Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Matteo
On the screen, the old guy in charge of shipping droned on about Panama Canal toll rates and next year's projected increases. The numbers on his PPT bounced around till my eyes hurt.
Forty minutes of this meeting. All bullshit.
I picked up the stone-cold coffee in front of me, about to down the last gulp, when my phone buzzed silently in my pocket.
I set down the cup and slid the phone under the table. A push notification from the apartment security system. I unlocked it and tapped the alert.
"Master Bedroom Camera 1 has been triggered."
Had to be Rachel. I meant to close it, but some impulse made me tap it open instead. I killed the volume. The screen lit up, buffered for two seconds, then sharpened from blur to crystal clear.
Sure enough—Rachel. That girl who usually couldn't even lift her head around me, whose voice came out quieter than a cat's, was kneeling right in the center of the frame, wrapped in my shirt.
The shoulder seam hung loose on her delicate frame. The sleeves covered her slender wrists. The hem fell past her knees. Those straight little legs practically glowed white.
Miles of smooth skin and the shallow valley between her breasts peeked out from the open collar. She faced the full-length mirror, eyes hazy, cheeks flushed, breathing quick and shallow. Her fingertips clutched the fabric. Her body trembled faintly.
My throat bobbed. My breathing hitched half a beat without permission.
I could almost hear the gasps she swallowed in her throat. She murmured something. I zoomed in. Her lips shaped my name.
Desire burned like molten rock, crawling from my gut straight to my throat. I angled the phone slightly. My other hand had already yanked down my zipper, gripping my cock—hard enough to ache. I stroked slowly, matching the rhythm of Rachel's movements on screen.
My hand moved faster, rougher. My thumb dragged over the sensitive tip again and again. I imagined that wet, tight heat wasn't her fingers but my thick, swollen cock driving into her over and over, fucking her till she sobbed.
"Rachel..." My hand flew faster. My palm slick with precum.
Her mouth opened and closed, repeating my name endlessly. Those green eyes brimmed with tears and lust. I clenched my jaw. My breathing came so ragged I could barely control it.
She finally came—body going rigid, belly clenching hard, mouth wide open like she was screaming my name. I bit back a low groan, hand jerking faster. Hot, thick cum spurted out in waves, splattering onto the carpet.
"Matteo, is there anything you'd like to add?"
All I wanted was to race back to the apartment, pin that reckless little thing to the bed, and show her in the most primal way possible that if she wore my shirt and used my bed, the only name she got to scream when she came was mine.
"Matteo?"
I snapped back. Killed the phone screen. Looked up.
"Meeting's over."
The executives exchanged confused glances but didn't dare ask questions. They just stood. I grabbed what was left of the cold coffee and drained it. The icy liquid slid down my throat but didn't touch the fire threatening to burn me alive.
I straightened my tie and strode out of the office. George intercepted me, voice low. "Something happened?"
"No."
"What's with the face? You look like you're about to fly to Sicily and collect a body."
I stopped and looked back at him. "George, you got too much free time lately?"
He threw up his hands immediately. "Okay, okay, forget I asked. I'm here to tell you the gala starts at seven. Car's waiting downstairs at five-thirty."
"Got it."
I didn't bother with him further and headed straight to my office. The second the door closed, I pulled out my phone again. On the surveillance feed, Rachel had sat up on the bed, frantically pulling off my shirt and tidying up in a panic before fleeing the bedroom like her life depended on it.
Sweet little thing. Offering herself up like that—did she really think she could run?
By the time the gala hit the singles auction segment, the room buzzed with heat.
A parade of overdressed socialites got called onstage one by one, and the men below circled like sharks scenting blood, waving their paddles, driving the bids into absurd territory.
I had zero interest. The whole thing was boring and fake.
I tilted my chin toward George. "Go arrange the car. Then get Rachel and tell her we're leaving."
George nodded and turned to go. But the emcee's voice boomed out in that obnoxious theatrical tone. The next second, her name blared through the microphone, clear as day.
"Let's welcome—Rachel Kane!"
My feet locked to the floor. I whipped around. The spotlights darted around the ballroom like confused insects before finally landing on a frozen silhouette near the side curtain.
From a nearby booth, Samantha Ashford raised her champagne flute, smirking at the cluster of heiresses beside her.
The crowd below started hooting.
"How much?"
"Ten thousand! I'll buy her a drink with me!"
