Made for Him: A Mafia Baby Romance (4 page)

A
fter another round of rough
, earth-shattering sex, I crash into a deep sleep and don’t wake up until late that night, mussed and groggy. My eyes seem to take forever to open, as if my body wants me to sleep for another seventeen hours before I force it out of bed, but when I finally manage to wake up all the way, I notice the moonlight pouring in through the windows and Matteo’s tall frame blocking the doorway. There’s someone in front of him, another man, I think, but in the dark it’s difficult to tell.

Matteo speaks in a low voice, the kind of low voice that tries to be calm, but I can detect a palpable undercurrent of irritation. I can’t catch everything he’s saying, but I hear fragments.

“…
That’s three of my men he’s killed this month alone…”

“…Unacceptable failure, and the ATF won’t leave us alone now…”

“…Won’t use leverage until I already have the upper hand…”

I bite down on my lip. This is not financial advisor talk. This is something much more complicated and much more dangerous. I may be young and my entire world might be legal paper-pushing and self-congratulatory dinners and fundraisers, but I’m not an idiot.

Guns downstairs.

Employees being killed.

The ATF Bureau.

Matteo Moretti is into something bad. Illegal bad.
Multiple felonies
bad. In fact, as I think about it, it wouldn’t be so shocking if Moretti Investments is a front for whatever his real business is. It would certainly explain the empty office, the reason I’d never heard of his firm.

I sit up, discomfort twisting inside of me, because I can’t be with a man tangled up with crime. But as I sit up, the sheets pull past my tender breasts and I remember.

This isn’t any man. This is the father of my baby.

Shit.

My movement grabs Matteo’s attention. He says something to the man in the doorway, and then he closes the door and strolls over to me. Even in the dark, those blue eyes tell me what he’s thinking.

He knows I heard him, and fear zings up my spine. If he is really a criminal, maybe he wouldn’t hesitate to hurt me in order to protect his activities. Oh God, what if he does try to hurt me? How could I fight him off in a house full of his armed friends?

Adrenaline matches the fear, making my pulse thrum.

He stops at the side of the bed and runs a fingertip up my arm to my neck. Goosebumps pop up everywhere, and I try to keep my breathing steady and under control.

“Matteo…” I start.

“I’ll make a deal with you, princess. I’ll tell you everything you want to know—tomorrow. You can ask me any question you like. But tonight, I have other plans for your mouth.”

Despite everything—the guns and the danger and all the questions I want to ask—my body responds to the gravelled tone of his voice and the dark glint of his eyes, sending blood and heat down to my pussy. “What plans for my mouth?” I ask, hesitant and excited all at once.

No, Jess!
a part of my mind protests.
Get some answers now! You deserve them if he’s wants to be part of your baby’s life!

But then his hand comes around the back of my neck, fisting the hair at my nape, while his other hand unbuckles and unzips his pants. It’s ridiculous that my mouth starts watering—I’ve never been opposed to blowjobs, but I wouldn’t say I’ve ever been excited about one—but something about Matteo makes me hungry for his cock. I want to kiss it and suck on it, I want to lick it and pull on it, I want to see his face and hear his groans as I bring him to his powerful knees.

“You can say no, sweetheart,” Matteo says as he pulls his rigid length out of his pants. “I don’t want you to, but you can, and I won’t be mad.”

I can’t tear my eyes away from his erection. He’s beautifully made, the smooth column of his cock wide and ridged with thick veins. The head is dark and swollen, capped with a flared helmet that makes me ache to trace it with my tongue.

“I want this,” I whisper. “Let me taste you.”

A low rumble in his chest tells me that he’s pleased by my answer, and then he feeds me his dick, inch by hot inch, the rumble growing louder as I flatten my tongue against the underside of his shaft. He tastes amazing—clean skin with a hint of salt—and I close my lips around him to suck, hollowing my cheeks and rubbing my tongue against his crown.

