacket onto the bed, reach for the gun and drop the bullets out. Won't risk things going wrong here. I place it back on the nightstand, waiting for her next move. Now she looks like she wants to slap me, scratch me, and let out all her anger and frustration.

And I'll let her if it helps. Up to a point. What she needs is to be comforted, to know that whatever happens next, I'm here. Hand over every part of her to me and allow me to take care of her. Submit to me—completely.

I'll give her everything she needs and more. She can break apart a thousand times, and I'll pick her up and gather her close a thousand and one.

I step up to her side of the bed and cup her face. "Dare what, sweetheart?" I slip my fingers to her neck, into her hair, slowly in that way that makes her burst out in goosebumps.

"Dare to give me a lesson in anatomy again. I know all that stuff," she huffs softly, already weakened by my touch. Or maybe it's because I called her sweetheart. She softens to a marshmallow whenever I call her that.

"I have a lot of things I can teach you," I say as I gather her hair, dipping my gaze to her hardened nipples. That godawful sweatshirt is thick, but not thick enough. "Must teach you, in fact." I twist her makeshift ponytail in my hand, firming my grip on it and manipulating her head so she's forced to look up at me. "Like how to stay put when you're asked and bloody well know I expect you to stay put."

"I'm not a thing, Matteo, an inanimate object."

"No, far from it." You're on fire, battling every human emotion out there. I place one knee on the bed and lean in, crowding her with my body as I brush my lips along her temple. "You're a needy, jealous wife who is going to give me a hard time, aren't you?"

"You deserve it." Her hands are on my shoulders, trying to push me away, but I grip that sweatshirt and tear it off in one swoop. "I hate you," she hisses. "I hate the vows I made! I hate?—"

"Yeah?" I toss the offending sweatshirt into a corner as I stand again. Hate is one emotion I can totally relate to. "If you hate me so much, give me more of what you think I deserve." Her chest is heaving, her tits fucking glorious in her arousal that she can't hide from me.

I take her disgusting pants by the hems and pull, and with satisfaction watch as she struggles to stay upright, then fails and falls back as I rip the seat from right under her. She's on her back, kicking at me, but the pants slide right off to reveal a pair of panties with kittens on them.

Fuck. She wore those for me. Little cocktease, thinking she can get away with shit like this.

I'm fast, and she's so easy to overpower. I catch her wrists and tie her hands together with the pants' stretchy fabric. She struggles, out of breath, ripping an array of curses as I knot her tightly to the headboard. Handy. And such a vivid memory from that night I had her just like this with my gun. Little did I know I was a lost cause already. I fell for her the moment she flung my phone across the apartment, defying me.

Fuck, she's gorgeous. She's my wife.

She's a fucking wildcat, still kicking, but I catch her legs by the ankles and press them open, trapping one with my knee, holding the other firm. I give her a moment to stop fighting, to catch her breath, staring into her eyes. "Calm down, kitten," I purr, as I slide a fingertip down her chest, circling her navel, then along the edge of her panties. I trace her panty line several times, until all there is between us are her shallow breaths, her gaze begging me to do more, and my erect cock, straining against my pants, battling to get to her sweet pussy. When I caress her lower, tracing a gentle line over her slit, she quivers.

"Matteo…"

I trace the panty line by her inner thigh, right there where she is so wet, I can smell her. "Yes, sweetheart?"

She swallows and closes her eyes, rocking her hips into my hand. I sneak a fingertip under the panties' crotch, feeling how much she wants this. I press a knuckle to her clit, with just enough pressure for her to rub against. She's slick, and when I push a finger into her pussy, she gasps and contracts into my hand. Always so ready, always so easy and close.

"I think these kitten panties are the only thing I'll allow you to keep," I say as I extract my finger, leaving her hanging on the ledge. I stand and adjust my raging cock in my pants. It's uncomfortable and there's only one way I'm going to deal with this. "Understand that I'm only going to ask you this once." I let a beat of silence hang for her to grasp that I'm fucking serious. "Do I stay, my darling, or do I go?"