Kyle's POV
I waited in the dimly lit foyer of the bookstore, a place so exclusive it doubled as a private fine-dining club. I was early, checking my watch every two minutes, a completely undignified act that Marshall would have chastised me for. The all-black suit was a necessary choice; it was a show of strength, a deliberate echo of the dark velvet of the black orchid.
The doorman nodded, and she appeared.
I nearly lost my balance.
Viola was wearing a short, black silk dress. It was simple in cut, but the fabric was molten, clinging and moving in a way that defied every law of physics and corporate restraint. The hem rode high—dangerously, beautifully high—and the simple diamond bracelet flashed on her wrist. Her hair was done, pulled back in a complicated, elegant style that drew all the attention to the full, soft line of her lips.
She wasn't just dressed; she was weaponised.
I fought the instinctive urge to walk toward her and grab her, to bury my face in the curve of her neck.
"You're late," I managed, my voice a fraction rougher than intended.
"Perfection cannot be rushed, Kyle," she countered, her eyes sparkling with the knowledge of the effect she was having.
I forced myself to offer her my arm, the contact electrifying. As we walked toward the private dining area nestled between the first editions, I kept my hand placed deliberately high on her back—the only point of contact I permitted myself.
We were seated in a plush, velvet-lined booth. The menus were heavy, leather-bound affairs, but I ignored mine. I was focused entirely on her.
"Before we discuss the intellectual merits of the wine list," I said, nodding to a waiter. "This is for you."
The waiter approached, not with a glass, but with an enormous, stunning bouquet of sunflowers. They were vibrant yellow and impossibly large, bursting with sunshine and warmth.
Viola gasped, a sound of genuine, unmasked pleasure. She reached out, touching the petals with a reverence that was entirely separate from her usual professional cynicism.
"Sunflowers," she whispered, looking up at me, her eyes soft and slightly wet. "No one has ever… they were always my favorite. I just know they aren't aesthetically romantic for guys to buy."
"I know," I confirmed simply, watching her closely. The genuine emotional reaction was worth the strategic risk of revealing my surveillance. The fact that I had looked back to her childhood and found a moment of simple joy was the ultimate play.
As the wine was poured, she settled back into the booth. The black dress was short, and in a small, devastating movement, she casually lifted her left knee and rested her leg on my thigh under the table.
The contact was immediate, shocking, and total. The silk of her dress was impossibly smooth against the wool of my black trousers, and the sudden, warm weight of her leg was a direct assault on my composure.
Control is an illusion, my mind screamed.
I wanted to kiss those big, full, soft lips. I wanted to lean across the table, disregard the sommelier, and simply devour the soft, surprised gasp she would make. I wanted to slip my hand underneath the hem of that dangerously short black dress, trace the line of her thigh, and feel the heat that I knew was waiting beneath the silk.
The internal war was raging, a riot of need and discipline. I forced myself to raise the wine glass, my grip tight.
"The Bordeaux, Vi," I said, my voice steady, though my body felt like it was humming with suppressed electricity. "Discuss the merits of the vintage. I want to hear your thoughts."
She smiled, a slow, knowing, triumphant smile, and settled her leg more firmly against my thigh. She knew exactly what she was doing. She was testing the limits of my commitment, using my own self-denial as a weapon.
The conversation that followed was intellectually brilliant—she analysed the wine, the books, the terrible state of modern literary acquisitions—but all I could hear was the frantic pounding of my own heart against the knowledge that her thigh was resting against mine. The date was officially a success, and I was officially losing the war.
The wine was a magnificent, complex lie, meant to distract us both, but it failed completely. I stared at the deep ruby in my glass, attempting to analyze its structure, but all I could focus on was the warm, relentless pressure of her thigh against mine beneath the black silk of her dress.
Viola, utterly oblivious to the havoc she was wreking on my anatomy, launched into a brilliant, surgical critique of the current literary trend toward "socially conscious" historical fiction, arguing that sincerity had become a cheap substitute for rigorous research.
"It's a magnificent fraud, Kyle," she stated, her eyes bright with critical fervor. "They're mining the past for easy moralizing, not for complex truth. Editorial integrity means demanding the latter, even when the market clamors for the former."
She was mesmerising. The high-powered focus she used to dismantle a CEO was now aimed at a subgenre of fiction, and the intensity was a physical assault. The low light caught the sharp lines of her cheekbones and the fierce curve of her lips as she spoke.
This woman is not merely sexy; she is lethal, I thought, a slow, appreciative heat spreading through my chest.
Then, she pivoted to a truly volatile topic: the strategic decline of print media engagement, suggesting that the only way forward was to brutally divest from all low-performing intellectual assets—even the prestigious ones—to create a leaner, more ruthless portfolio dedicated to enduring, high-quality content.
"The prestige is a sentimental burden," she declared, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper as she gestured with the stem of her glass. "If a revered title loses money for five years, it's not a cultural asset; it's a financial liability. We should gut it and fund something genuinely revolutionary."
The statement was cold, utterly logical, and flew directly in the face of conventional publishing wisdom. It was my view. It was the ruthless strategy I had developed in isolation, and hearing it articulated by her—with that sharp, crystalline clarity—was staggering.
I felt a sudden, unmistakable surge of blood. It wasn't the general physical arousal fueled by the black dress and the contact of her thigh; it was something specific, primal, and entirely intellectual. The combination of her big, full, soft lips moving over words of ruthless financial strategy was a trigger I hadn't known existed.
I shifted slightly, adjusting my black trousers, attempting to regain control. The irony was so profound it was almost comical: the most intense physical reaction of the evening was caused not by the sight of her nearly bare leg, but by the perfect, horrifying synergy of our shared world view.
I got a boner when she started talking about divesting from low-performing assets.
The intellectual connection—the realisation that we were two perfect, amoral strategists aligned on the most controversial, difficult-to-articulate points—was a profound form of intimacy. It was a language spoken only between us, and it was devastatingly arousing.
"The prestige is a sentimental burden," I repeated, my voice slightly hoarse, my eyes fixed on hers. "That is the most ruthlessly intelligent statement I have heard all year, Vi."
She held my gaze, recognising the intensity of my reaction, though perhaps not its specific, immediate cause. Her smile turned slow, appreciative, and fully triumphant. She settled her leg even more firmly against mine, challenging my resolve.
"I told you, Kyle," she murmured. "I am the ruthless asset you paid for. And I believe our views on necessary cultural destruction are perfectly aligned."
I felt the last of my strategic control begin to slip. The conversation was too intimate, the physical contact too potent. I knew I had to end the date before I ended the entire campaign. My fingers curled into a fist beneath the table, attempting to anchor myself to the hard granite of the table.
"I believe they are," I conceded, my voice flat with the effort of control. "But that is a discussion for a much later, much more private venue. I think we've had enough philosophical slaughter for one evening, Vi." I signaled for the check, the movement sharp and decisive. The internal war was reaching its boiling point.
I need her.