Chapter 148 Breakfast, Barefoot and Bruised
Valentina
I woke to warm lips brushing my temple and a hand cupping my breast like he owned it.
Because he did.
“Morning, baby girl,” Matteo murmured against my skin. His thumb swept across my nipple, lazy and possessive. “Breakfast just got here.”
I blinked against the sunlight streaming through the windows, every inch of my body aching in the best way. My thighs were sore, my throat scratchy, and there was a telltale slickness between my legs that reminded me exactly how thoroughly he’d claimed me last night.
I stretched with a groan.
“You’re sore,” he said smugly.
“You’re proud.”
“I am.”
He pulled back just enough for me to see the self-satisfied smirk on his face. Then he straightened and stepped to the foot of the bed, holding something up between his fingers.
A robe. Soft. Black silk.
“I’d let you walk around naked,” he said, eyes trailing down my body, “but I’ll lose what little restraint I have left if I see you bent over the eggs.”
I rolled my eyes—but I sat up, letting the sheet fall. His gaze flicked down, pupils darkening.
Still ravenous.
He helped me to my feet, then wrapped the robe around me himself, tugging the belt tight with an indulgent little tug at the knot.
“There.” His voice was a growl. “Still mine.”
The scent of fresh coffee hit me as he led me across the room. The table had already been set, silver lids still covering the plates, steam curling out from beneath the domes. There were two tall carafes—one for coffee, one for juice—and a small vase with white roses in the center.
He pulled out my chair like the gentleman he sometimes pretended to be.
I sat, knees weak, heart fluttering, and body still humming from everything he’d done to me hours ago.
“Let’s eat,” he said, “before I change my mind and bend you over the fucking table.”
Matteo removed the silver lids with a flourish, revealing a spread that looked like it belonged in a Michelin-starred bistro.
Flaky croissants, glistening with butter. Soft-boiled eggs perched in tiny porcelain cups. Roasted tomatoes, cured meats, a plate of crepes folded around strawberries and cream. Even the damn toast looked expensive.
“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Did they kidnap a French chef just for this?”
Matteo smirked. “ we are in Paris, my love, all the chefs are French.”
I gave him a look.
He shrugged.
I laughed and picked up a croissant, tearing into the crisp edge. “This is unreal.”
“I’m glad you like it. I told them no skimping. It’s my wife’s birthday breakfast.”
His voice wrapped around the word wife like silk, and I felt it in my core.
I glanced up, mouth full, then pointed at the spread. “Okay, seriously. This? Last night? The dress? The room? I feel like I’m in some decadent mafia fairy tale.”
He sipped his espresso, dark eyes never leaving mine. “You are.”
I swallowed. “Well then…” I leaned forward slightly. “You’ve officially set the bar impossibly high. How exactly do you plan to top this next year?”
His grin was immediate. Wolfish. Dangerous.
“Oh ye of little faith.” He leaned in too, bracing one arm against the table as his voice dipped. “Do not underestimate me, Valentina.”
A flush crept up my neck. “That sounds almost like a threat.”
“It is.” He sat back, still watching me. “You’ll forget all about Paris by the time I’m done with your next birthday.”
“Should I be scared?”
He cocked his head. “Excited. Wet. Terrified. Ideally all three.”
I choked on my coffee.
He just handed me a napkin, utterly unfazed.
“Good girl,” he murmured.
I tore off a piece of crepe with my fork, the sweet cream melting against my tongue as I sighed in contentment. “Okay, I’m officially full. And officially in love with French butter.”
Matteo smirked, sipping his coffee. “Add it to the list of things you’re addicted to.”
I arched a brow. “Oh? And what’s number one?”
He didn’t blink. “Me.”
Cocky bastard.
I drained the rest of my coffee and leaned back in the chair, stretching slightly with a soft groan. “Only problem is, I don’t have anything to wear today. I was in that gown that I put on during the flight last night, remember?”
Matteo gasped—dramatically, hand to his chest like I’d wounded him.
“Do you really think I didn’t plan for that?” he asked, feigning deep offense. “Princess, you wound me.”
My smile curled. “So you did think of everything?”
“I always do.” He pushed his chair back and stood, walking around to offer his hand. “There’s an outfit waiting for you in the bedroom. Now come on—finish up, let’s take a quick shower, and get dressed. We’ve got one last stop before heading home.”
I accepted his hand as he helped me up, wrapping the robe tighter around me as we padded toward the suite’s oversized bathroom. “One last stop?”
“Mmhmm,” he said, tapping my ass as we walked. “A little shopping.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “You’re going shopping with me?”
He looked far too smug. “I’m feeling generous.”
I laughed. “We better not tell Rosco you’re encroaching on his sacred duty. The man takes his personal shopping escort job very seriously.”
Matteo grinned. “Let him try and stop me.”
He handed me my juice glass again. “Finish that. Vitamin C. Hydration. We need you glowing.”
I sipped, narrowing my eyes. “Need me glowing for what exactly?”
His grin turned wicked. “For the dressing room mirrors, obviously. And maybe for later. Depends on how well-behaved you are.”
I licked a stray drop of orange juice from my bottom lip, watching his eyes track the motion. “Define well-behaved.”
“Willing to model lingerie for me before the saleswoman can even leave the room.”
I choked on my sip, laughing. “You are terrible.”
“Terribly in love with the idea of watching you squirm in silk,” he said, completely unapologetic.
I shook my head, cheeks flushed. “I can’t believe we’re doing this. Paris. Shopping. Designer dressing rooms. Champagne on arrival.”
He stepped in closer, brushing his lips against my temple. “Believe it, baby girl. And enjoy it. Because next year’s going to make this look quaint.”
I laughed, turning in his arms. “Oh ye of little humility.”