Page 49 of Tempting Tessa

She’s about to collapse again when I nudge her shoulder. “No sleeping yet, Contessa. Up.”

She groans, voice raspy with sleep and stomach acid. “I feel like I got hit by a fucking semi.”

I haul her upright, one hand at her nape, the other guiding her by the elbow. “You’ll feel worse if you don’t brush your teeth. Don’t make me do it for you.”

She makes a whining noise, but her body obeys, stumbling on autopilot toward the en suite bathroom. I flick on the light, squinting against the glare, and steer her to the sink. She tries to sit on the damn counter. I boost her up and stabilize her with a palm at her hip. She’s heavy-lidded, shivering a little, skin still clammy. She’s not going to puke again, but I keep her hair in a loose fist just in case.

I squeeze toothpaste onto her brush and hand it to her. She glares at me, then shoves it in her mouth. While she brushes, I open a drawer and start lining up her skincare shit on the counter. I don’t know what half of it does, but I bought every bottle, serum, and mask I saw in her bathroom. I set out the face wash, the toner, the moisturizer, the weird glass bottle with the gold cap. She stops mid-brush and stares at the line of products, then at me.

“You’re fucking psycho,” she mumbles around the foam.

“Yeah, but your skin’s going to look amazing,” I say. “C’mon, wash your face.”

She half-asses the job, splashing water everywhere, but she does it. I towel her off, then dab moisturizer onto her cheeks and nose because her hands are shaking and she keeps missing.

She looks up at me, blinking, and for a second her eyes are soft. “You don’t have to do this,” she says, barely audible.

I stroke her hair off her forehead, thumb drawing a circle on her temple. “Yeah, I do.”

She makes a guttural snort and drops her head against my chest. “This is good enough for tonight. Unless you wanna see me put on a face mask and puke in your sink.”

I grunt, but the thought of her in a sheet mask, eyes rolled back, makes my cock twitch. “Wouldn’t be the worst thing to happen in the bathroom.”

She rolls her eyes, but it’s all for show. She’s already leaning into my hands, a soft animal wanting care even if she hates needing it. “Can I go lay down before I pass out or embarrass myself further?”

“Not on your own,” I tell her, scooping her up under the knees and carrying her back through the suite. I pull back the covers and set her down, then strip off the rest of my clothes and climb in after, curling my body around hers.

She’s so fucking small in my arms, even with her curves. I tuck her against my chest, hand splayed wide on her stomach.

I press my mouth to her hairline, kissing her slow. “Goodnight, Contessa. Try not to vomit on my pillow.”

She hums, already half gone. “No promises.”

She’s out in under a minute, soft little snores and all. I lie there, arm heavy over her middle, listening to the clock and her breath, and the storm outside. My hand spreads over her belly, thumb tracing the waistband of her shorts. I’m not a sentimental man, but there’s something sacred about this—her bare skin under my palm, the hush of her sleep, the way her body curves into mine like it never belonged anywhere else.

I want to wake her up. I want to slide my hand lower, make her beg and cry and take it all, sick or not. But I keep my hand where it is, just feeling the heat of her through the cotton, thinking about what’s inside. If she’s not pregnant yet, it’s a fucking miracle. I never pulled out, not once. If there’s any justice in the world, my cum’s already done its job.

I want to see it—her with a belly, her tits swollen, her body soft and ruined by me. I want her bratty as ever, bitching about her back and her cravings, while I buy her everything she points at and eat her out until she screams. I want her so full of me she can’t think straight.

But I want her here for good. Not just a bed warmer, not just a plaything. I want her in my house, my name on her tongue, my child in her. I want her to have nowhere else to run when the hormones hit and her body betrays her. I want her to need me. Depend on me. Fucking addicted to me.

I hold her all night, counting the heartbeats and the tiny twitches. Around four in the morning she wakes up enough to roll over, presses her face into my chest, and mutters something that sounds like “asshole” before drifting off again.

An hour later, I finally get up and leave her a delicious little pile in the middle of my bed before making my way downstairs. I have things to do and plans to make.

Once I focus, nothing and no one can stop me. They can’t tell me no. All cave to me, it’s one of my best fucking assets.

Chapter 16

Contessa

I’m running fifteen minutes late to brunch because Rocco refused to go over the speed limit once we got out of the traffic jam we were stuck in. Natalia hasn’t messaged me yet, so hopefully she’s too busy flirting to notice my absence just yet.

Rocco double-parks directly in front of the restaurant, ignores the cued-up BMW behind us, and gets out to open my door like I’m the fucking pope. I shoot him a look but Rocco only grins and holds out his hand. He’s fifty and built like a block of granite, and for a second I imagine what it would be like to have him as a bodyguard instead of a mafia chauffeur who’s probably seen more murders than I’ve had orgasms.

“Thank you, Rocco,” I say, careful not to let my sarcasm show. “I’ll only be two hours.”

He does a little bow and says, “Text Signor Marino when you’re ready, Miss Gallo.” Then he slides back into the car and just sits there, engine running, like a weirdly wholesome stalker. I swear, Matteo’s guys don’t know how to be subtle.