Chapter 25: Morning After
The dawn was a pale, reluctant thing, seeping around the edges of the blackout curtains. You woke not to light, but to sensation: the hard, insistent pressure of Matteo’s cock against the back of your thigh, his broad hand already cupping your breast, his thumb circling a nipple until it peaked into a tight, aching point.
“You’re awake,” his voice was a sleep-rough scrape in the dark. It wasn’t a question.
His hand slid down, over the gentle swell of your belly, through the damp nest of curls, his fingers finding you slick and swollen even in sleep. A low, approving sound vibrated in his chest. “Dreaming of me?” he whispered, his lips against your shoulder.
Before you could form a coherent answer, his body moved. A firm pressure on your hip, a guided roll, and you were on your stomach, the cool silk of the sheets against your cheek. He kneeled behind you, his hands gripping your hips, pulling them up until you were arched, exposed. The air hit your heated skin, and you shuddered.
“Matteo…”
“Shh.” One hand smoothed down the curve of your spine, possessive, calming. The other guided himself to your entrance. The blunt, broad head of his cock pressed, nudged, and then he was pushing in, one relentless, deep stroke that filled you completely, stole the breath from your lungs.
He groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure satisfaction. “Christ. Every fucking time. Like you’re made for me.” He didn’t move, just let you feel the full, stretching weight of him inside you. “Tighter in the morning. Always tighter.”
His hands returned to your hips, his grip iron-strong. He began to move, a slow, deliberate pace that was more about depth than speed. Each withdrawal was agonizingly incomplete, each thrust a penetrating reclaiming that rocked your entire body forward. You clutched the sheets, the fabric tearing slightly under your fingernails.
“I can feel it,” he panted, his rhythm building incrementally. “Feel how deep I am. My cum from last night… it’s still in there. Warming you. Mixing with you.” His thrusts became harder, his control fraying at the edges. “I need to taste it. Need to taste us before I have to go be that other fucking guy.”
The words, the filthy, possessive intent, sent a violent thrill through you. Your hips pushed back against him, meeting his drives, and a broken moan escaped you.
“That’s it,” he encouraged, his voice tightening. “Fuck yourself back on me. Take it. Give me everything.”
He drove into you with a final, brutal series of thrusts, his body stiffening, a hoarse cry ripped from his throat as he emptied himself deep inside you with pulsing jets of heat. He collapsed over your back, his weight pinning you, his breath scorching your neck. For a long moment, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the distant whine of a vacuum cleaner in the hotel corridor.
Then he moved. Gently, he pulled out. You felt the immediate, warm trickle down your inner thigh. Before you could react, his hands were on you again, turning you onto your back. He pushed your legs apart, his gaze locked on the evidence of his possession glistening on your skin.
He didn’t hesitate. He lowered his head, his tongue, broad and flat, laving a slow, thorough stripe from your perineum up through your soaked folds. He moaned against you, the vibration traveling straight to your core. He ate you with a singular, focused hunger, his tongue spearing inside to gather his own release, then circling your clit, coaxing it back to throbbing life. It was obscene, primal, a reclaiming so complete it bordered on degradation. And you writhed under it, a fresh, shocking orgasm building under his relentless mouth.
“Taste yourself,” he muttered, lifting his head, his chin wet. “Taste me in you. That’s home. That’s the only truth.”
The shrill buzz of his phone on the nightstand shattered the moment. He ignored it, kissing his way up your body, leaving a damp trail. The phone stopped, then immediately started again.
“Fuck,” he sighed, resting his forehead against your sternum. “Izzy.”
He rolled off the bed with the fluid grace of an athlete, snatching the phone. “Pronto.” He listened, pacing naked by the window. The grey light etched the powerful lines of his body. “Sì, sì, I know. Thirty minutes. Have coffee. And Marco? Tell him to keep his mouth shut about the blonde from Tuesday or I’ll give the photos to his mother.”
He hung up and tossed the phone onto a chair. “Publicist. And my idiot friend. A strategy meeting for the Champions League semi-final press conference.” He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “They’ll be here. In this suite.”
“Here?” You pulled the sheet around you, suddenly conscious of the Polaroids still littering the carpet, the rumpled, sex-scented sheets, the phone on the nightstand full of videos that would end his career.
“It’s my suite. Where else?” He walked into the bathroom. The shower started. “Clean up. Get dressed. Order food. They won’t bite.”
He said it casually, but the air had changed. The sealed, private world of the last twelve hours was cracking. You gathered the Polaroids, your face flushing as you saw the graphic evidence of the night. You slid them into the drawer of the nightstand, next to the phone. The physical artifacts of his obsession were now hidden, but their presence felt louder than ever.
By the time you emerged from the bathroom in jeans and a soft sweater, the suite had been transformed. Room service had delivered a pot of espresso and pastries. Matteo was in dark trousers and a simple grey sweater, looking every inch the poised superstar. The bed was miraculously remade. Only the faint scent of sex and his cologne remained, lingering in the air like a ghost.
The knock at the door was sharp, professional.
Izzy Lombardi entered first, a cyclone of focused energy in a sleek black suit. Her dark eyes took in the room, the two of you, with the efficiency of a security scan. “Matteo. You look tired.” Her accent was pure Milanese efficiency.
“I feel great,” he said, pulling you to his side, his arm around your waist. A deliberate show. “You remember.”
“Of course,” Izzy said, offering a tight, perfunctory smile. “Congratulations, again. How are you feeling?”
Before you could answer, Marco Bianchi shouldered his way in, his smile a blinding flash of white teeth. “Rossi! And the beautiful mother-to-be!” He grabbed Matteo in a back-slapping hug, then turned to you, kissing you on both cheeks. He smelled of expensive aftershave and, faintly, of a night out. “You’re glowing! He’s not working you too hard, is he?”
