Wicked Dix (Hard Love Romance #2)

by Monica James

  “Hello, how may I help you?” asks a young nurse behind a glass alcove.

  Dixon removes his glasses, his blue eyes appearing crystal under the fluorescent lights. “My name is Dixon Mathews. I’m here to see Pino Di Matteo.”

  “Are you family?”

  Dixon clears his throat. “Yes. I am his son.”

  I remain motionless while the blonde nurse smiles, slipping a sign-in book through the panel under the window. “Will you please both sign in, and I’ll organize visitor’s badges.”

  Dixon scribbles his name and moves to the side so I can do the same. I can feel the heat radiating off of him, but I tell myself to focus because I’m intrigued about why we’re here. The nurse hands us our passes and gives us directions to his room.

  Dixon’s hands are dug deep into his jeans pockets as we silently make our way down the hall. The cleanliness is harsh and sterile, and the further we descend, the more obvious it becomes that the name of this place is indeed deceptive. People sit, staring into vast nothingness as we walk past them, not appearing to even register where they are, or that most are sitting in pajamas at two in the afternoon.

  As we reach a doorway, a guard presses a computerized panel and lets us into a section which thankfully isn’t as bad as the one we just walked through. The doors in this ward aren’t locked and the atmosphere isn’t as barren. There are arts and crafts scattered along the walls, but some of the works look to have been made by young children. Where are we?

  Stopping outside of room fifty-nine, Dixon takes a deep breath. He doesn’t hide his uneasiness and I suddenly understand why we’re here. In this circumstance, Dixon’s actions amount to a thousand words. He’s allowing me access into his most vulnerable reality, opening up a piece of himself that I know he hasn’t revealed to anyone else before. I’ve shared my secrets, and now, it’s time for him to do the same.

  I want to reach for his hand, but I don’t. I, better than anyone, know that something like this needs to be done with both feet firmly cemented to the ground. His heavy breathing and transfixed stare reveals he almost certainly hasn’t seen his father since the day he left him here.

  A small part of me weeps for the man who isn’t as invincible as he wants the world to think.

  He hesitates one final time before he steps forward and walks into his father’s bedroom. I follow but give him some breathing room, not wanting to smother him. The room is modestly decorated with a single bed, bedside table, and a small table and chair. I can’t help but feel this space is bare not because there is no room, but rather the simple man sitting in a tattered brown lounge chair in front of the bay window doesn’t have the need for such fancy riches. He’s content with a good view and the silence.

  “Ciao, Papà.”

  The already stagnant silence becomes deathly still, and I can suddenly hear the beating of a heart—but it’s not mine, it’s Dixon’s.

  Dixon’s father doesn’t stir. He continues gazing out the window, not appearing to even register his son’s presence.

  Dixon runs a hand through his hair, fisting the longer locks tightly. “Papà, sono io. Your son.”

  The desperation and the plea to be acknowledged is obvious in his voice, but sadly the plea falls on deaf ears. Dixon turns to look at me, appearing mortified by his father’s blatant disregard. Impulsively, I extend my hand. He peers down at it, surprised by the offering, but after a few seconds, he takes it loosely and smiles. I’m providing him with the strength he so often gives me.

  He squeezes my fingers lightly before letting go. “Well, you said you wanted to meet my dad…” He sweeps his hand toward his motionless father, looking defeated. “Here he is.”

  I realize I still haven’t said a word. But what can I say? Nothing I say will make any of this go away. So I say nothing at all.

  Dixon slumps onto the small bed, cradling his face in his hands. I can only imagine how hard this is for him, so I give him some space.

  I walk over to a small shelf, looking at the dusty photo frames sitting along the ledge. When I see the intelligent eyes of a young Pino Di Matteo staring back at me, I understand where Dixon got his brains from. When I move onto the next picture, however, I can see where Dixon got his looks from. Not that his father is unattractive, but his mother was a true beauty, and if I didn’t know better, I’d say she was Sophia Loren’s sister. With long black hair, sultry blue eyes and a pin-up model’s figure, she would have turned the heads of all the boys. But it was Pino Di Matteo who caught her eye. Not that it surprises me, because his son has done the same to me. I continue gazing down the shelf, surprised not to see any pictures of Dixon. However, when a downturned frame catches my eye, I know whose picture sits in the wooden frame.

