Strip You Naked-R+18

Prologue

The mahogany doors of the executive suite on the fortieth floor heavy-thudded shut, sealing in the scent of aged espresso, expensive leather, and a very specific kind of aristocratic panic.

Katarina Meneses didn't look up from her tablet. Her fingers—neatly manicured, free of chipped polish—continued typing the revised Q3 logistics report at a steady, rhythmic clip. She had survived three years working under the elder Lorenzo Orsini, a man who threw glass ashtrays when the stock dipped. Surviving the son wouldn't be much different. Or so she told herself every morning as she rode the subway from her modest, thirty-square-meter apartment in the city's older district.

"He's coming," whispered Clara, the junior receptionist, sliding into the seat beside Katarina’s desk with wide eyes. "I saw him step out of the private elevator. The temperature in the lobby literally dropped five degrees, Kat. I swear he hasn't smiled since 2022."

Katarina finally raised her eyes, offering a calm, professional smile that never quite reached her observant brown eyes. "Thank you, Clara. If you could forward the vendor contracts for the Milan expansion before lunch, I’d appreciate it."

"You're unbelievable," Clara muttered, shaking her head. "Matteo Orsini eats executives for breakfast. You’ve been his father’s secretary, but Matteo is... a whole different breed. High fashion models throw themselves at him, and he looks at them like they're mildly annoying insects."

"Good thing I’m not a model," Katarina replied dryly, locking her screen. "I'm a senior executive secretary. And my job description hasn't changed just because the name on the door did."

A sharp rap on the inner office door broke the silence. Without waiting for a response, the door swung open.

Matteo Orsini stood in the frame. At thirty-two, he possessed the kind of striking, sharp-edged Italian-Filipino features that graced the covers of international luxury magazines—tall, broad-shouldered, with raven hair pushed back carelessly and stormy gray eyes that looked permanently exhausted by incompetence. He wore a bespoke charcoal suit, the jacket unbuttoned, his tie slightly loosened.

He looked at Katarina like she was an obstacle in his path.

"Miss Meneses," his voice was a deep, velvet baritone, laced with frost. "My coffee is cold. And my desk is covered in three weeks of my father’s sentimental clutter. Clear it."

Katarina stood up, smoothing down her slate-gray pencil skirt. She picked up a fresh cup of espresso from the side tray—brewed precisely at eighty-five degrees with a double ristretto shot, just the way the Orsini men preferred it—and handed it to him without a flinch.

"Good morning, Mr. Orsini. Your father's personal archives were moved to the archival vault on the fourteenth floor at 7:00 AM. Your new schedule is synced to your iPad, and the board members are waiting for you in Conference Room A in exactly twelve minutes."

Matteo stopped, his fingers brushing against the warm ceramic of the coffee cup. He stared down at her, his jaw tightening. Most people—men and women alike—either stuttered, blushed, or nervously smoothed their clothes when he loomed over them. Katarina simply met his gaze, her expression a masterclass in polite neutrality.

"You didn't ask how I slept," he noted, a cynical edge to his tone.

"Given the dark circles under your eyes and the fact that you flew in from the Milan headquarters at midnight, I assumed the answer was 'poorly'," Katarina replied smoothly, checking her wristwatch. "Shall I prepare a double espresso for your 2:00 PM strategy meeting as well, sir?"

Matteo narrowed his eyes, taking a slow sip of the coffee. For a fraction of a second, a flicker of surprise crossed his face—the coffee was, irritatingly, perfect.

"Ten minutes, Miss Meneses," he said coldly, turning on his heel. "Don't be late."

As the heavy glass door clicked shut behind him, Katarina let out a quiet breath, sat back down at her desk, and picked up her pen.

Day one, she thought to herself, checking off the first item on her master checklist. He hasn't fired me yet. Progress.

The storm had hit the city around eight in the evening, painting the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the executive floor with streaks of heavy gray rain.

Katarina stared at her desktop screen, her hands pausing on the keyboard. It was almost ten o’clock. Most of the floor was completely pitch-black, save for the ambient desk lamp at her workstation and the amber glow emanating from Matteo’s private corner office.

She tightened the buttons of her cream cardigans, trying to ignore the sudden flutter in her chest.

Truth be told, Katarina was deliberately keeping her distance. Working for Lorenzo Orsini had been straightforward—he was an old-school patriarch, loud and demanding, but predictable. Matteo, however, was a completely different story.

