Chapter 8: Claimed Possession
You
The water glass was cold in your hand, condensation beading on your fingers. Matteo watched you from across the expanse of polished concrete, his gaze a tangible weight. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but the frantic, violent energy from the garage had burned itself out, leaving embers.
“The beginning,” you said, your voice sounding too loud in the vast, quiet space. “It was a party. Three months ago. The Villa Serenissima.”
A faint flicker in his eyes. He knew the place. A teammate’s birthday. A blur of champagne, crowd, noise.
“You were in a hallway,” you continued, taking a sip of water to steady yourself. “On the phone. Arguing with someone in Italian. You sounded… shattered. Then you saw me watching, and it was like a switch flipped. The charm came back on. You winked.”
He leaned his hips against the kitchen island, arms crossed. “I remember a dark green dress. I don’t remember an argument.”
“You wouldn’t. It wasn’t for public consumption.” You set the glass down. “You took my hand, led me up a service staircase to a rooftop garden. There was a single chaise lounge. You didn’t say a word. You just… looked at me. Then you kissed me. And I let you.”
He pushed off the island and walked slowly towards the floor-to-ceiling windows, his back to you. The city sprawled beneath him, a circuit board of lights. “It was a good night,” he said, his tone careful, neutral.
“It was more than that.” The words hung in the air. “For me, it was. You gave me your jersey when I was cold. You wrote a number on the tag. Not your manager’s. Not a PR flack’s. Your number. You said, ‘Call when you’re ready to do that again.’ I called. For a week. It went to a full voicemail box. Then the number was disconnected.”
He turned, his profile sharp against the glass. “I lose phones. It’s… complicated.”
“Complicated,” you repeated, a hollow laugh escaping you. You paced, the cool concrete under your bare feet. “I saw your face everywhere after that. On billboards, in magazines. You did an interview where you said you loved the anonymity of living here, that you cherished your private life. That it was sacred.” You stopped, facing him. “I felt like a ghost. A dirty secret you’d mislaid. So I kept the jersey. And last week, after your hat-trick, I put it on. I took a picture in my shitty bathroom mirror and I sent it to the only contact I had left for you—the generic fan mail address on your club’s website. I wrote, ‘You forgot this.’ I didn’t think it would even reach you.”
He was silent for a long moment. “It did. My assistant screens everything. She showed it to me. I thought it was a joke. A stalker.” He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture tired. “Then I saw your eyes in the picture. And I remembered.”
“You remembered,” you whispered.
His calm shattered. In three strides he was on you, his hands gripping your arms, his face a mask of furious confusion. “What did you want from me? What do you want now? An apology? A fuck? A relationship? You have no idea what my life is. The vultures. The schedules. The lies.”
You didn’t pull away. “I wanted you to see me. To remember that I was real. That night was real.”
The fight left his body again, quicker this time. His grip softened, became almost a caress. He looked lost, this man who commanded stadiums. “It was real,” he murmured, his thumb stroking your skin. “It was too real. That’s why I… I shut it down.”
He let go of your arms and instead took your hand, his fingers lacing through yours with a surprising tenderness. He led you away from the windows, through the minimalist living area, toward a wide doorway framed by frosted glass.
The bedroom was a study in monochrome. A huge platform bed dominated the room, draped in sheets the color of charcoal, so dark they seemed to swallow the weak moonlight filtering through sheer curtains. The air here was different—clean linen, the faint, expensive scent of his cologne, and underneath it, that sharper smell that was just him.
He stopped at the foot of the bed. His eyes traveled over you, clad only in his oversized jersey, your bare legs beneath it.
“You’re still wearing my shirt,” he said, his voice low.
“You gave it to me.”
“I’m taking it back.”
He didn’t wait for permission. His hands went to the hem of the jersey and pulled it up, over your head in one smooth motion. The cool air hit your skin, raising goosebumps. You stood naked before him, vulnerable under his intense scrutiny. He dropped the jersey to the floor.
“On the bed,” he commanded, but it lacked its earlier edge. It was quieter. Deliberate.
You climbed onto the cool, slick silk, the fabric whispering against your skin. He followed you down, his weight settling over you, but not crushing you. He supported himself on his forearms, caging you in. His eyes searched yours, closer than they’d ever been.
“No more running,” he whispered, his accent thickening. “For either of us.”
Then his mouth was on yours, not with punitive force, but with a devastating, focused hunger. This kiss was different. It was an exploration, an apology, a claiming all at once. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting you deeply, and you could taste the espresso on his, bitter and dark. Your hands came up to tangle in his hair, pulling him closer.