  The gesture is symbolic in so many ways and that symbolism is not lost on Dixon. “I deserve that,” he says, cutting through the stillness of the room. “I left him here to rot.”

  I turn over my shoulder to look at him. Wishing my first words had a little more meaning, I offer, “Maybe it fell over?” But we both know that’s not true.

  Without thinking, I reach for the frame, unable to stomach the sad look on Dixon’s face a moment longer. However, I suddenly stop when, from the corner of my eye, I see Pino’s head shift. My hands are still mid-reach, but I can’t move. I’m totally entranced by Pino as he turns slowly and locks those blue, soulful eyes with mine.

  Pino is still a handsome man with a full head of thick gray hair and strong features akin to Dixon. “H-hello, Mr. Di Matteo.” I turn to face him completely. “My name is Madison Roberts. I’m…I’m Dixon’s—” I look at Dixon, who lowers his eyes. “I’m Dixon’s girlfriend,” I declare softly. Dixon’s head snaps up and, just like that, his vulnerability is replaced with joy.

  Yes, I may be quick to forgive, but this is exactly what I needed. I needed this from Dixon. I needed him to stop being so damn invincible and let me be the one who comforts him for a change.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I conclude before walking over to Pino. I feel incredibly rude standing over him, so I bend down and give his smooth cheek a light kiss. I hope I haven’t crossed any lines, but he’s Italian and I figure this is standard practice when saying hello.

  His eyes are still pinned to mine when I pull away, but the look doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable. It’s as if he’s studying every inch of my face.

  “Your wife was very beautiful. What was her name?” I ask, hoping to make a connection.

  He remains mute, however, and turns to look back out the window.

  “Her name was Angela,” Dixon replies in place of his father. “And you’re right, she was very beautiful—inside and out.”

  I nod.

  The stony quiet returns, so I too look out the window, wondering what Pino’s view is like. His room overlooks a small veggie patch and greenhouse. With all the greenness and fertility, I can see why he’s so intrigued by the view.

  “We used to have the most amazing veggie patch at home.” I jump, startled that Dixon is behind me, as I didn’t hear him move. “It was my father’s pride and joy. He’d spend hours out there, tending to his garden. Wouldn’t you, Papà?”

  Silence.

  I know Dixon is trying, but his father appears to be as stubborn and headstrong as his son. Whatever issues they have, his father won’t easily forgive him.

  By Dixon’s heavy sigh, he knows it too. “I’m sorry, Papà. I truly am. I messed up. I didn’t know what to do after Mamma died. It’s no excuse, but I’m here now. I want to make amends for the mistakes I’ve made.” With one final breath he confesses, “I’ll keep trying until you forgive me.”

  I bite my lip, his words reflecting our situation also.

  But his father merely peers out the window. He could cuss him out, tell him what a disappointment of a son he is, but his silence speaks volumes. There is no greater punishment than silence.

  Dixon doesn’t back down, however. He rounds his father’s chair and crouches down in front of him. “
You can ignore me all you want, but I don’t give up on the people I love.” He meets my eyes briefly while my cheeks heat. “I learned that from you. Ciao, Papà. I’ll see you next week.” He slowly rises and bends forward to kiss his unmoved father on the brow. He brushes past me and exits without a word.

  I’m left standing, incredibly touched by what I just witnessed. With Dixon’s words ringing loudly in my ears, I bid Pino farewell. “Goodbye, Mr. Di Matteo. It was lovely meeting you.” I turn to leave but abruptly stop, as I’m unable to depart without letting him know how I feel. “Your son…he’s a good man. I hope you can see that again,” I whisper, totally out of line.

  Just as I’m about to apologize for speaking on matters I have no right to be speaking about, I notice something which has me blinking twice. At first I think the bright sunshine has distorted my vision but, as I take a closer look, I see that what I’m witnessing is really there.