"Twenty! I need a date tonight anyway!"
The emcee grinned smugly.
"Starting bid is fifty thousand, gentlemen! A girl this pretty is worth way more than just a drink!"
My fingers tightened around the glass till I nearly cracked it. Then a figure in the front row raised his paddle.
"A hundred thousand."
Charles. My idiot nephew actually had the gall to join this circus. He turned and shot me a smug look, eyebrow raised, as if to say, "Watch. She'll be mine."
Perfect. Every single one of them had a death wish.
"Five million."
The entire ballroom went silent. Every head swiveled toward me like I'd just strangled the air out of the room.
Shock plastered across every face. Charles's smirk froze mid-expression.
Samantha's champagne sloshed out of her glass—she didn't even notice.
The emcee stood there with his mouth hanging open, speechless.
I set down my paddle and cut through the crowd in long strides, heading straight for Rachel. She stood rooted to the spot, staring at me with panic and confusion swimming in her eyes.
I reached out and took her cold, trembling hand. "Let's go."
I pulled her along, not looking back once at that room full of stupidity and malice. Luca had the car ready. When he saw me leading Rachel out, he didn't ask a single question—just opened the door for us and murmured low.
"I'll handle things inside."
I nodded once and tucked Rachel into the car.
On the drive back to the apartment, Rachel kept her head down, fingers twisting the hem of her dress, not saying a word.
She was probably terrified. I watched her pale profile and the faint tremor in her shoulders, and that nameless fire inside me flared hotter.
If I'd marked her sooner, made it clear she was mine, none of tonight's shit would've happened. A strand of hair slipped loose by her face. I reached over and tucked it behind her ear without thinking.
My fingertips grazed her earlobe. She flinched like I'd burned her. I withdrew my hand. Said nothing.
The car stopped outside the apartment building. I led her upstairs and swiped us in. Cassius leaped off the couch with a soft meow and wound himself around Rachel's legs.
What a traitor. Seen her once and already acting like she owned him.
Rachel crouched down, absentmindedly scratching under his chin. I walked over, bent down, and scooped the cat away, depositing him on the couch.
"Come here. There's a file you didn't finish this afternoon. It's in the bedroom."
Confusion flickered across her face, but she stood obediently and followed me toward the master bedroom. It was a terrible excuse, but she followed anyway.
Only the bedside lamp was on. The light was dim. That white shirt she'd worn earlier still lay quietly at the foot of the bed. Her gaze lingered on it for a split second before her cheeks flamed like they'd been set on fire. She finally understood. Her feet shuffled backward instinctively.
"Mr. Vitale, if there's nothing else, I-I should go."
"Go?" I shut the bedroom door behind us and locked it. "Where exactly?"
I advanced step by step. She backed up until the cold wall stopped her. Nowhere left to run.
"You've got guts, Rachel." I planted my hand on the wall beside her face. "Wearing my shirt. Touching yourself in my bed."
Her head snapped up. Her eyes filled with horror and disbelief. Her lips trembled.
"I-I don't know what you're talking about..."
"You don't?"
I let out a low laugh and pulled my phone from my suit pocket. Opened the encrypted security app. Pulled up that afternoon's footage. To make sure she got a good look, I even turned on the sound.
Her choked gasps. The soft, broken moans as her fingers worked between her legs. That final sob-laced cry when she came—all of it amplified through the phone's speaker, filling the silent room.
Rachel's face shifted in an instant—white to red, then red to a dark crimson.
"No... stop!"
She shrieked and lunged for my phone.
But there was no way in hell I'd let her. I caught both her slender wrists in one hand and pinned them high above her head against the wall.
"Let me go! Turn that off!"
She thrashed beneath me, but her strength was nothing—felt more like flirting than fighting. I leaned down, buried my face in the curve of her neck, my hot breath washing over her skin. She shook harder.
I bit down lightly on her earlobe.
"Mm—"
She moaned. Her body went soft instantly. I used my teeth to tease that delicate lobe, feeling it swell and heat between my lips, then murmured my command against her ear.
"Watch. Watch yourself lose control."
"Watch how you lay in my bed, thinking about me, and made a mess of yourself."
The video still looped on my phone. Her moans played like the filthiest soundtrack. Warm liquid slid from the corner of her tightly shut eyes, trailing down her temple and disappearing into her hair.