17

The bed still smelled like him-warm leather, cedar, and that dark musk that made my thighs clench every time I breathed it in. I rolled over, pressed my face into the pillow he had slept on, and inhaled deep. My body ached in the best way: sore between my legs, lips swollen from his kisses, nipples tender from his teeth. I could still feel the stretch of him inside me, the way he had pinned my wrists above my head and teased me slow and deep until I begged. Until I came so hard my vision whited out.

 

I missed him already.

 

The notification lit my phone screen: **+1000 € transferred to your account.** 

Sender note: *For you. Be good.*

 

I smiled-real, soft, stupid. 

"Thanks, Mateo," I whispered to the empty room.

 

Breakfast was quick-toast, coffee, trying not to replay last night in my head while I ate. Failed. Every time I closed my eyes I saw his face above mine, eyes locked, voice rough: "Say my name."

 

Shower next. I turned the water hot. Steam filled the bathroom. I stepped under the spray and let it pound my shoulders, my back, my breasts. My hand drifted down-almost automatically. Fingers brushing my still-sensitive clit. I bit my lip. Pictured him behind me-chest to my back, one hand around my throat, the other between my legs. Two thick fingers pushing inside while his cock ground against my ass.

 

I moaned low. Increased the pace. Added a third finger. Squatted slightly-opening myself wider. Water cascaded over my face, my chest. I imagined his voice in my ear: "Cum for me, Angioletto. Let me feel you squeeze my fingers."

 

Pleasure hit fast-sharp, blinding. I jerked. Cried out. Squirted hard against my palm-hot, messy, mixing with the shower water running down my thighs.

 

"Fuck..."

 

I slumped against the tile. Panting. Legs shaking.

 

Then the phone vibrated again-loud against the sink.

 

Seven missed calls. Same unknown number.

 

My stomach dropped.

 

I dried off quickly. Wrapped a towel around myself. Grabbed the phone.

 

It rang again.

 

I answered-voice hard.

 

"Why are you calling, Ethan? Aren't you tired already?"

 

Silence. Then harsh breathing.

 

"Be mature and stop calling!" I snapped.

 

"Stop calling?" His voice was low. Dangerous.

 

I rolled my eyes. Put it on speaker. Started drying my hair in the mirror.

 

"You didn't take my call earlier."

 

"Normal people don't call at two in the morning, Ethan. You need help. Maybe therapy. Or a psychiatrist. Just go talk to your father or something."

 

I ended it. Blocked the number.

 

Took a deep breath. Dressed-simple black trousers, soft white blouse (one of Mateo's gifts), hair in loose waves to curtain the left side of my face. Makeup heavier today-concealer, foundation, setting spray. The bruises were fading fast, but still visible if someone looked too close.

 

Until I stepped into the company elevator.

 

Blood.

 

A thin trail-fresh, dark red-smeared along the floor. Drops leading toward the back corner.

 

My heart slammed against my ribs.

 

The elevator stopped on the fifth floor. Doors opened.

 

Two men rushed in-Frank and Ray-carrying Tony between them. His shirt was soaked crimson. Face ghost-white. Eyes glassy. Blood dripped steadily from the wound below his ribs. Another gash on his thigh-deep, arterial.

 

"We're going down," Frank barked.

 

I dropped to my knees before they could stop me.

 

"First aid kit-gauze, pressure bandage-now!"

 

Frank stared. "Lady-"

 

"NOW!"

 

Ray hesitated. Then yanked open the emergency panel. Tossed me the kit.

 

I ripped Tony's shirt wider. Pressed clean gauze to the abdominal wound-hard. Blood soaked through instantly.

 

"Thigh too," I ordered. "Belt-above the wound. Tourniquet."

 

Frank laughed once-nervous. "You're not serious-"

 

I glared. "Give me your fucking belt or I swear I'll make sure Mateo hears you let your own receptionist bleed out."

 

He unbuckled fast. Handed it over. 

 

I cinched it tight above the thigh gash. Blood slowed to a trickle.

 

"Pressure here," I told Ray. Guided his hands to the stomach wound. "Harder. Don't let up."

 

The elevator dinged. Ground floor.

 

Security and medics were already waiting-someone must have called ahead.

 

They took Tony. Loaded him onto a stretcher.

 

I stood there-hands red to the wrists, blouse ruined, trousers stained, hair falling in bloody strands. Wasn't i supposed to feel like I ruined my favorite shirt, yes. Did I feel so? Not. This tinge of pride knowing that I saved someone.

 

People stared. Phones out. Recording.

 

I didn't care.

 

I just kept seeing his face-pale, terrified. The same face that had smiled politely when I first arrived.

 

I stumbled toward the exit. Legs shaking. Vision blurring.

 

Then arms wrapped around me from behind-hard, familiar.

 

"I got you, Angioletto."

 

Mateo.

 

I sagged against him. Let him turn me. Let him kiss my forehead. Let him drape his suit jacket over my shoulders-covering the blood, hiding the mess.

 

He looked over my head at Ethan-still standing by his car that was close to the entrance. He arrived just in time.

 

"She isn't wounded," Mateo snapped. "Open the damn door."

 

Ethan obeyed. Fast.

 

Mateo guided me inside. Settled me in the back seat. My bag and phone were already there-someone had retrieved them from the elevator.

 

He slid in beside me. Pulled me against his side.

 

"You're a sweetheart, Bell," he murmured. "You saved a man."

 

I frowned. "His name is Tony. Fifth-floor receptionist. Works for *you*."

 

Mateo's jaw tightened-just for a second. Then he nodded.

 

"Let's get you cleaned up."