  A single tear falls from Pino’s eye—a tear of hope.

  Without making a commotion, I quietly walk to the shelf. With trembling fingers, I gently flip over the frame and rub my palm over the dusty glass. What I see brings tears to my own eyes. This snapshot into the Di Matteo family is a happy one—one that will never be relived. It’s a photo of two proud, loving parents holding their newborn baby boy.

  Silently placing the frame upright, I exit, determined to make everything whole again.

  12

  I’m Yours

  DIXON

  Well, if Madison didn’t think I was a complete asshole already, she sure as shit does now.

  I brought her here because I wanted to share this part of me with her. A part I’ve never shared with anyone before. I wanted to show her how much she means to me because words are not enough. Instead, I’ve shown her the weak, selfish, cowardly bastard that I am by leaving my father in here to rot.

  Taking a drag of my cigarette, I don’t hear Maddy until she rounds the corner of the small garden shed I’m hiding behind. Pathetic. I can’t even face her. She stands a few feet away, watching me closely—waiting for me to explain.

  Exhaling deeply, I confess, “Madison, I’m so sorry. For everything. This is who I am.” I thump my chest forcefully. “I’m weak, I’m selfish, and I’m a coward. I deserve every bullshit thing that has happened to me because I’m not a good man. This was a mistake. I’m sorry.”

  I flick my cigarette into the dirt, ready to hightail it back to Manhattan and drown my miseries in a bottle of scotch, but stop when Maddy takes a step forward. I watch, confused. Why is she blocking my exit? Does she not want me to leave?

  “Madison…?” She continues staring at me, her emerald eyes wide. “Is everything—” But I don’t have a chance to finish. She suddenly springs at me, catching me completely off-guard. I catch her, desperately searching her face for answers.

  She makes her intentions clear a second later when she seals her lips to mine. I can’t keep up with the frantic rhythm of her kisses, but I don’t care. I let her dominate me because it’s what we both want.

  She pushes me backwards, my back crashing against the rough wooden door, the prickles adding to the heightened sensation of Maddy fucking my mouth with hers. I don’t know what’s come over her, but I don’t question it. It’s what I’ve been dreaming about and craving since she left my side.

  She claws at me, crazed to close the already diminutive distance between us, and I comply. I frantically scoop her up into my arms and she wraps her legs around my waist. My cock has been starved and it demands to be fed. Maddy groans low when she feels me pressing against her quivering hot center. She wants this as much as I do.

  Blindly searching for the door handle, I celebrate when it turns with a creaky whine. I lead us into the shed, spinning around quickly so it’s now her turn to be imprisoned as I slam her up against the door. We’re kissing madly, and the longer I kiss her, the harder I become. The throb is almost unbearable; I know this time around, it’s not going anywhere until I come.

  She’s pressed flat against my chest, her frenzied heartbeat in song with mine. I’m certain nothing has ever felt this good. But when she slips a hand between us and strokes my hard-on, the thought dies in my pants and I’m proven wrong.

  Like a typical male, I can’t do two things at once. My kisses become slow and sluggish, as all I can focus on is her small hands on my cock.

  “Oh, fuck, Maddy.”

  My heated curse encourages her and she rubs even harder. I haven’t seen her newfound confidence often, but I like it—a lot.

  I pull back, needing to look into her eyes, needing to read what’s going through her mind.

  “Does this feel okay?” she breathlessly pants against my lips.

  “Yes.”

  That single word spurs her on and she continues stroking me wickedly.

  I’ve never been a fan of hand jobs. I mean, there are so many other jobs I would prefer. But that was before I felt Maddy’s tiny hand wrap around my dick.

  “Dixon,” she whispers, while I almost come when she squeezes me hard. “Can I go down on you?”

  Those six words, in that particular order, are now my most favorite words. But the fact we’re in a garden shed no bigger than a closet has my sexually charged mind realizing that I can’t allow this angelo to give her first blowjob in a room filled with sharp garden tools and manure.

  “Not here.”

  She sighs, and just like that, I watch her confidence wash away.

