Page 20 of Ruined By Protection
Just as the first waves of bliss begin to crash over me, something changes. The room seems to shift and blur at the edges. Matteo's voice sounds further away, though his body still moves above mine.
"Hazel," he calls, but it's different now. Distant.
The sensation of him inside me starts to fade, replaced by a hollow emptiness. The pleasure recedes like the tide going out, leaving me washed up on the shore, stranded and confused.
"No," I whisper, trying to hold onto the feeling, onto him. But it's like trying to grasp smoke.
The room darkens at the edges, Matteo's face becoming less distinct. The weight of his body on mine grows lighter until I barely feel him at all.
"Hazel," he calls again, his voice an echo in a shell.
And then I'm gasping awake in my bedroom, sheets tangled around my legs, my body covered in a thin sheen of sweat. The space beside me is empty. No Matteo.
Just another dream.
I untangle myself from the damp sheets and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My body still aches with phantom pleasure, the dream lingering in my system like a drug. I press my fingers to my temples, willing away the image of Matteo's hands on my skin, his voice in my ear.
Three years. Three years since that night and he still haunts my dreams.
The hardwood floor feels cool against my bare feet as I pad across the massive bedroom. Everything in this house is cold—the hand-carved four-poster bed, the silk sheets, the crystal chandelier hanging from the coffered ceiling. A beautiful prison.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand—3.17 a.m. Elliott won't be back until tomorrow night. At least I can breathe for a few more hours.
The hallway stretches before me, all marble floors and museum-quality artwork. I trace my fingers along the wall as I walk, careful not to disturb anything. Elliott notices if even a single item is out of place. The house is exactly as he wants it—perfect, sterile.
In the kitchen I flip on the small light above the sink rather than the main overhead. The marble countertops gleam in the dim light. I remember the first time I saw this kitchen—how impressed I was by the professional-grade appliances, the custom cabinetry, the wine refrigerator stocked with bottles worth more than I could make in a month at the bar.
Now I see it for what it is—another showcase of Elliott's wealth. Another way to display his power.
I fill a glass with water from the refrigerator dispenser.
I take a long sip, trying to wash away the old memory of Matteo. It doesn't work. It never does.
Two years ago, I was still tending bar at The Remington when Elliott Montgomery walked in. It was the same hotel bar where I'd met Matteo the year before, though I'd tried my best to forget that night. After Matteo, I threw myself into work, picking up extra shifts and sending more money home to my family. I couldn't afford to get distracted by handsome strangers with dangerous smiles. But I did, and somehow hoped that he would come back. He didn't.
Elliott came to The Remington every Tuesday and Thursday for three weeks straight, always sitting at the bar, always ordering the same drink. Unlike the other businessmen who frequented the hotel, Elliott was polite. He tipped well but didn'tmake a show of it. He asked questions about me—real questions—and actually listened to the answers.
"You should let me take you to dinner," he said one night, his perfect smile gleaming under the bar lights.
I declined. "I don't date customers."
"Then I'll stop being a customer," he replied smoothly. "I'll find another bar."
I laughed. "There are easier ways to get a date."
"I don't want an easy date. I want you."
His persistence wore me down. I considered switching bars, getting a new job, just to escape his attention, but something about his charm kept me there. After a month of gentle pursuit I finally agreed to dinner.
He took me to the most expensive restaurant in Austin, where the maître d' knew him by name. Over wine that cost more than my entire grocery budget Elliott told me about his family's construction empire, the buildings they'd built across Texas, the legacy he was set to inherit.
"You work too hard," he said, reaching across the table to take my hand. His touch was gentle, his manicured fingers smooth against my bartender's calluses. "Someone like you deserves to be taken care of."
I pulled my hand away. "I take care of myself."
"And your family," he added. "Your father's medical bills. Your brother's education."
I stiffened. "How do you know about that?"
