Chapter 40 Altitude Adjustment
Matteo
“You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The words left Valentina’s mouth like the edge of a blade—sharp, deliberate, impossible to ignore.
My gaze snapped to Maria just as she stepped out of the galley.
Shit.
I hadn’t even thought about her.
I mean, why would I? Ninety-nine percent of the time I board this jet, I’m either alone or with a woman who’s being paid to make the flight more…enjoyable. And for that, I preferred my women dressed like sluts—tight skirts, unbuttoned blouses, high heels and no shame. Easy access. No complications. No fucking wedding gowns.
But now?
Now I had a wife sitting across from me in a couture dress that cost more than Maria’s yearly salary, and suddenly the usual setup didn’t feel so convenient.
“I didn’t have time to hire a new flight attendant,” I said, quick and casual. “This trip was sprung on me last-minute.”
Which wasn’t a lie, exactly. I hadn’t thought about it, hadn’t prepared, hadn’t given a damn—because until five hours ago, this marriage was just another calculated play. It still was. Mostly.
Maria blinked at the sight of Valentina, clearly thrown off her game. She looked from me to the white dress, and for the first time in years, she kept her mouth shut.
Valentina gave her a once-over like she was assessing livestock. Then, with the coolness of a queen surveying her court, she said, “Bring me a bottle of tequila. No glass. No salt. Just the lime.”
Oh, this should be interesting.
Maria hesitated, but when I gave a subtle nod, she turned and disappeared, heels clicking across the polished floor.
I turned back to my bride, lips twitching. “Would you like help out of your dress?”
Her hand reached for the bottle as soon as Maria returned, unscrewing the cap with a practiced twist. She knocked back a shot like a woman on a mission, then sucked the lime between her teeth without ever breaking eye contact.
Then came the glare.
Not a scowl.
Not a pout.
A full-body rejection, laced with fire and defiance.
“I’m not undressing,” she said, voice sweet as cyanide, “until absolutely necessary. And definitely not where your sluts can see.”
Damn.
If I wasn’t already rock hard from the wedding dress, that line would’ve done it.
I leaned back in my seat, smirking. “Noted.”
But I couldn’t help the thought that followed, uninvited and unwelcome.
If she was this fun angry…
I could only imagine how she’d taste when she finally surrendered.
She looked away, eyes on the window now, on the moonlit clouds rising past the glass. Silent. Unbothered. Untouchable.
But my cock was already thick and pulsing behind my zipper.
Not just from the sight of her in that damn dress—though let’s be honest, the way it hugged her waist, the way it spilled around her legs like a puddle of sin, had my restraint hanging by a thread.
No, it was something else.
Something darker.
I was the first.
I would be the only.
Her untouched cunt was mine.
And the idea of being the first cock she ever took—of watching her stretch around me, feeling her body learn what it means to be filled by a man—was… electrifying. Addictive. Fucking sacred.
She could glare at me. Threaten me. Drink herself numb. None of it changed the fact that she belonged to me now—legally, physically, utterly.
And God help me, I didn’t even care if she fought it.
Does that make me a monster?
The thought came unbidden, slithering in like a ghost of someone I used to be. Someone who gave a damn about lines and mercy.
I shoved it down.
Hard.
I’d been generous. Empathetic, even. I gave her time. Gave her space. Gave her a wedding, a ring, a seat beside power.
I let her keep her virginity a little longer than I needed to.
But now?
Now it was time to collect.
That poker game wasn’t just a win. It was a claim.
And the prize wasn’t money.
It was her.
Her mouth. Her cunt. Her body. Her soul. Everything.
She was mine to do anything—and everything—with.
And I intended to.
Tonight.
The jolt of the wheels kissing the runway brought her eyes open. She’d been pretending to sleep, head tilted against the window, arms crossed tight across her chest like a chastity belt. Tequila bottle still at her feet. Unfinished.
Coward.
I stayed quiet as the jet rolled to a stop, the silence between us thicker than her wedding dress. But the second the stairs unfolded and I saw the warm island glow spill through the open door, I reached over and touched her thigh.
Not gently.
She flinched.
“Before we step off this plane, you need to understand something,” I said, my voice low and firm. “This island is mine. Has been in my family for generations. Which means—”
“Which means Alessio could be here,” she interrupted, her tone flat but sharp. “Or show up at any point.”
I raised a brow, but she didn’t stop.
“And that means we’re not just playing house anymore. We’re a couple in love. Newlyweds. Sexually active. Practically glowing.”
I smirked. “Exactly.”
She stood and smoothed the layers of her dress, adjusting the sapphire crest in her hair before glancing at me with an edge. “Then you better keep up, husband.”
She swept past me toward the exit, hips swaying like a silent challenge.
Fuck. She was playing this role too well.
I followed her down the stairs into the humid night, the salty breeze clinging to my skin like a promise. The private airstrip was tucked in a clearing, surrounded by tall palms and nothing else. No welcome committee. No resort staff. Just a black SUV idling at the end of the strip.
The driver stepped out and opened the door for her first. Good man. Knew where the power sat—even if it was only illusion for now.
She slid into the back seat with queen-like poise, but I caught the way her fingers curled into fists against her lap. Still fighting. Still pretending she wasn’t scared of what tonight really meant.
Let her pretend.
Let her act.
Because on this island? No one was watching.
And the game was finally mine to play.