Chapter 1: Pasta and Promises Broken
The clink of crystal was a lie. The murmur of polished conversation was wallpaper. The only sound that mattered was the rasp of Matteo’s thumb against the inside of her knee, a secret broadcast on a frequency only her skin could hear.
Tris focused on spearing a rogue piece of arugula, her knuckles white around the fork. Across the table, her mother, Evelyn, laughed at something Matteo’s father, Robert, said, her face soft in the candlelight. It was all so civilized. So fucking normal.
“Pass the salt, Tris?” Matteo’s voice was a smooth, dark ripple in the room’s hum.
She flinched, reaching for the shaker. Their fingers brushed. A spark, hot and stupid, jumped up her arm. He took it, his green eyes holding hers for a beat too long before turning to his father. “So, Dad, the merger is finalized then?”
As he spoke, his left hand, which had been resting idly on his own thigh, disappeared beneath the heavy white linen. Tris froze. The wine, a velvety Pinot Noir, turned to acid in her mouth.
His fingertips were a brand, tracing a slow, deliberate path up the sensitive skin of her inner thigh. The silky fabric of her short black dress was no barrier; it was a conspirator, sliding easily under his palm as he pushed it higher. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. The conversation swirled around her—talk of mergers, of the remodel, of the vacation house in Napa.
His fingers reached the lace edge of her panties. He paused, his palm a furnace against her. She pressed her thighs together, a futile, instinctive clamp. He simply increased the pressure, his hand insistently parting her, until the heel of his palm settled right against her center.
A quiet, choked sound escaped her. Evelyn glanced over. “You okay, honey? Is the wine too much?”
“It’s fine,” Tris croaked, forcing a smile. “Just… went down the wrong pipe.”
Under the table, Matteo’s index finger slid beneath the lace, finding her bare flesh. She was slick, embarrassingly, unmistakably wet. He drew a slow, circling pattern that made her vision blur. Her fork clattered softly against her plate.
He leaned in, ostensibly to refill her wine glass. His lips grazed the shell of her ear, his breath a hot, private gust. “Fuck, Tris,” he whispered, his voice a low growl that vibrated straight through her. “You’re already dripping for me. Is this all because of my hand? Or were you thinking about it all day?”
She couldn’t answer. His finger pushed inside her, just the tip, a shocking, intimate invasion. Her back arched slightly, her hips tilting of their own volition, seeking more. The obscenity of it—his father talking about golf, his finger working slowly inside her—unraveled her completely.
“You clench so tight,” he murmured against her ear, a cruel, pleased observation. He added a second finger, stretching her, the burn a perfect counterpoint to the coil of pleasure tightening in her gut. “You gonna come for me right here? At the table? With Mom watching?”
“Don’t,” she whimpered, the word barely audible.
“Don’t what?” he asked aloud, pulling back to look at her with false concern. “Don’t pass the butter?” He held up the butter dish with his clean right hand, a ghost of a smirk on his lips.
“Nothing,” she breathed.
His fingers resumed their rhythm, crooking inside her, stroking a spot that made her nails dig into the tablecloth. The world narrowed to the push and pull of his hand, the rough lace scraping her skin, the unbearable need to stay silent. Pressure built, a storm gathering in her core, threatening to break. She was balanced on a razor’s edge, her body trembling with the effort of containment.
“Dessert?” Robert’s voice boomed, shattering the moment.
Matteo withdrew his hand slowly, leaving her throbbing and empty. He brought his fingers to his nose subtly, inhaling, before wiping them casually on the linen napkin in his lap. The casual filth of the gesture sent a fresh jolt through her.
“I’m actually feeling really tired,” Tris blurted, her voice unsteady. “I think I need some air.”
“Of course, sweetie,” Evelyn said, concerned. “Matteo, why don’t you walk your sister out? Get her a cab.”
“My pleasure,” he said, standing, his chair scraping back.
The night air was a cold slap. She stumbled on the pavement, her legs unsteady. He caught her elbow, his grip firm.
