Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Rachel
"You're Rachel?" A woman rapped her knuckles on my desk.
I looked up. White suit, cinched waist, blond hair curled to perfection, even her earrings looked like they'd been plucked straight from a jewelry ad.
She scanned my screen first, then let her gaze settle on my face—the look you'd give a piece of furniture that didn't quite meet expectations.
"Yes." I nodded.
She dropped a folder on my desk, her tone dripping with contempt. "Reprint this."
I flipped it open. It was the final version confirmed ten minutes ago by the foundation, admin, and the hotel—all three parties. I'd even double-checked the page numbers.
"This has already been confirmed."
"I know." She frowned slightly. "I still want a new one."
"What needs to be changed?"
"Those fonts look messy, and the margins are all wrong. And Mrs. Catherine's table is buried at the bottom of page two—that's hardly appropriate. Move it to the first page and redo the layout."
I looked down again, checking carefully—this wasn't about process. She was nitpicking on purpose. But I didn't have time to play games with her.
"Fine."
I pulled the list, reformatted, rearranged, sent it to the print room, came back five minutes later with a fresh copy, and handed it to her. She took it, her eyes skimming my fingertips, then asked out of nowhere, "Are you always this obedient?"
"Work requires it."
She stared at me for two seconds, the corner of her mouth lifting. "Smart girl."
Then she turned and walked away, her heels muffled against the carpet but irritating nonetheless. I frowned but didn't dwell on it. The night before a major gala, everyone was wound tight as a wire. One touch and they'd snap. I'd rather spend my energy somewhere useful.
The internal line rang. I picked up, and Matteo's voice came through.
"Rachel. Go to my apartment now. Master bedroom closet, left side, second open rack. Charcoal suit, black garment bag. Take it straight to the hotel."
"Okay."
"Write down the address and entry code."
I grabbed a sticky note immediately. My hand holding the pen felt warm. This was his home. The place where he lived.
"Get back quickly."
The call ended. I stared at the note with the code for two seconds before folding it and tucking it into my bag. Luca happened to walk down the hall, walkie-talkie in hand. He saw me stand up and glanced at my bag.
"Got dispatched?"
"Picking up a suit."
Luca raised an eyebrow like he'd heard something amusing. "Oh? From his place?"
"Is there a problem?"
"Nope." He tossed me his car keys. "Just a heads-up—Cassius has a better temper than the boss, but not by much. If you get scratched, it counts as workers' comp."
"Thanks for the reassurance."
"Don't mention it. I'm charitable."
I rolled my eyes, grabbed the keys, and headed downstairs. At the red light, I couldn't help myself—I pulled out my phone. I'd only meant to check the fastest route from the gala hotel to the apartment, but what I typed into the search bar was the Vitale family.
The page loaded fast—family history, foundation news, shipping empire, charity galas, acquisitions...
mostly photos of Matteo. Him standing at a conference table listening to briefings, cutting ribbons at port projects, caught in candid shots at foundation receptions turning his head to listen to someone speak.
He always stood straight in photos, expression cold, features hard, suit buttoned to perfection. But the more restrained he was, the more magnetic, the more he made my heart lose control.
I zoomed in on one magazine photo. He sat in a high-backed chair, cuff pressed against his wrist bone, gaze cutting through the lens, making my chest tighten. A horn blared behind me, and I snapped out of it.
What are you doing, Rachel? You're just picking up a suit. One suit.
I shoved my phone back in my bag and started the car.
At the building entrance, the doorman had already been notified and swiped me straight into the penthouse elevator.
The moment I stepped inside, something soft and furry brushed against my leg.
I looked down. A long-haired gray cat sat on the entryway rug, eyes half-closed, yawning lazily, tail sweeping past my shoe like an aristocrat indifferent to newcomers.
"So you're Cassius." The metal tag on its neck glinted. I crouched down and extended the back of my hand.
"I'm just here to grab something. Not invading your territory." It sniffed my knuckles first, then graciously rubbed its face against me.
"Alright, you're easier to deal with than your owner."
The cat seemed to understand, turning and swishing its tail as it walked inside, stopping to look back at me after a few steps.
"Leading the way?"
No answer, of course. It just kept going.
I followed it through the living room straight to the master bedroom.
The door wasn't fully closed. I pushed it open a crack.
