Chapter 42 Time’s Up
Valentina
“Time’s up.”
The words landed like a gavel strike—low, steady, final.
I turned slowly from the minibar, fingers still wrapped around the neck of the tequila bottle, heart pounding in some frantic rhythm that didn’t belong to me. His voice hadn’t been sharp or cruel. No barked orders or impatient growls. Just those two words—simple, certain, inevitable.
Matteo stepped toward me.
I braced.
But he didn’t tear the robe off. Didn’t yank the sheer nightgown up over my hips and throw me onto the bed like some beast finally let off its leash.
No.
He walked.
Measured. Calm. A predator who had already won and knew it.
He reached for the bottle in my hand first, fingers brushing mine as he took it. “You’ve had enough,” he said. Not unkind, but firm. “You’re not going to numb your way through this.”
“This?” My voice cracked.
He stepped closer. The heat of him soaked into my skin before he even touched me. “Consummation. The word you’ve been avoiding since the ring slid onto your finger.”
I swallowed. My throat felt thick. I hated that he was right.
“You said twelve hours.” I tried for humor—something brittle and bright. “You can’t possibly need that long.”
His brow arched. “That’s not what the poker contract said.”
My breath caught. I hated how that word made my knees wobble: contract. The reminder that this wasn’t romance. Wasn’t love. It was payment. Collection. Ownership.
And yet when he reached for the belt at my waist, my hands didn’t slap his away. They simply… froze.
He untied the knot in a single pull. The satin whispered apart, and the robe slid from my shoulders like silk petals falling to the floor. My sheer nightgown clung to me, useless as armor, as modesty, as hope.
His eyes didn’t leer.
They devoured.
“Turn around.”
I did. Slowly. Controlled.
Hands found my shoulders, warm and commanding. He ran them down my arms—slow, deliberate. I shivered, caught between dread and something shameful I couldn’t name.
“Scared?” he asked, breath brushing my ear.
I didn’t answer.
“Good.”
His mouth ghosted down the side of my neck. No kisses. No softness. Just the heat of his lips tracing possession over skin. His hands came to rest on my hips, and when I didn’t pull away, he pressed his body flush to mine. The bulge between us was hard and unforgiving.
Still, he didn’t rush.
Not yet.
He guided me forward—two steps to the bed—and turned me to face him. I searched his eyes for some flicker of decency, some hesitation. All I found was fire and focus. No regret. No apology.
He reached for the hem of the nightgown and dragged it upward. I lifted my arms because fighting was pointless. Because part of me needed to control at least that—when I surrendered.
The gown cleared my head and vanished to the floor.
I stood bare before him.
He stared like he was looking at a priceless artifact. Or a locked door he finally had the key to.
“You’re shaking,” he said.
“I’m cold.”
“You’re lying.”
He leaned down and took my nipple in his mouth without warning. I gasped, spine arching, a bolt of heat shooting through me like lightning. He rolled it between his teeth, tongue flicking, hands steady on my waist.
Dominance. Not cruelty.
Control. Not violence.
But there was no mistaking who was in charge.
He lowered me onto the bed, his hands spreading my thighs with a confidence that made my face burn. No hesitation. No doubt. Just the knowledge of a man who’d been counting down the days to this exact moment.
I clutched at the sheets. “I’ve never—”
“I know,” he said. “That’s the point.”
He kissed down my stomach, then further. I tried to clamp my thighs shut, but his grip tightened.
“Don’t fight me now,” he murmured. “You signed away that right.”
I hated the way that stirred something in me.
When his tongue slid over my core, I nearly came off the bed.
“Matteo—” I gasped.
He didn’t stop. He licked, tasted, claimed—patient but merciless. My first orgasm hit me like a slap. I cried out before I could bite it back, hips jerking, thighs trembling. He didn’t mock me. Didn’t speak. Just watched.
Then he slid a finger inside my pussy and I felt myself instinctively clench around it and he let out a soft groan. He pulled it out and joined it with another finger. Playing. Stretching.
The sensation was foreign, new, and not entirely bad. I attribute that to the alcohol—liquid courage. There’s no way I would be this relaxed without it.
“For someone who’s never done this,” he says, “your body knows exactly what to do, you’re so fucking wet.”
Him saying that made me feel slightly embarrassed and dare I say actually turned me on. No! I do not like this, my body is betraying me. I hate him. I hate him.
Then he stood.
Unbuttoned his shirt slowly. Belt. Zipper.
I stared.
This was not a man I should want.
And yet…
He climbed onto the bed, settling between my legs like a king onto his throne.
“Look at me,” he said.
I didn’t want to.
“Valentina. Look. At. Me.”
I obeyed.
And watched him press the head of his cock to my entrance.
He didn’t slam in. He pushed—inch by inch—watching my face the entire time. I whimpered. He grunted. My body stretched, burned, adjusted.
“You’re mine now,” he growled. “Fully. Completely. Mine.”
And then he began to move.
The pain blurred into heat. The fear into sensation. He rocked into me with unrelenting rhythm, each thrust branding something deep inside.
Not gentle.
Not cruel.
Just… final.
Then he slowed and kissed me. I was not expecting that. For as intimate as sex is, kissing just seems far more intimate.
People can have sex any time and it’s purely physical. But kissing—that’s real intimacy. And again I’m blaming the alcohol, but I kissed him back.
Matteo increased his thrusting speed and depth and I gasped. He pinned my hips and told me to take it.
Then I came again, it wasn’t soft or sweet.
It was shattering.
He followed a beat later, spilling into me with a groan and a brutal kiss.
He didn’t say I did well. Didn’t praise me.
Just collapsed beside me, chest heaving, eyes on the ceiling.
His.
And nothing would ever change that.