Chapter 27: Reverent Awakening
The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and neon beyond the glass. Your hands were braced on Matteo’s chest, feeling the frantic drum of his heart under your palms. You moved, a slow, deliberate rise and fall that drew a ragged groan from his throat. His eyes, dark and fixed on yours, held a universe of stunned reverence.
“Piano,” he breathed, his hands tightening on your waist, not to guide but to feel. “Slowly. Let me… let me feel all of it.”
You obeyed, the world narrowing to the exquisite friction, the solid heat of him filling you. Each downward stroke was a surrender, each lift a sweet, aching promise. You leaned forward, your lips brushing his. “I love you,” you whispered, the words syncing with the roll of your hips.
A violent shudder went through him. “Again.”
“I love you.”
He surged up, capturing your mouth in a desperate kiss, his tongue tracing the shape of the words as you said them once more. His control began to fray, his hips meeting yours with a sharp, upward thrust that stole your breath. The pace fractured, turning deeper, more urgent. The cool glass at your back was a shock against your heated skin, a contrast to the furnace of his body beneath you.
He chanted in Italian, a stream of broken, guttural phrases against your throat. “Sei mia… tutta mia… la mia luce, la mia vita…” You are mine, all mine, my light, my life. His hands slid from your waist, over the curve of your hips, gripping you with a possession that was both fierce and tender.
Your own breaths came in short gasps. The pleasure built, a coil tightening low in your belly, sparked by the raw honesty in his voice as much as by the relentless rhythm of your bodies. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, inhaling the scent of him—sweat, salt, and that familiar bergamot cologne, now mingled with the intimate perfume of your skin.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice rough. “I want to see you.”
You forced your eyes open, meeting his gaze. The connection was almost too much—the vulnerability there, the unabashed worship, the faint echo of the fear he’d confessed only hours before. It pushed you over the edge. The climax unraveled you, a silent, shattering wave that locked your muscles and drew a soundless cry from your lips.
He followed instantly, his body arching under yours, a hoarse shout muffled against your shoulder. His grip was absolute, as if he was anchoring himself to you against a tidal force.
For long minutes, there was only the sound of ragged breathing and the distant hum of the city thirty floors below. He held you there, still joined, his hands slowly stroking up and down your spine. His lips moved against your damp temple.
“You wreck me,” he murmured, the words slurred with spent passion. “Completely. Every time.”
You laughed, a soft, breathy sound. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is a catastrophic thing. My career is in shambles. My publicist is plotting my death. My diet is ruined because I will now be eating for three.” He kissed your temple. “It is the best kind of wreckage.”
You finally shifted, wincing slightly as you settled beside him on the rumpled silk. He pulled the duvet over you both, tucking you against his side. His fingers traced idle patterns on your bare arm.
“Izzy called fourteen times during… that,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the bed. “She will be here at seven a.m. with contracts and damage reports and, likely, a priest.”
“A priest?”
“To perform an emergency exorcism on me. Or to marry us. Whichever is quicker.” He said it lightly, but you felt the subtle tension in his body.
“And what do you want?” you asked, tracing the line of his jaw.
He turned his head, nipping playfully at your fingertips. “I want to stay in this bed for a month. I want to feed you grapes. I want to talk to my… little light.” His hand slid to rest on your stomach, his touch impossibly gentle. “But.”
“But.”
“But the world does not stop. And I have a match on Saturday.” He sighed, the sound heavy with reality’s return. “They will be ruthless now. The cameras. The questions. They will look for cracks.”
“We won’t give them any.”
He looked at you, his expression serious. “You are strong. Stronger than I am in these ways. But this… it is a different pitch. A different game. They will not be kind.”
“I don’t need them to be kind. I have you.”
A slow smile, genuine and warm, spread across his face. It was the smile the cameras rarely saw, the one that reached his eyes and softened all his sharp edges. “Yes, you do.” He pulled you closer. “And you are stuck with me. A famously impulsive, rule-breaking striker with a terrifying PR problem and a heart that is now entirely, permanently yours.”
You snuggled into him, listening to the steady beat of his heart. The fear was still there, a faint whisper at the back of your mind. But it was outmatched by a profound, settling certainty. The chaos was real. The scrutiny would be brutal. But here, in this fortress of silk and shadow, with his arms around you and his whispered promises in your hair, you had the only playbook that mattered.
Outside, the neon pulse of the city continued, indifferent. Inside, you drifted toward sleep, wrapped in a warmth that had nothing to do with the duvet and everything to do with the man whose breath was already evening out against your hair, one protective hand still splayed over your stomach, guarding their tiny, silent light.