I showered quickly, scrubbing away the scents of last night's Amarone and the lingering, intoxicating musk of his expensive cologne. I couldn't stop thinking about him—the contrast between his tailored suit and the passionate devotion he had just shown me. He hadn't just honored the line; he had transformed it into a beautiful, strategic boundary.
I pulled on my chosen travel outfit. It wasn't the charcoal suit of armor; that felt too restrictive now. Instead, I selected a short, flowy shift dress in a vibrant emerald green—a color that felt brazenly feminine and entirely unsuited for corporate rigor. It was one of the Parisian acquisitions, an impulsive purchase for pleasure. I let the Van Cleef & Arpels watch and the diamond bracelet be my only jewelry.
When I entered the sitting room, Kyle was already there, impeccably suited for the flight. He was on his secure device, but he looked up as I entered.
His eyes locked onto the dress. The smooth, easy rhythm of his breathing hitched. The emerald green, the bare expanse of my legs, the way the fabric moved—it had the desired effect. The corporate mask slipped for a fleeting, intense moment of pure, raw desire.
"The green… is a bold statement for a trans-Atlantic flight, Vi," he managed, his voice strained.
"It's a color of creative confidence, Kyle," I countered, using his own words back at him. "Perfect for returning to my new, absurdly-titled position."
We took the water taxi to the airport, the silence between us heavy with the lingering promises of the morning.
On the private jet, I settled in the plush leather seat. The silver fox fountain pen was clipped to my seat organiser. I opened my laptop and deliberately focused on the list of book covers I needed to approve for the next quarter. I forced myself to review the typography and the color schemes, using the intellectual rigor to contain the chaotic warmth that had settled in my body.
I glanced across the aisle. Kyle was leaning over his own laptop. He wasn't looking at financial reports. He was typing, his fingers flying across the keys, his gaze occasionally lifting to me, then dropping back to the screen with renewed, feverish intensity.
Kyle's POV
The plane was a sanctuary of polished wood and absolute privacy, yet I felt utterly exposed. I sat across the aisle from Viola, ostensibly reviewing the final Moda Finanza acquisition figures, but in reality, I was conducting an internal audit of my own spectacular failure of self-control.
I watched her. She was deeply immersed in her laptop, analysing a series of book covers. The emerald green shift dress was an act of pure, visual sabotage. The color was defiant, drawing every available ray of light, and the way the fabric lay—or barely lay—against her skin was a constant, exquisite distraction. I'd spent the entire morning proving that I valued her worth more than my own immediate need, and now she was retaliating by wearing a garment that screamed exactly what I was missing.
I tried to type, attempting to translate the morning's profound, complicated events into the nascent scene in my manuscript—the hero's internal concession that he needs the heroine's intellectual defiance. But every other sentence ended up being a description of green silk and the way the light caught the diamond on her wrist.
I craved her, yes, but it wasn't the frantic, immediate hunger of the past week. It was a deep, insistent ache—the knowledge that I now possessed her full, unhurried attention, and that the only thing stopping me from total claim was my own self-imposed, strategic vow. I had never wanted a woman so profoundly that I chose denial over satisfaction. That was the real win.
My throat was dry. I needed a drink—something strong and cold to dampen the heat rising off the emerald dress. I slammed the laptop shut—a little harder than necessary—and stood.
Marshall, who had been sitting discreetly in the galley area behind us, folding the Financial Times with surgical precision, immediately rose and moved toward me.
"Sir. Scotch?" Marshall asked, his face a perfect mask of corporate efficiency.
"Straight, Marshall. And silent," I muttered, walking past him toward the bar.
Marshall followed, leaning close enough to speak without disturbing Viola. He lowered his voice, the dry, knowing tone of a man who has cleaned up after my strategic messes for a decade.
"I take it the acquisition in Venice was… successful, Kyle," Marshall said, nodding subtly toward Viola's seat. "You've been staring at her knees for the last hour with the expression of a man who just discovered a new, highly valuable, and fully accessible resource."
I grabbed the heavy crystal tumbler, pouring a generous measure of The Macallan. "She is reviewing our next quarter's cover designs, Marshall. I was observing her focused rigor."
