The Monaco Scandal

“Clothes. Off.” He pulled my t-shirt over my head, tossing it aside. My bra followed, and then his hands were on my bare skin, hot and calloused and perfect.

I reached behind me, fumbling with the button of his jeans. He batted my hands away, shoving his jeans and boxers down his hips in one smooth motion. I heard the crinkle of a condom wrapper, the snap of latex, and then his hands were back on me, yanking down my leggings and panties.

We fell onto the bed in a tangle of limbs, all groping hands and hungry mouths. Matteo kissed me like he was starving, like I was the last meal he’d ever have. I kissed him back just as desperately, my nails raking down his back, my legs wrapping around his hips.

“Please,” I panted, breaking the kiss. “Please, I need you inside me.”

He didn’t make me wait. He notched the head of his cock against my entrance and thrust home with one hard snap of his hips. I cried out, my back arching off the bed, my nails digging into his shoulders.

“Fuck,” he gritted out, his forehead pressed to mine. “You feel incredible.”

I could only nod, my breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He started to move, slow, deep thrusts that had me seeing stars. His pelvis dragged over my clit with every stroke, winding me tighter and tighter.

“More,” I begged, my hips rising to meet his. “Harder.”

He obliged, snapping his hips faster, harder, the bed creaking beneath us. The room filled with the sounds of sex—our harsh breathing, the slap of flesh against flesh, the wet suck of my body gripping his.

“Look at me,” Matteo demanded, his hand fisting in my hair. “I want to see you.”

I forced my eyes open, my gaze locking with his. What I saw there stole my breath—raw possession, fierce tenderness, a desire so intense it bordered on reverence.

“Matteo,” I whispered, my voice breaking.

He crushed his mouth to mine, kissing me deep and dirty. His other hand slid between us, finding my clit and circling it with his thumb. I flew apart with a scream, my body clamping down on his cock like a vise.

He followed me over the edge a moment later, my name a guttural groan on his lips. We rode out our orgasms together, shaking and sweating and clinging to each other like we’d never let go.

When the last aftershocks had faded, Matteo pulled out of me and collapsed onto the bed beside me. He got rid of the condom and then gathered me into his arms, my back to his front, his chin resting on the top of my head.

“Wow,” he murmured, his voice thick with satisfaction.

I laughed, the sound hoarse and sated. “Wow is right.”

He pressed a kiss to my temple. “You okay?”

I nodded, snuggling deeper into his embrace. “Better than okay.”

“Good.” He hugged me tighter. “Get some sleep, bella. I’ll wake you when we get to St. Tropez.”

I didn’t think I’d be able to sleep, but the combination of the adrenaline crash and the afterglow of the best sex of my life pulled me under. When I woke, it was to the gentle sway of the yacht at anchor and the first pink streaks of dawn painting the sky outside the windows.

Matteo was still asleep beside me, his face relaxed and younger-looking in repose. I watched him for a long moment, my heart squeezing in my chest. I was in trouble. Big, stupid, wonderful trouble.

Because somewhere between the storm and the sex, I’d done the one thing I swore I’d never do.

I’d fallen in love with Matteo Pedone.

We made love twice more before the sun fully rose, each time slower and sweeter than the last. By the time we finally dragged ourselves out of bed, the yacht was buzzing with activity as the crew prepared to hand it over to Matteo’s client.

I took the world’s fastest shower, pulling on the same clothes from the day before and finger-combing my sex-snarled hair. When I emerged from the bathroom, Matteo was already dressed, looking frustratingly put-together despite our lack of sleep.

“You look beautiful,” he said, crossing the room to pull me into his arms.

I snorted. “I look like I’ve been thoroughly debauched.”

He grinned, his eyes twinkling. “That too.” He dropped a quick kiss on my lips. “Come on, let’s get you fed before I have to play captain.”

We ate a quick breakfast on the sun deck, the sky now a clear, cloudless blue. It was hard to believe that just hours ago, we’d been battling a storm that felt like it might capsize us at any moment.

After breakfast, Matteo had to go meet with his client, leaving me to my own devices. I spent the morning exploring St. Tropez, wandering the narrow, cobblestoned streets and browsing the chic boutiques. Everywhere I looked, there were reminders of the life I was trying to escape—designer labels, luxury cars, the kind of wealth that most people could only dream of.

It was a stark contrast to the simple, honest life Matteo led. A life I was starting to crave more than I’d ever craved anything.

We had lunch at a tiny café tucked away from the main thoroughfare, the tables spilling out onto the sidewalk. Matteo was quiet, his gaze distant as he picked at his food.

“Everything okay?” I asked, reaching across the table to squeeze his hand.

He blinked, seeming to come back to himself. “Yeah. Sorry. Just…thinking.”

“About what?” I prompted, my stomach clenching with sudden nerves.

He hesitated, then shook his head. “Nothing important.” He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Tell me more about your consulting work. What’s that like?”

I forced a smile of my own, launching into a carefully rehearsed spiel about the joys of corporate finance. It all tasted like ash in my mouth.

The trip back to Monaco was quiet, the easy camaraderie we’d shared on the way to St. Tropez replaced by a strange tension. Matteo was polite, even solicitous, but the playful, flirty man I’d fallen for had vanished, replaced by a cool, distant stranger.

By the time we docked in Monaco, I was a mess of anxiety and self-doubt. Had I done something wrong? Had the reality of what we’d done caught up with him? Was he having second thoughts about getting involved with a woman he barely knew?

I got my answer as soon as we stepped off the yacht. A horde of paparazzi was waiting for us, cameras flashing and microphones thrusting forward. I froze, my heart leaping into my throat.

“Alessia!” they screamed. “Alessia, over here! Who’s your new man? Give us a smile!”

I instinctively grabbed for Matteo’s hand, but he pulled away, his expression hardening. He turned to me, his eyes chips of ice.

“You’re Alessia Cecchi,” he said, his voice flat. “The hotel heiress.”

I swallowed hard, nodding. “Yes.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me that? Before I took you home to meet my family? Before I fell in love with you?”

I flinched, the word “love” hitting me like a physical blow. “I’m sorry,” I whispered. “I was going to tell you, I just—”

“Save it,” he snapped, cutting me off. “I don’t want to hear it.” He turned on his heel and stalked off, leaving me alone to face the snapping cameras and shouted questions.

I stood there for a long moment, my heart shattering in my chest. Then, squaring my shoulders, I pushed through the crowd and headed for my hotel.

I’d known this day would come. I’d known that eventually, my past would catch up with me. But I’d hoped—I’d so hoped—that when it did, Matteo would be by my side.

Instead, I was alone. Just like always.

I didn't sleep that night. I tossed and turned in my cold, empty bed, replaying every moment with Matteo over and over in my head. The way he'd looked at me on the yacht, like I was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. The way he'd touched me, like he couldn't get enough. The way he'd said he loved me, only to throw it back in my face when he found out who I really was.

I should have known better. I should have known that a man like Matteo—proud, principled, working-class—would never understand my world. The wealth, the privilege, the constant scrutiny. The way I'd had to hide behind aliases and carefully constructed lies just to have a chance at a normal life.

But I'd been selfish. I'd wanted him, and I'd taken what I wanted without thinking about the consequences. And now I was paying the price.

The next morning dawned gray and drizzly, a perfect match for my mood. I forced myself out of bed and into the shower, hoping the hot water would wash away some of the misery. It didn't.