Every time Matteo looked at her, his intense gray eyes seemed to slice right through her crisp, professional armor. It wasn't just his cold authority; it was the sheer, suffocating intensity of his gaze. He didn't just glance—he observed. He noted the slight twitch of her fingers, the way her posture stiffened whenever he leaned over her desk to sign a document, or how she instinctively took half a step backward whenever he got too close.

At thirty, Katarina had never actually been in a real relationship. She had always wanted love, the cozy, quiet kind of companionship she saw in romance novels, but life had simply gotten in the way. Supporting herself, building her emergency savings fund peso by peso, and keeping up with the relentless demands of a corporate career left zero room for dating.

And now, being stranded late at night with a man who looked like he belonged on a luxury billboard—and who stared at her as if she were a riddle he was determined to solve—was testing her composure.

A harsh metallic clash broke the quiet, followed by a muted curse from inside the private office.

Katarina immediately stood up, smoothing her skirt, and hurried toward the door. She knocked lightly twice. "Mr. Orsini? Is everything alright?"

"Enter," his voice growled through the heavy wood, sounding frayed and unusually tense.

When Katarina pushed the door open, her breath caught.

The immaculate desk was a battleground of open files, blueprint rolls, and a shattered tablet resting face-down on the polished marble floor. Matteo was standing near the center window, his suit jacket abandoned over a leather sofa. His white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing structured wrists and dark hair. He was pacing, a hand dragged through his messy raven locks.

"The Asian market merger," Matteo bit out, his tone sharp enough to cut glass. "The Singapore legal team just flagged a breach clause in section four. If we don't renegotiate the terms and send the signed addendum before their 9:00 AM board meeting tomorrow, the entire deal collapses."

Katarina instantly switched into operational mode, stepping around the broken tablet. "That gives us less than six hours. I’ll dial Mr. Chen’s private line in Singapore right now."

"He’s already on a flight back from London," Matteo muttered darkly, crossing the room until he stopped merely inches away from her. "The hard copy of the draft is in my father's old locked briefcase in the lower archive. The digital server locked me out because of an authorization glitch."

He leaned down slightly, his height completely dwarfing her. His scent—woodsmoke, bergamot, and pure rain—washed over her senses. His sharp eyes bore into hers, dark and piercing.

"I need that file, Miss Meneses," he said softly, his voice dropping an octave, low and magnetic. "And I need you to go through the redlines with me. Can you handle working through the night with me?"

Katarina felt her pulse spike. She instinctively took a small, cautious step back, clutching her notepad like a shield against her chest.

Matteo’s eyes tracked her tiny movement. He caught the subtle retreat, his brow furrowing as a dark spark of curiosity flickered in his gaze.

"You're flinching," he murmured, stepping forward to close the distance she had just created. "Why do you keep pulling away, Katarina?"

It was the first time he had ever called her by her first name.

"I'm not flinching, sir," Katarina stammered politely, keeping her chin raised despite the fierce heat creeping up her neck. "I am simply keeping a respectful, professional distance."

"Is that what it is?" Matteo leaned in closer, his eyes scanning her face, pausing briefly on her parted lips before fixing back onto her brown eyes. "Because every time I look at you, you look like you're trying to escape."

"I... I am just not accustomed to your working style yet, Mr. Orsini," she lied smoothly, trying desperately to sound unaffected. "I will fetch the key to the lower archive immediately."

Before she could turn away, Matteo reached out, his long fingers lightly catching the edge of her cardigan sleeve—not holding her tightly, but just enough to make her stop in her tracks. The heat of his touch sank directly through the fabric.

"Don't run," Matteo whispered, his moody expression softening into something unreadable, almost intense. "I don't bite, Miss Meneses. Unless given a reason to."

Katarina’s heart thudded wildly against her ribs. She took a slow, deliberate breath, fighting to regain her signature icy calm.

"Then I suggest we focus on saving the Singapore merger, Mr. Orsini," she replied softly, meeting his intense gaze head-on. "Because losing a hundred-million-dollar deal over a locked briefcase would definitely give you a reason."

Matteo stared at her for a second, startled by her quiet sharpness, before a tiny, rare smirk tugged at the corner of his lips.

"Fair point," he murmured, finally releasing her sleeve. "Fetch the key. We have a long night ahead."