His fist hits the headboard by my head. “
Fuck
, Jessica. Fuck, that feels good.”

I can’t respond with my mouth full of his cock, but I look up at him through my lashes and redouble my efforts, adding my hand at his base to stroke him in quick, tight strokes. I’m rewarded with a growl, and then he’s pulling out of my mouth and climbing onto the bed, straddling me and pushing me back into the pillows.

The moment my head is nestled in the cloud of soft, feathery pillows, he’s forcing his dick into my mouth again, the zipper of his pants rubbing against my chin. I hear the quiet clank of the unfastened belt buckle every time it swings past his thigh, the soft squeak of his dress shoes against the comforter as he moves his hips.

It’s raw and rough, and with him on his knees pumping his cock in and out, it’s like he’s literally fucking my mouth, and the look on his face is pure, uncut heaven. His full mouth tightens, those bright eyes squeeze shut, those dark eyebrows slant low. I’ve never seen anything like it, such a physically powerful man so utterly and unequivocally consumed by his own pleasure.

It’s the hottest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

I squirm underneath him, trying to find a way to move my hand to my cunt and quickly rub myself off before this amazing show comes to an end, but he catches my hand and stops me, eyes still closed.

I make a moan of complaint around him, and he groans like a man possessed as the vibration goes straight to his cock. He squeezes my wrist tight, opens his eyes and stares down at me.

“I own your orgasms,” he rasps. “I say when and how. Do you understand?”

Eyes wide, I nod. Even though it’s preposterous and possessive and maybe demeaning, I nod. Because in that moment—and in every moment since I’ve met him—I want him to own every part of me.

He grunts in satisfaction at my agreement. “I knew you’d say yes. It’s like you were made for me.”

And his eyes glitter in the darkness and his thumb traces the stretched curves of my lips around his cock, and then he swells and hardens.

One thrust, two thrusts, and then he’s shooting hot and thick down my throat, force-feeding me every single ounce of himself, that thumb still moving around my lips as he pulses out his orgasm.

It takes several seconds for the pulsing to finally subside, and when he’s finished, he makes me lick him clean before he tucks himself away and zips up his pants. I’m so turned on that I’m fucking miserable, my cunt pounding and aching for any kind of release, but I resign myself to Matteo leaving now or maybe just crawling into bed and going to sleep.

He does neither.

Instead, he wraps his arms around my thighs and turns my body, yanking me so that my ass is at the edge of the bed. Then he drops to his knees, slings one of my thighs over his shoulder, and—without a word—seals his mouth over my clit.

Within seconds, I’m rocketing towards climax, but he doesn’t stop at my first orgasm. He keeps licking and nibbling and sucking, and by the time he’s coaxed my third orgasm of the night out of my body, I’m wrung out and limp on the bed, unable to move.

With a grin that looks almost boyishly satisfied, he pops to his feet and leans down to kiss me, my taste still strong on his tongue.

“That was nice,” I mumble against his mouth, sleepiness suddenly slamming into me.

“It was,” he answers huskily. “You taste like heaven. You know that after tasting that once, I’m going to have to taste you all the time now, right?”

“That doesn’t sound too terrible,” I say, yawning.

He laughs, planting one final kiss before he helps me move back to my original place on the bed. “Not too terrible for me either. Get some sleep, princess. I’ll be here in the morning.”

Unlike the first night we were together
, I think drowsily, but any bitterness I might have felt about that has lifted somewhat, in the face of the sexy, muscled tornado that is Matteo Moretti.

* * *

F
or the last week
, I’ve opened my eyes before six o’clock, stared at the wall for a few seconds, then crept to my bathroom like a hungover teenager. This morning at Matteo’s is no different, except I try to creep more quietly than normal, not wanting to wake the sprawled hulk of man next to me. I want Matteo to like me, I want him to find me sexy, and there’s no arguing that vomiting is
not
sexy at all, under any circumstance.

