Viola's POV
Kyle's kiss was no longer a negotiation; it was a deep, consuming claim. When he pulled back, resting his forehead against mine, I could feel the ragged hitch in his breath, mirroring the frantic pounding in my own chest.
"The Gritti Palace," he managed, his voice a low, rough growl. "Your room, Vi. Now."
The air on the private terrace was suddenly thin, charged with the musk of mutual, absolute surrender. I couldn't trust my voice, so I simply nodded. The descent in the elevator was a blur of gilded silence.
When he closed the door of my suite, the solid click felt like an irreversible commitment. I didn't hesitate. I reached for his tie, pulling his mouth down to mine. His response was a deep, consuming force, one hand claiming the arch of my back, the other tangling in my hair. All the professional distance, all the manufactured tension, was paid for in the raw currency of that kiss.
He finally broke away, his breath coming in shallow, strained gasps. He kept his arms tight around my waist, his perfect, corporate suit a bewildering armor against the chaos he was unleashing.
"I need you out of that dress," he whispered. "It's beautiful, but it's a barrier. And I'm done with barriers."
He turned me around, his hands finding the hidden zipper. The sound of the crimson silk sliding down was a sharp, final punctuation mark. The fabric pooled at my feet, leaving me standing in elegant lingerie, the diamond tennis bracelet flashing on my wrist.
Kyle took a deep breath, his eyes tracing the line of my body with an expression that was both raw desire and a deeper, almost painful reverence. He was a man fighting himself, the urge to consume battling the compulsion to consecrate.
"The holding back ends tonight, Vi," he murmured, gently easing me back against the cool, dark wood of the bedroom door. He didn't move to remove his jacket; his armor remained intact.
"But the commitment doesn't start with a convenience," he confessed, his hands sliding down to the silky skin of my inner thighs. "You are the only thing in my world that I value more than my control, and you deserve my full, unhurried attention."
He leaned in, his mouth finding the sensitive curve beneath my ear, his voice a low, explicit promise. "I am going to keep my clothes on, Viola. I will respect the line, because I respect you too much to cross it before I can look you in the eye and give you every single thing you are due."
The shock of his self-denial, the audacious refusal to take what was offered, was the most potent aphrodisiac of the week.
"Kyle," I managed, my voice a broken whisper.
He silenced me with a deep, consuming kiss. His hands moved with a devastating, practiced knowledge. The physical barrier of his suit became a source of intense, maddening focus. The expensive wool was rough against my skin, the tailored lines rigid, an absolute constraint he refused to violate, even as his touch became intensely personal.
He shifted his weight, pressing his suited body against mine, the control a tight, rigid wire that threatened to snap. He kissed me deeply, then dragged his mouth away to trace a line of fire down my throat. His hands, still encased in the cool leather of his belt-line, moved to explore and excite, the contrast between the cool restraint of his clothing and the hot urgency of his touch pushing my senses to their limit.
He was focused solely on my body, on my release, an act of supreme psychological dominance that was also the purest form of selfless tribute. Every movement was a confession, every touch a vow. His intent was clear: he was proving that his ultimate objective was not simple gratification, but the complete and total mastery of my sensory world.
The quiet, unhurried intensity of his attention was all the answer I needed. I wrapped my legs around his waist, crushing the tailored perfection of his suit against the raw chaos of my own need. The black orchid was a silent, dark-velvet witness, a symbol that I was now thriving under his demanding, ruthless complexity. He was not just observing my growth; he was participating in it, one agonising, beautiful moment at a time. The battle was won, but the lifelong commitment had just begun.
It was now the next morning.
I woke slowly, not to the harsh Venetian light, but to the softest pressure on my bare shoulder. It was Kyle's hand, his touch impossibly gentle, tracing the line of my collarbone. The memory of the night…his absolute control and his devastating, singular focus…hit me with a wave of warmth that had nothing to do with the morning sun.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, already dressed in a fresh, perfect white shirt and dark trousers. His hair was slightly damp, his expression quiet, stripped of the corporate predator's armor. He looked entirely real.
"Good morning, Vi," he murmured, his voice a low vibration that seemed to settle deep in my chest. He didn't lean in to kiss me, just watched me, his dark eyes filled with a terrifying, unhurried appreciation. "I ordered breakfast. But I instructed them to hold the tray for twenty minutes."
I didn't need to ask why. The quiet intensity in his gaze told me everything. He was still giving me his undivided, terrifying attention. An attention that had already proved to be the most potent drug.
"You're not going to cross the line, are you?" I asked, the question less a challenge and more a soft surrender.
He offered a slow, appreciative smile. "The line is the final, most valuable asset, Vi. I am not trading it for a morning convenience. You are worth more than a casual release of tension."
He moved the diamond tennis bracelet on my wrist, the coolness of the stones a stark contrast to the searing heat of his gaze. "You deserve to feel wanted, desired, and beautiful for no reason other than the breathtaking fact of you. The rest of the world can wait."
He didn't wait for my assent. The shirt, the suit, the impeccable control—it all vanished in the next few minutes. He was a man consumed by an escalating craving for my body, and that craving transformed into the most intimate, self-denying form of tribute. The attention he paid was absolute, total, and profound, a focused, physical conversation that left me speechless.
You know what they say. If he's an eater…he's a keeper.
The sound of a discreet knock on the suite door—breakfast—pulled us back to the real world.
He stood, his composure immediately returning, though his jaw was tight, his breath still strained. He looked down at me, his eyes dark with the lingering hunger. "We have the flight to New York. You shower first, I'll send the tray in, then I'll use my own suite."
I nodded, unable to form a coherent thought. I was dizzy with the sudden, undeniable realisation: I had completely forgotten I ever hated him. My equilibrium was shattered, replaced by a fierce, alarming need to feel his presence again...and again.