He broke the kiss to trail his lips down your jaw, your throat. He took one nipple into his mouth, his tongue circling the tight peak before sucking deeply, rhythmically. A soft cry escaped you, your back arching off the bed. He moved to the other, giving it the same lavish, attentive torment until you were writhing beneath him, your fingers tightening in his hair.
He released your breast with a soft pop and kissed his way down the flat of your stomach. He hooked his hands under your knees and pushed your legs apart, spreading you open for his view. He looked his fill, his breathing ragged.
“Perfetto,” he breathed, the word a reverent curse.
Then he lowered his head and his tongue was on you, a slow, flat stroke through your wetness that made you jolt and cry out. He didn’t tease. He feasted. His mouth sealed over you, his tongue delving inside you, then flicking mercilessly against your clit. He used his lips, his teeth, the rough stubble on his chin, every sensation amplified and focused. You felt the coil inside you winding tight, too fast, dangerously fast.
“Matteo… please…”
He understood. He surged up your body, his mouth claiming yours again, letting you taste yourself on his lips. He fumbled with his trousers, freeing himself. The broad head of his cock pressed against you, hot and insistent. He paused, his forehead resting against yours, his eyes open, staring into yours.
“Look at me,” he demanded, his voice raw.
You held his gaze as he pushed inside, a slow, inexorable invasion that stole your breath. He filled you completely, a stretching, perfect ache. He didn’t move, just remained buried to the hilt, letting you feel every inch of him, the trembling in his own muscles.
“You’re real,” he growled, as if convincing himself.
Then he began to move. It wasn’t the punishing pace from the garage. This was deeper, more rhythmic, a steady, rolling drive of his hips that rubbed a spot inside you with each stroke. His thrusts were long and deep, each one forcing a gasp from your lips. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, taking him deeper still.
The sound was wet, filthy, intimate. Skin slapping against skin, the soft rustle of silk, his low groans by your ear. “Cazzo, sei così stretto,” he muttered into your neck, his lips brushing your skin. “You feel like heaven. Like fucking heaven.”
You were unraveling, the pleasure building in a constant, mounting wave. He shifted slightly, changing the angle, and the next thrust made you see stars. You cried out, a broken sound that seemed to unleash something in him.
“Come for me,” he commanded, his pace quickening, becoming more urgent. “I want to feel you come on my cock. Do it. Now.”
His words, his pounding rhythm, the look in his eyes—it was too much. The orgasm ripped through you, violent and all-consuming. Your vision whited out as you clenched around him, pulsing wildly, a series of uncontrollable shudders seizing your body.
The sensation tipped him over the edge. With a guttural, drawn-out curse, he slammed into you one final time and held, his body stiffening. You felt the hot, liquid rush of his release inside you, the throbbing of his cock as he emptied himself with a series of ragged groans against your shoulder.
He collapsed, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, his breath hot and harsh against your neck. For minutes, the only sounds were your slowing heartbeats and the distant hum of the city.
Finally, he shifted, rolling onto his side and pulling you with him, so your back was tucked against his chest. His arm curled around your waist, his hand splayed possessively on your stomach. His lips brushed your shoulder.
“You’re staying,” he said into your skin. It wasn’t a question.
Outside, the first pale hints of dawn began to bleed into the black sky over the city. You didn’t answer. You just let your hand come to rest over his, lacing your fingers through his. In the grey light, you could see the discarded jersey on the floor, a splash of color in the monochrome room. A reminder of where this started.
Now, it was something else entirely.
Now, it was something else entirely. The grey dawn found you still wrapped in him, his breath a steady rhythm against your neck. Sleep had been a shallow pool you’d both waded in and out of, limbs tangled, the silk sheets damp with sweat. Your bladder eventually protested, a sharp, insistent pressure that pulled you toward consciousness. Carefully, you peeled his heavy arm from your waist.
The floor was cold underfoot as you padded towards the en suite bathroom. The door closed with a soft click. In the stark, minimalist bathroom, you faced your reflection—hair tangled, lips swollen, a faint bruise blooming on your inner thigh. You looked exactly like what you were: a woman who had been thoroughly, irrevocably claimed. The thought sent a strange thrill through you, followed by a pulse of cold fear. This was his world, not yours. A gilded cage of concrete and glass.
You splashed water on your face, the chill a shock. You couldn’t stay here. Not like this, lost in his sheets and his gravity. You needed air that didn’t smell like him, space to think without his hands on you. Your dress was shredded, a memory on his garage floor. Your only option was his jersey, still a puddle of fabric by the bed.
You crept back into the bedroom. Matteo hadn’t moved, his sleeping form a dark shape against the sheets. You snatched the jersey from the floor, the soft cotton chilling your skin as you pulled it on. It was a flag of surrender you refused to fly. You would go home, gather your thoughts, and maybe, somehow, reclaim some piece of yourself.