Marshall lifted a skeptical eyebrow, a slight, almost imperceptible movement that spoke volumes. "Right. And the sudden, total lack of eye bags this morning, paired with the fact you just typed the word 'emerald' fourteen times in one paragraph of an internal memo? I thought we were past the midnight transaction stage, Kyle. Did the truce break down?"
I took a sharp sip of the whisky. The burn was necessary. I leaned in, my gaze locking with his, the full weight of my absolute commitment settling on my shoulders.
"I have not crossed the line, Marshall. And you will not speak of that line, or of her body, ever again," I commanded, my voice flat and final.
Marshall blinked, the usual flicker of amusement draining from his expression, replaced by genuine understanding.
"A real man does not discuss the woman he cares for's body with anyone at all," I stated, the rule a cold, unwavering pillar of my code. "I am not some drunken college boy trading notes. I made a promise to that woman in Venice—a promise that her worth is not predicated on my immediate gratification. That promise is sacred. And it is not for your assessment, or anyone else's."
I put the glass down. "The only information you need is this: I am taking her on a proper, real date when we land. And she is worth the wait, Marshall. She is worth every minute of this agonising, necessary, self-imposed delay."
I picked up my drink, my composure now fully locked down, and walked back to my seat, the emerald dress waiting across the aisle, a powerful, quiet promise of the future.
I returned to my seat, the single malt doing little to cool the fire the emerald dress was stoking. Marshall's observation, though irritatingly accurate in its assessment of my distraction, was a necessary reminder of the line I'd drawn. The promise I made to Viola was the bedrock of my new strategy, and I would not allow a flicker of jealousy or a moment of physical hunger to undermine the commitment I was building.
I picked up the laptop, opened my manuscript, and tried to channel the chaos into narrative. The character wasn't me, I reminded myself. But the emotion was terrifyingly real.
I typed out the scene, the hero's internal monologue about the heroine's essence:
~The kiss in the hallway had been a cataclysm, yes. But it was the quiet surrender in the hotel room that had broken him. He had fought his way through the silk of her dress, through the pretenses, only to find the core of her worth was not in the victory, but in the restraint he forced upon himself. He knew he had to stop. He knew he had to honor her. But the proximity... the physical reality of her surrender...~
My eyes drifted from the screen to the emerald dress. I wasn't just observing the shift of the fabric; I was remembering the soft, intimate weight of her body against my own, the press of her skin against my cheek, the silken feel of her inner thighs against my hands.
A slow, involuntary wave of heat washed over me, a physical response so acute it almost made me wince. I closed my eyes briefly, remembering the taste of her, the way she had melted against the insistence of my mouth and hands. It wasn't the relief that had captivated me; it was the intensity of her reaction, the knowledge that I had commanded her senses without taking anything more than the time she was willing to give.
I focused on the thickness of her thighs now, remembering the strength beneath the softness, the power they held. They were a beautiful, intimidating asset, and the desire to kneel before her again, right here on this corporate jet, was a staggering, primal urge. I felt hypnotised by her presence, by the ease with which she could derail my entire operation with a single article of clothing.
~He wanted to go back. To kneel on the cool marble floor and prove that his worth was in her pleasure. To taste the quiet, elegant surrender all over again.~
I stopped typing, the sudden, fierce craving making my hand shake. I could almost smell the amethyst scent of her perfume and the metallic tang of pure, raw desire. The thought of reaching across the aisle, pulling her onto my lap, and simply losing myself in her body was a lightning strike of clarity.
I slammed the lid of the laptop down, the sound sharp and final.
No.
I leaned my head back against the leather headrest, closing my eyes, taking a slow, deep breath.
Control.
I had won the battle in Venice, but I had nearly lost the war on this flight. I would not turn her into a moment of mid-air indulgence, not when I had promised her permanence. The emerald dress was a challenge, and my refusal to cross the aisle was the only strategic move that mattered. I needed to gain back control of my emotions, not for the sake of the company, but for the sake of the woman across from me.
I opened my eyes and reached for the financial reports instead. The Moda Finanza numbers were dull, comforting, and entirely lacking in emerald silk. I would look at balance sheets until the plane landed. The war was on hold. The next move belonged to the date.