Page 37 of Brutal Revenge

Our eyes lock in the dresser mirror, and I shift my focus to my suitcase. I refuse to contemplate what I just walked in on. I refuse to think abouthim. Anything I felt in that split second was nothing but shock—and maybe annoyance that my brain chosethatmoment to malfunction.

Whatever it was, it wasn’t real. Nothing I feel toward Matteo is real. It’s a strategy. A performance. A role I must play to keep a promise I made years ago.

The audience I’m aiming for isn’t him.

Straightening my spine, I shift into the version of myself I trust—the calculating one.

“We need to talk about the schedule.”

Matteo lifts a dark brow. “Schedule?”

“Yes. Schedule.” I pull a fresh pair of panties out of my suitcase, confident the ones I’m wearing needed changing long before I entered the bathroom. My dream wasthatvivid. “Anto...my ex... is scheduled to attend three events this week.” Ignoring the smugness radiating from Matteo that wordlessly announces Antonio’s schedule may havechanged since we last spoke, I continue. “That gives us three perfect opportunities for him to see us together.”

His jaw grinds with an irritation that his lack of reply doesn’t reveal.

I keep going.

“A charity dinner on Wednesday, a private function on Friday, and a gallery opening on Sunday.” I tick each one off on my fingers. “I want to be there, with you, in a way that’s impossible for him to ignore our connection.”

Matteo’s amused huff rustles my hair. “Connection?”

I lock eyes with him in the mirror, undeterred by his snarky tone. “If you want to pretend that while masturbating, you weren’t imagining me on my knees, sucking your dick, I can do the same, but that will just make liars out of us both.” I don’t sugarcoat it. “We have a sexual connection. I may not like that we do, but there’s no denying it.”

Matteo studies me, expression unreadable. I don’t flinch or look away, because this isn’t about us. It’s about Antonio and jealousy being a powerful weapon.

He doesn’t deny my claim.

He simply adds fuel to the fire.

“Has anyone ever told you you’re bossy when you’ve been denied?” My throat struggles to swallow as he flares his nostrils. “Did you come before you woke, or were you left hanging?—”

“As you left me hanging yesterday?” I interrupt, refusing to let him push the narrative of our exchange. “I didn’t dream last night… and even if I had, it most certainly wouldn’t have been about you.”

“Liar,” he murmurs, moving toward the spacious dressing room. He squashes together a row of clothes, pulls them off the rod in one swift motion, and then dumps them onto an oversized chaise. “If that’s not enough room for your things, I’ll have a maid pack away my summer clothes this afternoon.”

For three heart-thrashing seconds, I do nothing but stare. I lived with Antonio for two months, and not once did I consider unpacking my suitcase.

“I don’t need any space. I’m happy to live out of a suitcase.”

“Living out of a suitcase is temporary.” I don’t know where to look when Matteo slings off his towel to pull on a pair of jeans sans underwear. “If you want people to believe this”—after tucking away his dick, he waves his hand between us—“you need them to believe it’s permanent.”

To stop myself from groaning in disappointment at the fast rise of his zipper, which hides the cropped hairs on his groin, I nod nonchalantly.

“That should be plenty of room.” Needing to douse the fire roaring through me from his pleased grin, I gesture toward the bathroom. “I’m going to shower and get ready.”

I take two steps before the memory slams into me—his fat cock, his scent, the spasms.

I stop dead in my tracks, my outfit for the day shuddering in my hand. “Is there somewhere else I can shower?”

Matteo smirks at the tremor in my words and shakes his head. “No chance. All the bathrooms on this floor connect to a bedroom. You want this ruse to be authentic, don’t you,micina?” I sheepishly nod. “Then you’re going to need to suck it up and shower in the scent of my cum.”

I roll my eyes so hard it hurts before entering the bathroom for the fastest shower of my life. I’m in and out in under three minutes. Barely enough time to breathe, much less drink in his delicious scent.

When I return to the room, towel around my hair, Matteo is waiting, expression smug.

“That was quick,” he says, grinning.

I shoot him a riled look. “Can you talk? How many strokes did it take you to finish? Two? Three, perhaps?”