“I can get my own cab,” she hissed, trying to pull away.
“Like hell you can.” He steered her toward the parking garage, his stride long and purposeful. “You’re shaking. You need to finish what I started.”
“I don’t want—”
He pushed her into the backseat of his black Audi, sliding in after her and slamming the door. The interior light died, plunging them into shadow broken by the amber glow of a streetlight.
“You’re a liar,” he said, his voice flat. He grabbed her hands, pulling them to the hard ridge of his erection straining against his trousers. “And so is this. You want it. You’re fucking soaked because of it.”
Before she could protest, his mouth was on hers, hard and demanding. It wasn’t a kiss; it was a claim. His tongue forced its way past her lips, tasting of wine and dominance. He yanked the thin straps of her dress down, freeing her breasts. His mouth left hers to latch onto a nipple, sucking hard, teeth grazing the peak. She cried out, her head falling back against the leather.
“Quiet,” he ordered, his hand returning to between her legs, shoving the ruined panties aside. He plunged two fingers back inside her, his thumb finding her clit. “Come on. You were so close. Come for me now.”
It was too much. The relentlessness of his touch, the shame, the raw, illicit hunger broke her. A sharp, silent cry tore from her throat as her body convulsed, waves of pleasure pulsing around his fingers. He fucked her through it, drawing it out until she was a trembling, oversensitive mess.
Before the last tremor had faded, he was unbuckling his belt, the sound stark in the quiet car. He pushed his trousers and boxers down just enough. He wasn’t gentle. He gripped her hips, hauling her onto his lap, her back to his chest.
“Look,” he commanded, turning her face toward the rearview mirror. In the dim light, she could see their reflection—her dress bunched around her waist, her breasts exposed, his hands splayed possessively on her stomach. His eyes found hers in the glass, dark and fierce. “Watch me take you.”
He guided himself to her entrance. He was thick, and she was still trembling from her climax. He pushed in with one relentless thrust, burying himself to the hilt. A sharp, full burn made her gasp.
“Fuck,” he groaned, his head dropping to her shoulder. “So fucking tight. Gonna milk me dry, you little tease.”
He started to move, his hands gripping her hips, setting a brutal, driving pace. Each thrust jarred through her, the leather seat squeaking in a steady, obscene rhythm. He bit her shoulder, a sharp sting of pain that only amplified the overwhelming sensation of being filled.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his voice ragged. “That’s what you did. You and your fucking blushing and your tight little dress. This is yours.”
One hand slid down from her hip, his fingers finding her clit again, rubbing rough, rapid circles. A second, darker peak began to build, made more intense by the fullness of him, by the filthy reality of it all. She was being fucked in a parked car by her stepbrother, and her body was screaming for more.
“Come with me,” he demanded, his pace becoming frantic, his breath hot and harsh in her ear. “Now, Tris. Come on my cock.”
The command, the friction, the complete loss of control tipped her over. She shattered again, a raw, guttural moan escaping as she clenched around him. Her climax triggered his. With a final, deep thrust, he stilled, a low groan tearing from his throat as he emptied himself inside her, pulsing hot and deep.
For a long moment, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant city hum. He softened inside her, but didn’t pull away. His arms wrapped around her, holding her close in the dark, sticky silence.
He pressed a kiss, surprisingly soft, to the mark his teeth had left on her shoulder. “My room,” he said, his voice quiet but leaving no room for argument. “Ten minutes. Don’t make me come find you.”
He helped her off his lap, rearranged his clothes with a disturbing ease. She fumbled with her dress, her fingers clumsy. He watched her, his expression unreadable. Without another word, he got out, walked around to the driver’s side, and started the engine.
The car pulled away, leaving her standing on the curb, the smell of him and sex clinging to her skin, the weight of his command hanging in the cold air. The chapter of before was irrevocably closed. The story now was this: his touch, his order, the aching, guilty throb between her legs, and the terrifying, exhilarating certainty that she would, in fact, go to his room.