Chapter 23: Training Distraction
The air in the locker room was a physical thing, thick with the steam from the showers and the acid-sharp stink of effort. Matteo’s skin prickled, the cool-down sweat drying tacky on his neck. He reached for his water bottle, his muscles humming with the familiar, good ache of a hard practice.
His phone, face-up on the bench beside his discarded jersey, buzzed. Once. A photo notification.
He snatched it up, thumbed the screen. The liquid in his mouth turned to ash.
It was you. Standing before the full-length mirror in the penthouse. You wore a scrap of white lace—a bralette he’d bought you in Milan—that did nothing to hide the dramatic, dark peaks of your nipples, the heavier curve of your breasts. One hand held the hem of his old shirt up, revealing the pale, gentle swell of your lower belly. It was subtle. He saw it because he’d been mapping it with his tongue every night. The caption was just a single emoji: a peach.
A roaring filled his ears, drowning out Marco’s loud joke about the new physio. Possession, sharp and violent, lanced through him. This image, this secret, sacred change in your body, was on a fucking screen. It was for him. Only him.
His fingers flew over the keypad. I’m leaving practice. Be naked and bent over the bed in 20 minutes. He sent it. No emoji. No softening.
“Problem, fratello?” Marco’s voice cut through the haze. He was leaning against the adjacent locker, a towel slung low on his hips, his smirk knowing. “Woman trouble? She catching on to your brooding act?”
Matteo stood, shoving his phone into his duffel. “No trouble.”
“That looked like trouble.” Marco’s eyes, always too perceptive, dropped to Matteo’s clenched fists. “Or something better. You’ve been… distracted. Smiling at your phone like a idiot. Who is she?”
“None of your business.” Matteo’s voice was a low warning. He yanked on his jeans, not bothering with underwear, his mind already twenty minutes ahead, on the image of your bare skin against the duvet.
“Come on,” Marco pressed, stepping closer, his tone shifting from teasing to genuine curiosity. “You’ve been ghosting everyone for weeks. Is it serious? You, the great Matteo Rossi, finally caught?”
The word caught ignited something. Matteo turned, his face inches from Marco’s. “I said, it’s none of your fucking business. Drop it.”
He saw the flash of irritation in Marco’s eyes, the wounded pride of a best friend being shut out. But beneath it, a flicker of suspicion. Marco’s gaze dropped, unintentionally, to Matteo’s duffel where the phone had disappeared. He’d seen the glow of the screen, the curve of a body.
“Fine,” Marco said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Keep your secrets. Just remember, secrets in our world have a short shelf life.”
The drive home was a blur of aggressive lane changes and the hammering of his own blood. Marco’s words echoed. Short shelf life. The world was a pack of wolves with camera phones. Your belly would not stay subtle. The thought of anyone else looking at you, speculating, made his vision tunnel.
He used his key, the penthouse silent. He followed the path of discarded clothes—his shirt from this morning, the white lace bralette—leading to the bedroom. The door was ajar.
You were as instructed. Naked. Bent over the foot of the massive bed, your arms folded under your head, your ass raised in helpless invitation. The afternoon light slanted across the room, gilding the sweep of your spine, the new, tender fullness of your hips. You flinched at the sound of the door clicking shut but didn’t turn.
He stood there for a long moment, drinking in the sight. His command obeyed. His property displayed. The photo had been a provocation, and this was the surrender.
“You sent me a picture,” he said, his voice flat. He toed off his shoes, the sound loud in the quiet.
“Yes.” Your voice was muffled by the duvet.
“Who else has seen that?”
“No one. Just you.”
“It’s on a server. In a cloud. Nothing is just mine.” He unbuttoned his jeans, shoving them down. He was already painfully hard, his cock jutting angrily. He didn’t touch himself. He approached the bed, his shadow falling over you. He placed a hand on the small of your back, feeling you tremble. “You’re changing. That’s for me to see. Not for a fucking phone.”
“I wanted you to see,” you whispered. “I wanted you to want me.”
“I always want you.” His hand came down on your ass, not a spank, but a heavy, possessive claim. His palm covered the swell of one cheek entirely. “I own this. I own the cunt I’m about to fuck. I own what’s growing inside it. You don’t get to tease me with it. You give it to me when I’m here to take it.”
He nudged your legs wider with his knee. You were soaked, your slickness gleaming in the light. The scent of your arousal, musky and deep, filled the space between you. He ran the head of his cock through your folds, gathering wetness, painting it over your clit. You whimpered.
“You’re dripping,” he observed, his tone cold even as his body burned. “This what the photo did? Got you all wet and empty, thinking about me seeing you?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” He positioned himself. “Now take the consequence.”
He thrust in, not with a slow burn, but with a single, deep, complete sheathing. The groan that ripped from his chest was pure anguish and pleasure. You cried out, the stretch intense, your body struggling to accommodate his immediate, brutal fullness.
He didn’t move. He let you feel him, every inch, buried to the hilt. He leaned over you, his chest pressed to your back, his mouth at your ear. “Marco saw me look at the photo,” he breathed, his voice a venomous whisper. “He asked who she was. He was looking. He was thinking about who could make me leave practice.”
He withdrew slowly, almost completely, then slammed back in. The impact shuddered through you both.
“He doesn’t get to think about you.” Thrust. “He doesn’t get to look.” Thrust. “This swollen, perfect cunt is mine.” His pace was relentless, a punishing rhythm that brooked no argument. Each drive punched a gasp from your lungs. One hand fisted in your hair, holding your head down. The other slid around your hip, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing hard, rough circles that were as much about ownership as pleasure.
