Made for Him: A Mafia Baby Romance (2 page)

S
ilence roars through the office
. I can feel it crashing against my ears and threatening to swallow me up, but I don’t pull my eyes away from his. I meet his blue gaze with as much strength as I can muster.

His face and voice betray nothing when he speaks. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.” And now I pull the test out of my purse and wave it around like a tiny plastic wand. “I took three of these this morning.”

He straightens up, smoothing his tie once more. There’s something I can’t read in his eyes, but it’s something turbulent. It must be anger, although it looks like it could be something more complicated than that.

Whatever. He has no right to be angry with me—yes, I was a dumbass for having unprotected sex with a stranger, but at least I had the excuse of three martinis and a need for passive-aggressive revenge against my ex. What excuse did Matteo have? None—he was sober, and everyone makes reckless decisions, but five times in a row?

I stand, squaring my shoulders. “I’m not any happier about this than you are, but that doesn’t change the fact that we have things to discuss.”

He steps closer to me, his eyes narrowed and his hand raised. For one terrible moment, I think he might grab me and shake me, but instead he impatiently brushes away a loose curl caught in my long pearl drop earring.

“What makes you think that I’m unhappy?” he asks, his voice suddenly cool and completely devoid of the lust he had just exhibited.

“Well, I—”

He does grab my elbow now, but gently, and steers me toward his desk. For a minute I think he’s going to make me sit in front of his desk, and I bristle, but then he guides me around to his side, where he has me lean back against the edge of the desk. He sits in the chair in front of me, his eyes now level with my lower stomach.

“Show me,” he says, and for a moment I think he means the test, and I twist back around to point at the table.

“No,” he says gruffly. “Show me where my baby is.”

His sudden coolness has vanished and lust flares in his eyes.

“You—you can’t really see anything yet…”

As if the ten seconds of delay is too much, he reaches up and deftly unbuttons my blouse himself, slides his hand over my ass to find the skirt zipper at the small of my back. Before I know it, my blouse is gaping open and my skirt is tugged down to my hips, revealing my black thong. I’m embarrassed—it’s not a sexy thong, just the seamless kind I wear to work—but he impatiently shoves my hands away and presses a palm flat against my belly.

For a minute, everything seems to stop as he meets my eyes. His gaze is intense, too intense, and all of a sudden, I feel so very aware of how powerful he is. That strong hand, this opulent office…he could crush me like a bug, both physically and financially.

“My baby’s inside of you,” he says, his other hand running up my leg and gripping my thigh. “My baby.”

“Of course, as soon as we can, I can arrange for a paternity test…”

“That won’t be necessary,” he murmurs, his palm sliding down lower so that the heel of his hand moves over the sleek fabric of my thong. The pressure so close to my clit sends my already confused body into extreme overdrive.

And then what he said really hits me…he’s not asking for a paternity test? Like at all? And more than that, is he actually not angry that I’m pregnant? I was so prepared to have to fight with him, to argue him into having a discussion that this…whatever this is that he’s doing…is a complete surprise. My chest flushes more with that warm glow, that happy feeling, because I want Matteo to want me. If I’m honest with myself, I want him to want this baby too, but I’m trying to be reasonable. He may not want a relationship with the baby at all. Maybe he’s one of those guys that’s really into pregnant women or something. Or maybe he just wants to butter me up so he can fuck me one last time before he sends me out the door.

“Look,” I say, trying to gather my blouse back together. “We have to talk about serious things. I need to know, first of all, if you’re clean.”

His eyebrows rise practically into his hairline. “Are you asking if I have any STDs, princess?”

“I realize I should have asked that night, but I was so, ah,
enamored
, that I didn’t even think to ask.”

“Enamored, eh?” The slightest hint of dimple appears in his cheek, and it occurs to me that I’ve never seen him smile before, not even the night the baby was conceived. There’d been no giggly pillow talk or sweet nothings, just more orgasms, more gasps and pants.

