Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 677(@200wpm)___ 541(@250wpm)___ 451(@300wpm)
He’s big. I just know it. Can tell by his cocky demeanor, by his casual, confident swagger and arrogant smirk.
There’s an ache inside me that can only be quenched by the deep, brutal way he’d fill me up, and I imagine now that it’s his cock stretching me out wide as opposed to his fingers, picturing him gripping tightly to my hips as he makes sure that I take every. single. inch.
My spare hand grips tightly around the bedsheets as my fingers slide out of my dripping pussy and slide back up to my clit once more, moving over it at a relentless pace.
I imagine him pounding into me, fucking me hard and filling me to the hilt as I run tight, hot circles over my pulsating bundle; and as blinding heat floods through my body from head to toe when I pinch my clit between my forefinger and middle finger, one word escapes my lips in a desperate pant.
“Matteo.”
My eyes practically fly open wide and an uncontrollable shriek falls from my mouth as I finally cum, hard.
A slow, shuddering breath leaves my lips as warmth licks through my entire body, pleasure rolling over me in waves.
My chest rises and falls rapidly, my skin flushed and my pulse thrumming beneath the surface.
It takes a good thirty seconds before the ringing in my ears begins to fade and I become aware of my own heavy breathing filling the quiet of my bedroom.
Another minute passes as I stare up at the ceiling. My body sinks into the mattress, still tingling with the remnants of release.
My limbs feel loose, my mind momentarily hazy; but then clarity slams into me all at once.
Fuck.
What the hell am I doing?!
Heat floods my cheeks, mortification creeping in fast.
I squeeze my eyes shut, rolling onto my side and yanking the blankets up over me as if I can somehow hide from myself.
As if I can erase the last ten minutes and pretend that I wasn’t just lying here, touching myself, thinking about the one man I know I shouldn’t be thinking about - especially not like that.
And yet even as exhaustion tugs at me, even as sleep starts to creep in at the edges of my consciousness, one infuriating thought refuses to let me go.
I don’t even like Matteo Rossi.
So why the hell can’t I stop thinking about him?
Chapter Eighteen
Daphne
By the time I make it to the office the next morning, I’m running on nothing but caffeine and sheer determination.
Sleep had been a distant, stubborn thing, slipping through my fingers every time I came close to grabbing hold of it. I’d spent the night tangled in my sheets, my thoughts spinning endlessly between the events of the press conference, Mark’s fury, and - most annoyingly - Matteo Rossi.
That might be the most frustrating part. How he lingers in my head despite every reason I have to push him out.
The sound of his voice, smooth and confident, laced with teasing arrogance.
The sharp focus in his eyes when he’d stepped closer, like he actually saw me.
I shake those thoughts away, forcing my focus back to the present as I step into The Tribune's headquarters. The Roman office is already in full swing, filled with the familiar hum of ringing phones and clacking keyboards, the low murmur of conversations blending together into white noise.
My stomach tightens as my gaze sweeps over the bullpen, half-expecting to find Mark waiting for me, ready to deliver another condescending critique of my performance last night.
But he’s not.
Instead, he’s in his office, the door propped open just enough for me to be able to see him. He’s leaning back in his chair, phone in hand, scrolling with an expression of complete ease - a complete contrast to the man who exploded and tore me apart in the stadium’s corridor last night.
The tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease. If anything, it coils tighter.
I hesitate for a moment, thrown off by his complete lack of reaction to my presence.
Then, squaring my shoulders, I make my way over.
"Good morning," I say cautiously, lingering in the doorway and waiting for the tension to snap.
"Sinclair,” Mark says in greeting as he glances up from his phone. “I’m surprised you’re still here. Figured I might have scared you off last night."
I blink.
"What?"
He chuckles, shaking his head.
"Oh, relax, would you? You know I was just messing around."
Messing around - is that what we’re calling it now?
His words from last night are still fresh in my mind, but now he’s acting like it never even happened. Like it was all some harmless joke.
"Right,” I say, hating myself for the way I force a fake smile. “Of course."
I feel impossibly more uncomfortable now. I hadn’t expected this reaction, so I don’t quite know what to do with myself.
Mark seems to sense it, and I watch as he lets out a long breath before leaning back in his chair, tossing his phone carelessly onto his desk.