“You will not send pictures,” he growled, his rhythm fragmenting. “You will not give anyone a piece of this. You show me. In person. You get on your knees and you show me. You understand?”
“Yes, Daddy!” The title was a sob, wrenched from you by the dual assault of his fingers and his cock.
Hearing it again, here, in this context of punishment and possession, detonated his control. “Fuck! That’s right. I’m your daddy. And I’m filling up the pussy I made a mother. You feel that? You feel how deep I am?”
You were babbling, a stream of yes and please and his name. Your orgasm coiled, a tight spring in your belly, intensified by the rough claim of his words. His own climax was a tide he could no longer hold back.
“Come with me,” he demanded, his voice breaking. “Come on my cock, right now. Milk it out of me.”
The command and the brutal, precise pressure of his fingers tipped you over. Your climax crashed through you, a seizure of pleasure so intense it bordered on pain, your inner muscles clenching and fluttering around his length. The feel of you pulsing wildly around him tore a ragged shout from his throat. He plunged deep and held, his body bowing over yours as he emptied himself in hot, pumping jets, marking his territory anew inside your womb.
He collapsed partially on top of you, his weight a anchor, his breath scorching your shoulder. The room smelled of sex and sweat and him. Slowly, the violence in the air dissipated, replaced by a heavy, sated silence.
He softened and slipped out. A wet warmth followed. He rolled to the side, pulling you with him, tucking your back against his chest, his hand splayed possessively over your belly.
“It stays between us,” he murmured into your hair, his voice now thick with exhaustion and a fading edge. “For as long as we can.”
You nodded, placing your hand over his. The fear in his ferocity was now clear. The outside world was the enemy.
His phone, still in his discarded jeans on the floor, buzzed again. Once. Then again.
Matteo went still. He didn’t move to get it. He just held you tighter, his fingers pressing into your skin, as if he could physically seal you both away from the insistent sound. The screen, face-down on the wool carpet, glowed faintly with unanswered notifications.
The screen, face-down on the wool carpet, glowed faintly with unanswered notifications. The buzz was an invasive species in the quiet. You felt the tension re-enter Matteo’s body, a subtle stiffening of the arm draped over you.
“Leave it,” he muttered, his voice rough against your neck.
You lay there, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow. The fierceness of his possession still hung in the air, but beneath it, you sensed a different current—a jagged edge of fear. You traced the faint scar above his collarbone, the one from a reckless tackle two seasons ago.
“Are you okay?” you asked softly.
He let out a slow breath. “Yes. No. I don’t know.” He shifted, turning you to face him. His eyes searched yours, the intensity from minutes ago replaced by a weary conflict. “That photo… I saw it and I just… I forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“That everyone already knows you.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw. “The engagement was in every shitty tabloid. They know your face. They know you’re mine. Legally. Publicly. All of it.”
He looked genuinely baffled by his own lapse, as if the primal part of his brain had overridden a well-known fact. “But when I saw that picture, I didn’t think ‘my fiancée.’ I thought ‘mine.’ And then Marco was looking, and…” He trailed off, disgusted with himself.
“Hey,” you whispered, cupping his face. His stubble was coarse under your palm. “I know. I get it. But it was just for you. Only you.”
“I know that. In my head, I know that.” He sighed, the fight draining out of him, leaving behind a raw honesty. “It just felt like you were giving a piece of us away. This private thing. This change.” His hand slid back to your stomach, his touch reverent now. “It’s the most real thing I’ve ever been a part of, and it scares the hell out of me that it exists anywhere but in this room.”
You laced your fingers with his over the gentle swell. “That’s why I sent it. Not to tease. Not to be reckless.” You waited until his eyes lifted back to yours. “I like to send Daddy cute pictures of his pregnant fiancée. So we have them. So we remember every little change, even when you’re at practice or on a plane. It’s a diary for us. Not for the cloud.”
The word ‘Daddy’,
now spoken in this soft context, did something different to him. The last of the defensive rigidity melted. His shoulders slumped. He pulled you closer, burying his face in your hair. The scent of your shampoo and his sweat mixed.
“Christ,” he breathed, his voice muffled. “I’m sorry. I’m a caveman. A jealous, fucking idiot caveman who gets handed the world and still thinks someone’s going to steal it.”
You couldn’t help a small laugh. “My caveman. With a very possessive streak.”
He pulled back, his expression earnest, vulnerable in a way the public never saw. “I am sorry. For the… tone. The commands. You can send me whatever you want. I just… I lose my mind a little when it comes to you. To this.” His thumb stroked your belly. “Forgive me?”
“Always.” You kissed him, a slow, forgiving press of lips. “But maybe I’ll just show you the pictures in person from now on. Less provoking.”
A real smile, light and easy, finally touched his mouth. “I like that plan.” He glanced toward the buzzing phone with a dismissive grimace. “That’s probably Marco. Calling to hassle me for storming out.”
“Are you going to tell him? About the baby?”
Matteo was silent for a long moment, thinking. “Not yet. Let’s just have it be ours for a little while longer. Just Daddy and his girl.” He kissed your forehead, then your lips, softer this time. “Now, since I ruined the last one, can I see that picture again? Properly? On my terms?”
You reached for your own phone on the nightstand, pulling it up. You held it between you. He studied the image now with different eyes—with wonder, not wrath. His finger traced the screen over the curve of your belly.
“It’s beautiful,” he said, his voice full of awe. “You’re beautiful.” He locked the phone and tossed it aside, turning his full attention back to you. “Forget twenty minutes. I’m already home.”