Chapter 2: City of Desire
The elevator doors slid open directly into silence and shadow. Not the sterile silence of a hotel, but the deep, lived-in quiet of a private space. Matteo’s hand tightened on yours, pulling you across the threshold as the doors whispered shut behind you, cutting off the last echoes of the club.
The first thing that hit you was the view. The entire far wall was glass, a sweeping, unobstructed panorama of Rome at night. The city wasn’t just laid out before you; it felt like you were floating in its midst. The Tiber cut a dark, serpentine path through a galaxy of gold and white lights, and in the distance, the lit arches of the Colosseum stood like a broken crown. You stopped, a soft breath escaping your lips.
“It’s… a lot,” Matteo said from behind you, his voice close. He wasn’t looking at the view. He was watching you see it. His fingers released yours only to settle on your hips, turning you gently away from the windows.
“You don’t bring many people here,” you said. It wasn’t a question. The space, while stunning, felt stark. A single, low-slung leather sofa, a sleek Italian coffee table devoid of clutter, a state-of-the-art kitchen gleaming and unused. It was a showpiece, not a home.
“No,” he admitted, his hands sliding around to the small of your back, drawing you against him. The scent of him—clean sweat, expensive cologne, and the faint, lingering trace of the lounge’s whiskey—was suddenly all you could smell. “It’s not for them.”
His mouth found the side of your neck, exactly where his teeth had grazed you in the corridor, and a shiver ran through you. The urgency from before was still there, thrumming under his touch, but it had shifted. It was slower now, more deliberate. He walked you backward, not toward the bedroom you glimpsed down a hall, but toward the vast windows.
Your back met the cool, unyielding glass. The entire illuminated city stretched out behind you, a dizzying drop into eternity. He pressed against you, his body warm and solid, a anchor in the vertigo. You could feel the faint, city-wide pulse through the pane.
“Your PR is probably having a heart attack,” you murmured, your head tipping back as his lips trailed down your throat.
“Good,” he breathed against your skin. “She’s paid to have heart attacks so I don’t have to.”
His hands moved to the hem of your dress, gathering the material. He guided it up over your hips, your waist, then lifted it over your head in one smooth motion. He tossed it aside, a dark pool on the polished concrete floor. The night air from the perfectly climate-controlled room raised goosebumps on your exposed skin.
He stepped back, just half a pace. His eyes traveled over you, from your face, down the length of your body, silhouetted against the sprawling cityscape. The hunger in his gaze was blatant, but there was something else there, too. A focused intensity, like a craftsman studying his material.
“I want to see every light in Rome reflect off your skin when I make you come,” he said, his voice low and rough.
It wasn’t a line. It was a statement of intent. The casual arrogance of it should have been off-putting. Instead, it coiled heat low in your belly. He reached for the button of his own shirt, his movements efficient, his eyes never leaving yours. The shirt joined your dress on the floor, revealing the taut, sculpted muscle of his chest and shoulders, the faint silvery lines of old scars, the proof of a life lived at a physical extreme.
He closed the distance again. This time, skin to skin. The heat of him was a shock against the cool glass at your back. His mouth captured yours in a kiss that was all possession, his tongue sweeping in, and you met him with equal force. Your hands gripped his shoulders, feeling the play of muscle as he ground against you.
One of his hands cupped your breast, his thumb brushing over your nipple until it tightened into a stiff peak. The other hand slid down your stomach, over the flat plane, past the waistband of your underwear. He didn’t rush. He traced the line of your hip bone, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, until you were shifting against him, a silent plea.
“Tell me,” he murmured, breaking the kiss, his lips wet against yours. “Tell me you want this.”
“You know I do.”
“Say it.” His fingers dipped under the lace, not quite touching where you needed him. “I want to hear it.”
The vulnerability of the demand, the power play in it, made your breath catch. “I want you,” you said, the words ripped from somewhere deep and unguarded. “I want this.”
A low sound, almost a growl, vibrated in his chest. He hooked his fingers in the lace and pulled, the delicate fabric giving way without protest. In one fluid motion, he sank to his knees before you.
