8) Every İnches

Just as I thought I was going to perish under raining glass shards, exploding bullets, and the crushing weight of Matteo’s massive body, the terrifying noise outside abruptly ceased. A cheerful, boisterous, and overly familiar voice boomed from the yacht's radio and the external megaphone.

"Oooo, brother Matteo! Welcome, man! Forgive us, our boys thought you were the enemy and fired into the air or whatever! Come on, pull up to the dock, we've got the tea brewing!"

I blinked as Matteo slowly rolled off me. It turned out that previous apocalyptic scenario wasn't an execution at all; it was just a "greeting ritual" by a crazy Turkish friend of Matteo's, nicknamed Miço, who ran local operations at the border. The Turkish algorithm for saying hello was dangerously flawed. I made a mental note to bring an umbrella next time.

Breathing heavily, Matteo brushed himself off and looked down at me, still sitting on the sofa in my soaking-wet bikini. The moment his gaze swept over my bikini top and my wind-flushed skin, a sudden, volcanic wave of overprotective jealousy flared in his dark eyes. In one swift motion, he snatched one of his spare black dress shirts and threw it at me.

"Cover yourself up!" he commanded, his voice sounding far rougher than its usual bass-baritone register. "You are not stepping onto that shore in that tiny bikini, with that mutant red hair and a face that's currently the exact same shade of crimson! Everyone will be staring at you." He hissed through his teeth, "Not because you're beautiful or anything, but because they'll wonder what kind of an idiot falls fast asleep under the bare island sun with skin as white as snow! They'll think you're brainless and stare at us."

I adjusted my glasses as I pulled the shirt off my head and tried to slide my arms through the sleeves. The intense skin-to-skin contact from when he had hovered over me earlier had ignited a highly logical question in my mind. Besides, a cybersecurity specialist always had to take precautions against potential viruses.

"Frankly, after you pinned me down and subjected me to such an intense amount of physical contact, I need to ask this," I said, buttoning the massive shirt with millimeter-level symmetry. "Biological data security is paramount, after all. I must inquire: what is the frequency of partner rotation in your active sexual history? Do you possess any recent infectious disease screening reports? What is the mathematical probability of you harboring an active microbiological virus that could be transmitted to me?"

Matteo—who was roughly and possessively tugging at the collar of the shirt to ensure my chest was completely obscured—froze instantly at my question. His hands remained suspended at my neckline. A look of such dark, mocking invitation settled onto his icy, rigid features that the temperature in the salon shifted in a split second.

He leaned in closer, his breath brushing past my lips as he whispered:

"If you're that curious, little genius... you can come to my room tonight. You can run a live performance analysis and write up the report yourself. What do you say?"

A normal girl would have melted, lost her mind, or fainted on the spot in the face of such an invitation. But they were dealing with an IT developer with Asperger's. Without blinking, I shifted my focus from Matteo’s facial features down to his hand and foot coordination visible beneath his clothing. My internal data-processing engine had already compiled the numbers.

"I don't believe a performance test is necessary; the data is already conclusive," I stated in a thoroughly professional tone. "According to biological and anatomical research, there is an eighty-two percent positive correlation in human males between the length of the thumb, shoe size, the vertical axis of the nasal bone, and penile length. Blending the lateral width of your nose, the bone structure of your fingers, and your overall height..."

Matteo’s eyes widened in sheer shock as I continued with absolute gravity:

"...I predict your estimated penile length to be roughly eighteen point eight centimeters, which is significantly above the standard medical average. In other words, data analysis yields results without ever entering the laboratory. Am I incorrect?"

For the first time in his life, Matteo was rendered completely, utterly speechless by a woman. He slowly lowered his hovering hands, his face rippling with a mixture of fury, bewilderment, and unbelievable amusement.

"You..." he murmured, his voice dropping to a complete whisper this time. A smirk broke across his face as he whispered, "Even your mathematics can fail, you redheaded devil. Come and measure it yourself. You might just have to throw the rulers in the trash."