“Matteo, please,” I beg. “This is important. It could affect the baby.”

The dimple disappears. “I’m clean. I was just tested last month. What about yourself?”

“I was tested the day we had sex,” I reply. “I just got the results in last week.”

I don’t mention that the reason I got tested was to make sure that douchebag Nate hadn’t passed on any nasty surprises from his Barista Vagina Tour of 2016.

Matteo reaches up and pulls my hands off my blouse. Once my bra is revealed, he quickly unclasps the front, letting my breasts spill out. They are so sore,
so fucking sore
, and feel so ripe and full, that I can’t help but moan when they fall free from the cups of the bra.

A muscle ticks near Matteo’s jaw and I don’t miss the way he subtly readjusts his erection.

“Do they hurt?” he asks.

I nod, my head dropping back as he leans forward and sucks one berry-red nipple into his mouth.

“Oh, fuck,” I mumble, forgetting what else I had to say. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.”

“Keep talking, princess. You have any other serious things you want to say?”

It’s so hard to think with that wicked mouth, that hot tongue and gently nipping teeth on my painfully sensitive nipples. I’m so grateful he can’t see how wet I am, see how even the insides of my thighs are wet now. “I…um…I came here as a courtesy…” I try to remember what I rehearsed saying the way here. “A courtesy to hear what you have to say.”

“What I have to say about what?” he murmurs against my breast.

“About keeping the baby.”

He stiffens. “Are you thinking about not keeping it?” he asks. His voice and face are entirely neutral, but even after only this half hour with him, I’m beginning to learn the danger behind that inscrutable neutrality.

With his lips off my breast, I’m able to think more clearly, and as crazy as it feels to tell him what I need to say with my breasts exposed and my nipple still wet from his mouth, I need to get through to him. “Matteo, we don’t even know each other. You might be married for all I know or already have children.”

He presses his lips together, and then he’s on his feet, his wide hands on my waist. He turns me so that I’m facing his desk, and then with a firm hand in between my shoulder blades, he pushes me down so that my bare breasts are flattened against the chilly mahogany of his desktop.

“I’m not married,” he says, leaning down on top of me so I can feel the rumble of his chest against my back. “I don’t have any other kids. All better now?”

I gasp when I feel my skirt being tugged down past my ass. The skirt is so tight that I can’t spread my legs, and they’re pinned helplessly together as the skirt inches its way down. “No, not all better,” I manage, watching as his massive, tanned hand pulls a pair of scissors out of a drawer. “There’s so much more. We don’t know each other and I don’t know that I’m ready to raise a child on my own…but—”

Cold metal trails down my spine, all the way down to my ass. I hear the heavy scissors
snip snip
at my thong, and then Matteo tosses the scissors and ruined scrap of fabric on his desk.

“Your thong was wet, princess. Does that mean your pussy is wet?”

I can’t do anything but moan as his fingers dance teasingly around my ass, trailing lightly over my wet cunt.

He leans down again. “I can smell you. It makes me want to know how you taste. Now, what was this
but
? You can’t raise a child on your own, but…?”

“But my family’s Catholic,” I answer weakly, his words still swirling in my head. “And I…I know it doesn’t make any sense logically. But I don’t want to do that. I think I want to keep the pregnancy, even if I give the baby up for adoption.”

“You want to know a secret?” he asks. A single finger finds my cleft and slides easily inside of me. “I’m Catholic too. And you better tell me now if you want me to stop right now, princess.”

I shake my head as best I can while bent over the desk. “Don’t stop,” I beg shakily. I’m beginning to remember exactly why I hadn’t had my wits about me that night; something about Matteo short-circuits my brain and brings out the needy, mindless woman in me, the woman who just needs to be fucked hard and often.