Faint dawn light glows pink and blue from the windows as I make my way through the large, echoing bathroom to the water closet at the end. If I weren’t so sick, I would admire how beautiful the gray marble and silver looked in the pastel light. Like everything in his life, Matteo’s bathroom oozes luxury and expensive taste…but also restraint. Which makes sense for a man who grew up with nothing, vowing to do whatever it took to get the family home back.

I click the water closet door closed gently, and just in time too, because my stomach decides that it hates even the small glass of water I drank last night and roils unpleasantly. I get to my knees, and within seconds I’m draped over the seat of the toilet, heaving up all the contents of my stomach.

There’s a brief lull between waves of nausea, and I have a moment where it really sinks in.

This is real life.

I’m pregnant.

Really, actually pregnant.

I mean, of course I’m pregnant, I’ve known it for a few days, and suspected it for a few more on top of that, but I’ve been busy enough between work and Matteo to push it out of my mind, to keep it as an abstract concept only. Something that was far off and distant and not really happening to me right
now
.

But it is happening right
now
. There’s a baby growing in me, and there’s nothing abstract about it. Nothing far off about my nausea, nothing distant about my exhaustion or tender breasts or having to pee all the time.

Suddenly, the tears that gathered in my eyes from the effort of dry-heaving turn into a different kind of tears, the kind that fall fast and hard. What the hell happened to my life? One careless night and my freedom and future went up in smoke. While a part of me is exhilarated at the idea of a baby—at the idea of Matteo’s baby—another part of me is terrified and bitter.

This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen.

I always imagined that I’d be older, with a house in the suburbs and that law degree I keep telling myself I’m going to get. I imagined that I’d be more put together emotionally, in better shape, and certainly, definitely
married
.

I’m none of those things. I’m twenty-three, able to pay my own bills but not much more, and I’m fucking a criminal I barely know. My life is a officially a pregnancy-themed shitshow, and I have no one to blame but myself.

Why the fuck didn’t I make Matteo wear a condom that night? Sick revenge against Nate? A desire to be reckless? Total frontal lobe shutdown in the face of Matteo’s animal sexuality?

I start crying even harder now, my stomach and chest hitching with each and every sob. Everything is fucked.
Everything.

With my head over the toilet and with my loud sobs, I don’t hear the door open, but out of the corner of my eye, I see a flash of tan skin. I look up to see Matteo wearing only a tight pair of black boxer briefs. He settles on the floor behind me, his long muscular legs stretching out on either side of my body.

“Don’t cry, princess,” he murmurs, his voice rough from sleep. “I’m here.” He sends a warm hand running up my back, and it’s such a comforting contrast to the cold air of the bathroom.

“It’s just morning sickness,” I lie, swiping at my tears and hoping I don’t smell too much like vomit. “You don’t have to stay in here.”

“You’re sick because you’re carrying my child,” he responds. “I’m staying with you. And besides, that’s not all that’s wrong, is it?”

It’s hard to keep lying, especially when my whole body is vibrating with unhappiness. I shake my head and turn back to the toilet, trying to hide my face. Another wave of nausea roils through me, and I start heaving again, for a moment too miserable to remember how embarrassed I should be to throw up in front of a near-stranger.

An incredibly sexy and dangerous near-stranger.

I hear movement behind me, and then Matteo is brushing my hair away from my face, smoothing it back and holding it in his fist. His other hand rubs my back through my thin cotton camisole, so warm and strong. He’s silent as I continue throwing up, but when the nausea finally subsides and I straighten up, tears leaking down my face, he hands me a wet washcloth.

“Thank you,” I sniffle, wiping my mouth and face. “How did you…?”

“I brought a few things in,” he says, taking the washcloth and handing me a cold can of ginger ale. I crack it open and take a sip, the sweet ginger flavor so soothing after having tasted only bile for the last hour. “I also brought something called a
Preggy Pop
.” He sounds doubtful. “The baby book said those might help.”