First, I saw the foot of the bed, then the closet area, then immediately spotted the suit hanging on the open rack.
Charcoal gray, black garment bag, position exact.
I walked over quickly and reached for it.
Just as I turned, something white at the edge of the bed caught my eye.
A white dress shirt. Casually draped over the foot of the bed, collar slightly open, cuffs loose—clearly changed out of this morning and not yet sent to be laundered.
I stood frozen. The room was so quiet even my breathing seemed too loud.
It must still carry his scent. That scent I'd smelled too many times yet still made my chest burn every time—cool woodsy notes, clean, rich, impossible to ignore.
I should leave immediately. Grab the suit, walk out, go downstairs, head to the hotel, and get through today. I did take a step toward the door. But then I stopped.
This is insane.
I stared at the shirt, my hands and feet moving toward it without permission. I bent down and picked it up. The fabric was soft. I brought my nose close to the collar, and that familiar scent immediately overwhelmed me. The back of my neck went numb.
"Just this once," I whispered to myself.
"One sniff and I'll put it back." But the next second, the shirt was already on me.
The shoulders were wide, sleeves long, hem falling past my knees—like being wrapped in his embrace.
I fumbled with the middle two buttons and stood barefoot in front of the full-length mirror.
The person in the reflection was so unfamiliar my ears burned hot. Hair slightly messy, face flushed, the oversized white shirt draped over me like I'd stolen someone's secret.
No, not just like. I was stealing.
My fingers gripped the hem, tighter and tighter. A voice in my head cursed me for being stupid, but another voice was more honest. You want him. Desperately.
I slowly sat on the edge of the bed, burying my nose in the collar, eyelashes lowering, breathing gradually unraveling.
That scent was too close, so close it was like he stood behind me, about to reach up and grip my waist, murmuring low, asking why my face was red again.
I closed my eyes, fingers instinctively clenching the shirt front. Then all restraint scattered.
My shoulders collapsed bit by bit, breathing faster and faster, my mind flooded with his eyes when he looked at me, him standing behind his desk rolling up his sleeves to sign documents, that moment pressed tight together in the elevator.
Rationality burned away, leaving only a ball of fire raging through my lower abdomen. I fell back onto the bed, his scent pouring from the shirt collar, the cuffs, every inch of fabric. My legs parted involuntarily, knees bending.
I closed my eyes, fingers pressing against my chest through the shirt.
My nipples were already hard and aching.
Through the thin fabric, I pinched one, gave it a light twist, and a current shot straight down.
Gasping, I unbuttoned two more buttons and slid my whole hand inside, grasping my left breast. The flesh was soft and hot, spilling over my palm.
I used my thumb to repeatedly brush the peak, imagining it was his fingers, his tongue, when he lowered his head to take it in his mouth.
"Matteo..."
My other hand was already moving down. Fingertips grazed my lower abdomen, then slipped beneath the edge of my underwear.
I was already soaking wet, the fabric stuck to my folds, sticky and hot.
I pushed the underwear aside, fingertips directly touching the swollen soft flesh.
My clit was hard like a small bead. I pressed it lightly with my middle finger and couldn't help but shudder.
Pleasure surged like a tide, wave after wave.
I put two fingers together, stroking back and forth along the slick folds, then pushed my index and middle fingers inside together. I bit my lower lip, but my hips arched up involuntarily, meeting my own fingers thrusting. Knuckles pumping in and out, bringing out more fluid.
"Ah... mm... Matteo..." I panted harder, my mind filled with his face. Right now, he was inside me, fingering me.
I pulled the shirt collar wider, buried my nose completely in it, inhaling his lingering cool woody scent deeply.
My fingers pumped faster, my other hand pinching my nipple hard.
I pressed my thumb on my clit, rubbing in circles roughly.
Pleasure stacked too high, too urgent, ready to explode.
My legs went rigid, toes curling against the sheets.
"I'm... I'm coming..."
At the final moment, my body arched sharply, like being struck by an electric current, trembling uncontrollably on the bed. From deep in my core, a hot surge spilled out, drenching my palm. I bit down hard on the shirt collar to keep from crying out.
Long after the climax passed, I still lay there gasping. The shirt was wrinkled, stained with my sweat and a bit of clear fluid from my fingers. I stared at the ceiling, corners of my eyes slightly damp.