“Whatever you want to do, gorgeous, I will help,” he says, that finger curling inside of me to press against my g-spot. I instinctively try to widen my legs but my pencil skirt is as effective as a strait-jacket and my thighs remain pressed together. “But you got one thing wrong. If you keep this baby, and you won’t be raising it alone. I’m going to be there.”

I should really stop being shocked by Matteo at this point, but it’s impossible. I twist my head up to look at him. “Are you saying that you would want this baby too? But that’s insane! We don’t even know each other.”

A strong hand kneads one of my ass cheeks while the other continues caressing my g-spot. “Here’s what I know, sweetheart. I’m thirty-four and a multi-millionaire and more than able to support a child and its mother with as much luxury as you could ever want. But more than that—” he leans down and his hand leaves my cunt, making me groan with disappointment until I realize I can hear the clank of his belt being unbuckled “—I want you. I’m obsessed with you. Do you know the last time I thought about a woman like this,
wanted
a woman like this? Not since I was a kid in high school. But I’m a man now, and while that baby is mine, I’m just as interested in making
you
mine.”

“Yours?” I say, half excited and half terrified. How can I even be thinking about sex and romance at a time like this? But his words are lighting twin fires in my heart and my belly, connecting the two. I can’t untwist my lust from whatever emotions he evokes in me, and as I hear the silken rustle of his boxers as his hand pulls out his cock, I decide that I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Have you ever had a man make you his, Jessica?” he asks darkly. “Have you ever had a man claim you? Own you?”

“N-no,” I stammer. “No one’s ever wanted to make me his.”

“You’re wrong,” Matteo tells me. “There’ve been men who’ve wanted to. But you didn’t let them, did you, Jessica? Not like you’re going to let me right now.”

And then the hot tip of his cock brushes against my folds.

“Answer me,” he demands.

“
N
o
, I never let them,” I answer, still stammering, my cunt so wet and tight I can barely think straight.

“But you want me to make you mine now, don’t you? You want me to own you?”

His cock is notched at my entrance, already stretching me, and fuck, this is going to hurt—and I’m going to come so hard.

“Yes,” I admit, trembling beneath him. “I want you to claim me.”

With a satisfied grunt, he pushes into me.

I cry out against the desk, the sound echoing throughout the office.
Fuck
, he’s big—bigger than I remembered, so fucking thick that I can feel myself stretching to take him, despite how wet I am.

He groans and I can feel him shuddering behind me. “So tight like this,” he mutters to himself. “So fucking tight.”

There’s no widening my legs with the skirt pinning them together and no adjusting the angle of my hips after his hand comes back down between my shoulder blades to keep me bent over the desk. I’m helpless, immobile, and that just makes it better. I know it shouldn’t…but it does.

“You like that, princess?” Matteo hisses in my ear as he pulls out to the tip and then pushes back in again. The flared edge of his crown drags across every nerve ending I have, and I moan in response.

“I need more than that,” he growls. “Say, ‘I like it, Matteo.’”

Matteo. That’s the name you say when you come.

Memories of that night blend with the present moment, and there’s no doubt in my mind or voice when I speak. “I like it, Matteo.”

“Good,” he says, satisfied. “Good girl. Giving me this pussy again. Keeping this pussy just for me.”

Oh my God.
I tremble at his words. Terrible words. Words that imply ownership, entitlement. Regular Jess knows he’s not entitled to shit, but cavewoman Jess—well, she likes those words. They make her wet, make her squirm against him, desperately trying get his dick deeper inside her. Cavewoman Jess is ready to give him all the pussy he wants.

And then his hand disappears from my back, and both my wrists, already resting on the desk, are seized. He wraps his long fingers around them and moves them out past my head, so that his whole body is stretched and pressed against mine. His suit jacket and tie whisper against my blouse, his zipper rubs against my ass, and I feel his breath near my ear.

“You’re going to have my baby,” he says in a low voice. “Do you have any idea how fucking hot that is? How fucking hard that makes me?”