  “I just don’t want you on your knees in this filth,” I quickly explain, not wanting to spoil the moment.

  “Stop it.”

  I arch a brow. “Stop what?”

  “Stop wrapping me in cotton wool.” She slides down my body, placing her feet steadily on the ground.

  “You’re angry at me for being concerned about your personal hygiene?”

  Her mouth twitches. “Stop putting me on a pedestal. I’m not fragile. And I’m not perfect. Nobody is.” Is this her way of saying she forgives me? “So shut up, Dr. Mathews. This is happening.”

  Well, who am I to argue with that?

  “C’mon then, Ms. Roberts.” Leaning forward, I whisper, “It’s time for you to put your money where your mouth will be.”

  She blushes a lovely pink and the sight gets me even more wound up than I already am.

  She’s nervous, so I will try and respect her wishes and allow her to take control. But when her pink tongue dances out to wet her bottom lip, I lose all restraint and take hold of the reins. I bend down slowly, watching her mounting breaths push out her gorgeous tits. I stop advancing forward only when we’re inches apart. Her harsh exhalations fan my face, and when I close the distance, her breaths intensify to a quicker pace.

  I cup her beautiful face with my palm and nuzzle her nose with mine. “You smell divine.”

  She fumbles when unfastening the button on my jeans. But her inexperience, strangely enough, is a heady rush of pleasure. She kisses me lightly while unzipping my fly. Her gasp reveals she’s found me standing at full salute. I didn’t bother with underwear, as my junk has been confined enough as it is.

  “Can I touch you?”

  “You don’t have to ask me. I’m yours. Touch me because you want to touch me, not because you asked.”

  My surrender provokes her inner vixen and she timidly slips a hand inside my pants. The moment she makes contact with my raging hard-on, I hum low, the feeling absolute fucking bliss. She wraps her fingers around me and strokes up and down my shaft. Her stilted, jolted movements have me pushing my hips forward, encouraging her to take control.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this,” she confesses in a small voice.

  “Don’t be silly. It feels…incredible.” I sigh, closing my eyes.

  “I just—you’re so big. I feel like I’m not doing it properly.”

  Those words are what every hot-blooded American male wants his girl to say when her hands are wrapped around his cock.

  Keeping my ragged breathing
under control, I suggest, “Try making a looser fist and relax your wrist.”

  “Like this?” she asks, doing as I instructed.

  “Yes, exactly like that.”

  She slackens her grip and begins moving up and down my dick, her confidence spiking. The friction is kind of rough, but I’m not going to stop her because I can feel her finding her rhythm.

  “You’re a good teacher, Dr. Mathews,” she breathlessly says, her strokes getting quicker and quicker.

  “It’s because you’re a good student, Ms. Roberts.” I swallow hard when she runs her thumb over my sensitive head.

  As great as this feels, if she wants to act on her request, she’d better do so soon because I’m seconds away from coming. Thankfully, she reads my desperation and stills. Before I can protest, she slips my jeans down and I spring to full attention.

  Opening my eyes, I watch as she swallows nervously. “Wow.”

  I would usually be filled with crude comments, but with Madison, I simply smile. Brushing my fingers through her hair, I give her an encouraging nod. She bites her lip and gulps before dropping to her knees in front of me. This sight is one I’ll cherish for the rest of my life.

  Her harsh breathing bathes my dick because she’s inches from taking me into her mouth. I can’t stand the wait any longer. I subtly shift my hips, begging her to put me out of my misery. She does. She looks up at me from under those long lashes and licks her lips before brushing back her hair and lowering her mouth onto me.

  The moment I feel her lips wrap around my throbbing head, I let out a low, animalistic groan. I have been waiting for this to happen for so very long, but my imagination pales in comparison to the real thing.

  She goes in too quick, too fast, and ends up gagging. She pulls back and leaves a quarter of me in her mouth and begins sucking slowly. She’s a fast learner.

  I bunch my hands into fists by my side, not wanting to force her into taking more of me than she’s ready to take. But she must be able to read my sexual anguish because the clever girl raises her hand and covers what she can’t take in her mouth with her palm.