The apartment was a maze of silent open space. You found your purse by the kitchen island, a small, pathetic lump on the vast concrete. You walked toward the elevator, your steps soundless. The button glowed softly. You pressed it.
A hand slammed against the doorframe above your head, blocking your path. You flinched, a small gasp escaping you. His other arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back hard against his naked chest. He was awake, and he was furious.
“And where do you think you’re going?” His voice was low, sleep-roughened, and dangerously calm in your ear. His body was a wall of heat at your back.
Your heart hammered against your ribs. “Home. I need to go home.”
He spun you around, pinning you between his body and the cold elevator door. His eyes were dark, all trace of their earlier vulnerability scorched away. “No. You don’t.” He leaned in, his nose skimming your temple. “You have a little thing for running away, I think. A bad habit.”
“Matteo, let me go. This is insane.”
“Insane?” A humorless smirk touched his lips. “You break into my life with a fucking picture, you let me fuck you in my garage, in my bed, and now you want to slip out like a thief? No.” His hand came up, his fingers tangling tightly in your hair, not quite pulling, just holding you in place. “I love a good chase, cara. But the chasing is over. You’re caught.”
He dipped his head, his mouth crushing against yours in a kiss that was all possession and no affection. It was a branding. When he pulled back, his breath was ragged. “If you don’t behave,” he whispered, his lips brushing yours, “I’ll have to punish you. And you won’t like it.”
Before you could respond, he bent, hooked an arm behind your knees, and lifted you clean off the ground. You yelped, clutching at his shoulders as he carried you, not back to the bedroom, but across the living area towards the frosted glass doors of the balcony. He shouldered them open. The cold morning air hit you like a slap.
The city sprawled beneath, waking up, utterly indifferent. He set you on your feet but kept one arm like a steel band around your waist, his other hand gripping your hip. He turned you to face the view, your back pressed flush against him.
“Look at it,” he commanded, his mouth at your ear. “This is my world. You wanted in. You’re in.” His hand slid down from your hip, over the curve of your ass covered only by the thin jersey. His fingers dug into your flesh. “Now, about that punishment.”
His hand snaked under the hem of the jersey, his palm rough and warm on your skin. He found the wet heart of you, his fingers slipping easily through your slickness. You were already aroused, a traitorous response to his aggression, to the sheer exposure of the balcony.
“See?” he murmured, his fingers circling your clit with a cruel, knowing precision. “Your body knows who it belongs to. It doesn’t want to run.” He pushed two fingers inside you, curling them. You bit your lip to stop a moan, your hands gripping the cold balcony railing. “But your mind needs reminding.”
He withdrew his fingers, leaving you empty and aching. He turned you again, your face now to his chest. He guided your hands to his waistband, to the hard, thick length of him already straining against his sleep pants. “Take it out,” he ordered, his voice guttural.
Your fingers trembled as you obeyed, freeing his cock into the cool morning air. It was fully erect, the tip already damp. He reached between you, his hand guiding himself, rubbing the head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness. He didn’t ask, didn’t coax. He just lifted you by your thighs, your back against the balcony railing, and with one brutal, upward thrust, he was inside you.
The cry that tore from your throat was swallowed by the city’s murmur. He filled you utterly, a stretching, blinding fullness that stole your breath. He held you there, impaled, your feet dangling, with only his strength and the railing at your back keeping you from falling.
“This is where you belong,” he grunted, his face a mask of fierce concentration. “Right here. On my cock.” He began to move, lifting and lowering you on him, each deep, jarring stroke pushing a shattered gasp from your lips. The jersey rode up around your waist, offering no modesty to the theoretical eyes of the waking city below.
His pace was relentless, a punishing rhythm designed to overwhelm. The raw friction was almost too much, a painful pleasure that bordered on agony. “You came to me,” he rasped, his thrusts driving the words into you. “You sent that picture. You wanted this. Own it.”
You couldn’t speak. You could only cling to his shoulders, your nails digging into his skin, as he used your body with a single-minded intensity. The orgasm built not as a wave but as a sudden, violent crackle of electricity from your core, radiating outward until your entire body seized around him, a silent, screaming convulsion.
He felt it, saw it on your face. With a final, deep grind, he buried himself to the hilt and came, his release hot and spurting inside you, his groan muffled against your neck. He held you there, pinned, as he throbbed within you, as the wind whipped around you both.
Slowly, carefully, he let you down until your shaking feet found the solid balcony floor. You sagged against him, your legs useless. He held you up, his arms a cage that was also your only support. His lips pressed against your sweat-damp hair.
“No more running,” he said, the words not a request, but a law laid down in the cold morning light.