“I
do
have some idea,” I murmur back. “Given that you’re fucking me right now instead of running for the hills, like most men would be.”

That earns me a low chuckle, which I feel rumbling along my back. “I’m not most men. I want you now more than ever. Trust me, even before you told me about the baby, I wanted you a fucking lot. Now, I’m going to make you come, and what name are you going to scream when that happens?”

I can feel every centimeter of flesh—every atom—stroked by that glorious cock. That glorious cock that gave me the best night of my life, consequences be damned. That glorious cock that’s so big, so invasive, that I can’t feel or think about anything else.

“What name, sweetheart,” Matteo repeats. “What name will you scream?”

“Matteo!” I gasp, because just then his hand leaves my wrist and digs in between my thighs from the front. A wide calloused thumb finds my clit, and I shudder underneath him. It won’t be long now, not with that expert thumb and that giant cock and that dirty mouth.

“That’s right,” he says, thrusting hard into me now. “That’s right.
Fuck
, this pussy is good.” A groan that I feel reverberate through my very soul. “So fucking good.”

It comes so suddenly that I barely have time to realize it. Matteo’s thumb ignites the first wave, radiating out from my clit, instantaneously followed by fierce waves from where his cock hits the deepest and hardest. I cry out, stiffening underneath him, and the crashing waves wipe my mind of everything—fear for the future, anxiety, and loneliness. For one singular, beautiful moment, life is just pure, incandescent pleasure crystallized into one word.

Matteo.

“Matteo,” I breathe, and that does him in. Within seconds, he goes rigid and groans, his cock swelling inside me, and then he’s fucking me harder and faster than ever, riding out his orgasm with viciously deep strokes, jetting hot bursts of cum inside me.

“Shit,” he hisses. “Holy fucking shit, Jessica.”

It’s long and good for him, judging by his breathing, his erratic thrusts, and it takes nearly a minute for him to slowly still, slowly remove his hand from my wrist.

He stays inside me though, as if he’s reluctant to pull out, and if I have to admit it to myself, I’m reluctant for him to pull out too. There’s something so perfect about this moment—the pristine office, his weight heavy and sated on top of my body, me all filled up and sweaty and wet. There’s a clarity I’ve never felt before after sex, not with Nate or my two college boyfriends.

Well, scratch that. I have felt it once before. The night this baby was conceived.

With a reluctant noise, Matteo raises himself and slowly pulls out. He groans behind me as he straightens, and I can feel the reason for his groan—with his dick gone, his semen is slowly dripping out of me.

A finger prods me, swirls around the mess in my pussy, and I expect more dirty words, more delicious groans. But instead there’s the press of a cool, soft cloth. A silk handkerchief. I raise my head and look over my shoulder, watching him slowly and—dare I say it?—lovingly clean me.

Then he’s helping me rearrange my skirt and fix my bra and blouse, quickly zipping up himself somewhere in the process. I’m flushed and perspiring and, despite his best intentions with the handkerchief, sticky, but he seems just as in control as he was before, those blue eyes neutral and detached once more.

For a moment, my heart sinks. This is just like the last time—all sex but no emotion, a bright flare of passion followed by an empty bed in the morning.

He’ll
tell me that we’re done now
, I realize glumly.
He’s had his fun and now he’s going to tell me he doesn’t want anything to do with me or the baby
.

But Matteo surprises me. “When can I see you again?” he asks. Though his face is a mask, his voice betrays a deep need. “Tonight. Say I can see you tonight.”

Yes
is on the tip of my tongue, but then I remember. “I have volunteer work tonight. I can’t skip it.” I hate myself, and for a brief second I hate the soup kitchen, because my post-climax body wants nothing more than to spend every waking second with him. But what kind of woman ditches helping the needy to get laid?

No, I can’t do that.

Even with as appealing as it sounds.

He looks impatient. “Tomorrow night then?”

I wince. “Cocktail party for a new partner. I can’t miss it.”

