Page 72 of Ruined By Protection
I climb into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin despite the warmth of the room. With Matteo sitting guard on the floor I feel safe for the first time in years.
"Matteo..." I moan his name as his weight pins me to the mattress, his body covering mine like a shield. His skin burns against mine, our bodies slick with sweat as he moves inside me with slow, deliberate thrusts.
His dark eyes never leave mine, intense and possessive. "You're mine now," he whispers, his voice rough with desire. "Say it, bella. Tell me who you belong to."
"You," I gasp as he hits a spot deep inside me that makes stars burst behind my eyelids. "Only you, Matteo."
He groans, burying his face in my neck, his stubble scraping deliciously against my sensitive skin. "That's right," he murmurs. "No one else gets to touch you like this. No one else gets to see you come apart."
His rhythm changes, becomes more urgent, more demanding. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, wanting to feel every inch of him. My fingers dig into the muscles of his back as pleasure builds, coiling tighter and tighter in my core.
"Open your eyes," he commands.
I blink, disoriented as reality crashes in. The weight on my chest isn't Matteo—it's the winter duvet I've clutched to myself in my sleep. My body thrums with unfulfilled desire, my skin flushed and sensitive.
And Matteo...
He's not in bed with me at all. He's still on the floor where he positioned himself, sitting up straight, watching me with an expression that makes heat pool low in my belly.
"Must have beensomedream," he says, his voice husky with sleep and some darker emotion. "You were moaning my name."
Mortification floods me. Had been dreaming about him—aboutus—and apparently making quite the noise.
"I—I don't—" I stammer, unable to form a coherent sentence as I realize my T-shirt is twisted around my waist, exposing my stomach.
Matteo's eyes drop to where the sheet has fallen away, revealing a sensitive part of my body. His jaw flexes and when he speaks again, his voice is unsmoothed gravel.
"You want to know what I think?" he shifts to his knees beside the bed, bringing his face level with mine. "I think you were dreaming about me fucking you."
My breath catches at his crude words but I can't deny it. The evidence is written all over my face, in my flushed cheeks and dilated pupils.
"Tell me I'm wrong," he challenges, his eyes never leaving mine.
I swallow hard, unable to lie. "You're not wrong."
A slow, ravenous smile spreads across his face. He leans closer, his breath warm on my lips.
"Was I good?" he asks, his finger coming up to lift a strand of hair from my face. "In your dream?"
My skin tingles where his fingers touch me. "Yes," I whisper.
His thumb traces my bottom lip, sending shivers down my spine. "Better than that night in Austin?"
The memory of our night together three years ago floods back—his hands on my body, his mouth everywhere, the way he'd made me feel things I'd never felt before or since.
"I don't know," I admit. "It's been a long time."
"What do you want, Hazel?" His voice is barely above a whisper but it fills the room.
The question hangs between us, heavy with meaning. My heart leaps and skips. My body still tingles from the dream, aching for his touch. For two years I've been controlled, told what to want, what to wear, what to say. But now, in this moment, I'm being asked what I want.
And I know exactly what that is.
"I want to be fucked," I whisper, the words feeling foreign and thrilling on my tongue.
In an instant Matteo's hand wraps around my throat—not squeezing, just holding, his thumb pressing gently against my pulse point. His eyes glitter, savage and untamed.
"Wrong answer," he says, his voice a dangerous rumble. "You don't want to be fucked. You wantmeto fuck you."