The world outside—the ancient, watchful city—disappeared. There was only the feel of his strong hands spreading your thighs, the hot rush of his breath, and then the devastating, intimate touch of his mouth on you. You cried out, your hands flying to the glass behind you for support, your head falling back. He didn’t tease. He was merciless, exacting, his tongue and lips working with a focused expertise that unraveled you completely. The lights of Rome blurred and swam in your vision, doubling, tripling, as the pleasure built, sharp and insistent.
You tried to muffle the sounds, biting your lip, but he growled against you, the vibration shooting straight to your core. “Don’t,” he commanded, pulling back for a searing second. “I want to hear it. I want them to hear it.” He didn’t specify who ‘them’ was—the silent city, the gods, the ghosts. It didn’t matter.
When he took you back into his mouth, you let go. A raw, unfiltered moan tore from your throat as the climax hit you, wave after wave of sensation turning your bones to liquid. He held you through it, his hands firm on your hips, keeping you upright as your knees buckled.
As the last tremors subsided, he rose, his own breathing uneven. He kissed you, letting you taste yourself on his lips. The intimacy of it was more shocking than anything before. Then he turned you around, gently, so you were facing the window, your palms flat against the cool glass, the city dizzyingly far below.
You heard the rustle of his belt, the soft sound of his zipper. He pressed against you from behind, his erection hard against the swell of your backside. One arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you snug against him. The other hand came up to cradle your jaw, his fingers tilting your head so you were looking at your reflection—flushed, disheveled, utterly claimed—superimposed over the panorama of the Eternal City.
“Watch,” he whispered, his accent thick in your ear, and he entered you in one slow, deep stroke.
You gasped, your fingers splaying against the window. The feeling of being so completely filled, with the infinite drop just a pane of glass away, was terrifying and exhilarating. He began to move, a relentless, driving rhythm that rocked you against the unyielding surface. Each thrust pushed a soft sound from your lips, fogging the glass in small, frantic clouds.
You watched your own face in the reflection contort with pleasure, watched his head drop to your shoulder, his eyes screwed shut. The city lights bled around the edges of your form, streaking the darkness with gold. He was a force, a storm contained in a man, and you were the center of it. You came again, a deeper, more internal shatter, and the choked cry you let out was his name.
It triggered his own release. His rhythm fractured, his body locking around yours, a sharp, guttural curse in Italian muffled against your skin. He held you there, pinned between the immutable glass and the shuddering heat of his body, until both your breaths began to slow.
For a long minute, there was only the sound of your ragged breathing and the silent, sparkling city. He gently withdrew, his hands guiding you away from the window. You turned to face him. His expression was open, stripped bare of its usual guarded confidence. He looked younger. Tired. Real.
He didn’t speak. He just took your hand again and led you toward the bedroom. The sheets were dark grey, cool and crisp. He pulled them back and guided you in, then slid in beside you, his body curving around yours in the darkness. His arm was heavy over your waist, his breath evening out against the back of your neck.
You were on the precipice of sleep, lulled by his warmth and the profound exhaustion of spent passion, when his phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand. Once. Twice. Then started ringing.
Matteo muttered a curse, his arm tightening around you for a second before he leaned over to snatch it up. The screen’s blue light illuminated the sharp planes of his face. You saw his jaw tighten.
“Marco,” he answered, his voice rough. “This better be—” He fell silent, listening. You felt the subtle stiffening of his body against yours.
“When?” he asked, the word sharp.
Another pause. He rubbed his free hand over his face. “Izzy?”
A longer silence. Then a soft, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I’m sure she is.” He glanced down at you, his eyes meeting yours in the gloom. They held a complicated mixture of resignation and defiance. “Let it run,” he said finally, his voice flat. “I don’t care.”
He ended the call and dropped the phone onto the mattress. He didn’t explain. He didn’t have to. The picture from the corridor. It was out.
He turned back to you, his face unreadable in the dark. He didn’t pull you close again. Instead, he just looked at you, as if searching for something. “They got their picture,” he repeated your words from the elevator, his tone hollow.
You reached out and touched his cheek, the stubble rough under your fingertips. “Does it matter?”
He caught your hand, holding it there, his eyes closing for a brief second. When he opened them, the defiance was back, but it was brittle. “Go to sleep,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. He drew you into his arms, his chin resting on the top of your head. He held you like you might break, or like he might. Outside, the indifferent city glittered on, holding its breath for the coming dawn.