This irritates him. “Then I want you Friday night.”

“Okay,” I breathe. “I’m free then.”

“And Saturday night?” he asks, wrapping an iron arm around my waist and yanking me close.

I giggle at the sudden movement, feeling…well, feeling
girlish
. A hint of his dimple appears again, and a sudden pang grips at my heart.

No!
I tell myself.
Be strong! Just because you’re pregnant with his baby doesn’t mean you have to be stupid!

“I don’t know about Saturday,” I lie. I do know—I’m free. But I’m also scared of letting him too close. “You know, Matteo, just because of this…situation…” I glance down at where my stomach is pressed against his. “It doesn’t mean that we have to date. If you still want to be part of this baby’s life, then adoption or not, we can try to find a way to make that work without us having a relationship.”

His thick brows draw together and the full intensity of those bright blue eyes zeroes in on me. “After all that happened in this office just now, are you really interpreting that to have come out of obligation? I said I want you, that I want you to be mine. Yes, I meant your body, but I also meant
you
, Jessica Simmons.” He pulls me even tighter against him, his other hand caressing my hair.

“We barely know each other,” I insist, swallowing.

“So?” He sounds so nonchalant, as if knowing each other has nothing to do with it.

Frustrated, I brace my hands against his chest and push myself away. “We can’t date just because I’m pregnant!” I say.

“Princess, even if you weren’t pregnant, I would be begging to see you,” he tells me matter-of-factly. “You’ve got the kind of pussy a man can’t forget.”

“A man like you can get pussy anywhere,” I say—a little petulantly—and cross my arms.

This seems to amuse him. “If you’re the one afraid of attachment, why so jealous, sweetheart?” When I don’t answer, he steps forward and slides his hands over my hips. “And to answer your adorably jealous assertion, yes, a man like me can get pussy anywhere.”

I stiffen and try to pull away, but he doesn’t let me.

“But do you really think,” he continues, holding tight to me, “that I can find a fantastic fuck that’s also a woman as smart and spirited and ambitious as you are?”

I scoff. “You don’t know me. You don’t know if I’m any of those things.”

The look on his face sends a real chill down my spine, a true pang of fear. “You’d be surprised how much I know about you,” he says quietly, a little ominously. Warning bells light off in my brain, but then that dimple appears and my powers of reasoning are shot. It’s criminal for a man to be this handsome.

“Give me this weekend,” he murmurs, still smiling. “Stay at my house.”

“It’s too soon,” I protest—but faintly. The better, feminist angel on my shoulder is also preoccupied with that dimple.

“Why?”

And I don’t have a great answer to that. To be honest, I’ve done the modern dating thing—three times, in fact. I’ve dated men who weren’t interested in commitment and I’ve pretended not to be interested either—until Nate at least, where I really thought there would be a ring coming in my near future. Instead all I got was a blurry text from a mutual friend showing him balls-deep in a coffee-jockey.

I’ve done the thing where I’ve been an empowered woman and tried not to care about monogamy or dedication or romance. I’ve paid for restaurant bills and bar tabs, gone dateless to weddings because my boyfriend at the time wasn’t interested, tried to strike the balance between too needy and too cold and always, somehow, failed.

And for the first time in my life, I have a man wanting me, wanting to spend time with me in the kind of possessive, passionate way I thought was only possible in romance novels. I have a man taking charge, insisting on spending time together, insisting on
claiming
me. Am I really prepared to shut that down? After five years of intense disappointment and boredom?

Forget the pregnancy,
feminist angel says to cavewoman angel in a silent, mental conference.
What does Jessica really want?

I want Matteo. I want whatever intense brand of ownership he wants to lay on me.

“I’ll do it,” I say abruptly. “I’ll spend the weekend with you.”

He grins, the first full and real smile I’ve ever seen on his face, and it’s devastatingly perfect. “Trust me. You won’t regret a thing.”