“Shut up, Marco,” Matteo said, but there was fondness in it.
“What? I’m being nice!” Marco poured himself an espresso, drinking it standing by the window. “So, the English press are like vultures. They’ve already dug up that photo of you from last year, the altercation outside the nightclub in London. Izzy’s sweating bullets.”
Izzy shot him a venomous look. “We have a narrative. Focused, mature, a new chapter. The pregnancy is a blessing, not a distraction. We lead with family. We control the story.” She fixed her gaze on Matteo. “Which means no deviations. No cryptic tweets. No storming out of press conferences if they ask about the club contract. And for God’s sake, no visible… irritability.” Her eyes flicked to you, then away. “The world wants a fairytale. Give it to them.”
Matteo’s thumb stroked your hip absently. “I’m not an actor.”
“You are today,” Izzy said flatly. “Three hours. Smile. Talk about the team. Talk about future dreams. Mention her once, with respect. That’s the quota.”
“Quota?” Matteo’s voice dropped, a warning in it.
“You know what I mean. Overshare, and it becomes the story. The only story. Your talent becomes a footnote. ‘Footballer Knocks Up Girlfriend.’ That’s the headline we avoid.”
The room went quiet. Marco studied his espresso cup. You felt Matteo’s body tense beside you.
“She has a name,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet.
“I know her name,” Izzy replied, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. “My job is to make sure the millions of people who don’t know her keep not knowing her. To protect the asset. That’s you. And by extension, her. Privacy is protection. Sentimentality is a leak in the hull. Capisci?”
The struggle on Matteo’s face was plain: the furious possessiveness warring with the cold logic of the empire he’d built. He wanted to shout his claim from the rooftops. Izzy needed him to whisper it in a soundproof room.
Finally, he gave a single, tight nod. “Fine. Three hours. Smiles. Team. Future. One mention.”
“Good.” Izzy’s shoulders dropped a millimeter in relief. “Marco, you’re with him. Keep him calm. Crack your stupid jokes. Distract.”
“My jokes are classic,” Marco said, winking at you.
As they began discussing specific questions, Matteo pulled you slightly aside, near the balcony door. His hand came up to cradle your face, his touch contradicting the rigid set of his jaw. “You hear that?” he murmured, his thumb stroking your cheekbone. “One mention. In front of the world. They get a single, sanctioned sentence. And tonight,” his eyes darkened, his voice dropping to a whisper only you could hear, “I’ll show you what happens to men who try to put my family in a quota. I’ll fuck you on this balcony where all of Rome can see, and I’ll say your name with every thrust until you scream it back. They get a sentence. You get my whole fucking soul.”
The promise was a vow, a threat, and a raw blueprint for the night to come. He kissed you, hard and brief, a stamp of intent. Then he turned back to Izzy and Marco, the easy smile already sliding onto his face, the mask perfectly in place. “Alright. Let’s go talk about football.”
Izzy nodded, satisfied. Marco clapped him on the shoulder. They moved towards the door, a united front. Matteo glanced back once, his eyes finding yours. In that look was the silent video on the phone, the taste on his tongue, the implicit violence of his promise. The door closed behind them, leaving you in the suddenly immense silence of the penthouse, the ghost of his touch already aching on your skin, waiting for the night to fall and the performance to end.
The door closed behind them, leaving you in the suddenly immense silence of the penthouse, the ghost of his touch already aching on your skin, waiting for the night to fall and the performance to end.
You cleaned up the espresso cups, the mundane action a weird anchor. The room held his echo in every empty space. You curled on the sofa, your phone a cold rectangle in your hand. The press conference would be streaming soon, but you couldn’t bear to watch the polished performance, the single, vetted mention Izzy had allotted.
Instead, your thumb scrolled absently through your own Instagram, a flood of sunsets and sponsored athlete posts. A notification popped up at the top of your screen. ‘Matteo Rossi tagged you in a post.’
Your breath hitched. That wasn’t the plan. Tagging you was a flare, a direct link Izzy would have vetoed. You tapped it.
His Instagram, usually a curated mix of training shots, sleek sponsorships, and vague inspirational quotes, had just one new image. It wasn’t a professional photo. It was the grainy, black-and-white ultrasound photo from your twelve-week scan, the one you’d kept on the fridge in your old apartment. There it was, floating in his feed for his 45 million followers.
The little bean-like shape was clear. The caption was in Italian, then English, his voice almost audible in the typed words.
‘Tutta la mia forza inizia qui. My entire strength begins here. La nostra piccola luce. Our little light. Arrivando Settembre.’
Coming September.
No hashtags. No emojis. No corporate statement. Just the image, the words, and your username tagged plainly, irrevocably. He’d done it. While Izzy prepped him to recite a bland sentence to the press, he’d quietly detonated his own narrative straight from the green room, from his palm, on his own terms.
A sound escaped you, a half-laugh, half-sob. You touched the screen, tracing the blurry outline of your child. His possessiveness, which could feel so confining, had just manifested as this breathtaking, defiant public claim. He’d given the world the most intimate proof first, cutting through the noise with a silent, seismic boom.
Your heart hammered against your ribs, a frantic, proud drum. Comments began flooding in instantly, a tidal wave of red hearts and shock and congratulations, the notification counter spinning into the thousands. You didn’t read them. It didn’t matter. You saw the baby you’d created together, his thumbprint on the universe, and you were so wildly, terrifyingly happy you thought you might dissolve into the light from the screen.
Your phone buzzed, an incoming call. IZZY LOMBARDI flashed across the display. The real world, with its furious quotas and leaking hulls, was calling. You stared at the ultrasound image once more, a giddy, unshakable smile breaking across your face, and you let Izzy’s call go to voicemail.