Viola's POV
Kyle's sharp, decisive signal to the waiter snapped the intimate spell. The intense, intellectual fire that had been raging between us—fueled by the shared, ruthless ideology—was suddenly contained by the crisp efficiency of the transaction. He was putting the professional distance back in place, and the move was almost painfully abrupt.
"I think we've had enough philosophical slaughter for one evening, Vi," he'd said, his voice flat with forced control.
I felt the triumphant smile slip, replaced by a deep, frustrated ache. He was retreating, and I hated him for it. I hated him for being so fiercely disciplined, for recognising the exact moment his commitment was about to buckle, and for prioritizing his strategy over the exquisite tension that was humming between us.
He helped me out of the booth, his hand a branding iron on the small of my back. The moment we stepped outside the bookstore and into the cool New York air, Marshall had the Bentley waiting, silent and black, like a promise of inevitable consumption.
We slid into the back seat. I leaned against the door, trying to reclaim my composure, the scent of the enormous sunflowers—now resting on the seat beside me—a jarring contrast to the sophisticated dread in the car.
"Home, Marshall," I stated, my voice cool, forcing the cadence of a woman in control.
"Viola," Kyle said, his voice a low, rough growl.
I turned to look at him. The black suit, the perfect restraint—it was all dissolving. His jaw was clenched, his eyes dark, stripped of every layer of strategy. The cool, analytical light of the date had been replaced by a chaotic, undeniable heat. The man who had gotten a physical thrill from discussing divestiture was now purely, terrifyingly primal.
"I can't," he muttered, the word torn from his throat. "I can't drop you off."
He didn't give me time to respond. He leaned forward, his hand slamming down on the separator button, isolating Marshall in the front compartment.
"Marshall," Kyle commanded, his voice loud, thick with suppressed violence. "Change of plans. The penthouse. Now."
The driver's compartment light flickered once in silent acknowledgment. The car, instead of turning toward the West Village brownstone, angled sharply toward the glittering monoliths of TriBeCa.
I stared at Kyle, suddenly breathless. The carefully constructed intellectual war was officially over. He had lost control.
"What are you doing?" I asked, the question a weak protest.
He didn't answer with words. He reached out and cupped my face, his thumb tracing the curve of my lip. He was breathing heavily, his discipline finally, completely shattered.
"I spent two hours tonight being aroused by your intellect, Viola," he confessed, his eyes blazing. "I spent two hours fighting the urge to tear that black silk dress off and prove that our philosophical alignment is the most intoxicating thing I've ever encountered. I can't let you walk into that small, quiet apartment and pretend I didn't just confess everything to you under the guise of an acquisition meeting."
He pulled me across the seat, crushing me against his black suit. The scent of him—Bordeaux, high-end wool, and pure, raw desire—was overwhelming.
"I'm done with the date, Vi," he whispered, his mouth inches from mine. "I'm done with the waiting. I still won't cross the final line—not until I know this is permanent—but I need to feel you. I need to know you're real. I need to finish what I started this morning."
He didn't wait for my answer. His lips found mine, and the kiss was absolute surrender—hungry, immediate, and utterly devastating. The car sped through the city streets, but the only thing that existed was the controlled, yet frantic, chaos of his mouth against mine. We were heading straight for his expensive, sterile fortress, and I couldn't wait to introduce a little beautiful, undeniable chaos into his life.
The penthouse elevator opened directly into the vast, silent expanse of Kyle's home. The only non-monochromatic item in the room was the obscene, glittering statue of the gold-plated typewriter. It was an absurd, beautiful monument, and I loved it.
He released my hand only to slam the front door shut, the heavy, echoing sound swallowed by the height of the ceiling. He was breathing hard, his control still hanging by a thread.
"The rules still stand, Vi," he grated out, his eyes never leaving mine. "I won't break the promise. But I am not sleeping in this penthouse tonight knowing you are somewhere else."
He walked toward me, his all-black suit a deliberate, strategic counterpoint to my short black dress. The lack of color was a statement of focused intensity, and it was devastating. The clean, sharp lines of his suit, the way the black shirt molded to his broad chest—it stripped away all distractions, leaving only the pure, physical geometry of the man.
"You're wearing too much black," I whispered, the observation a challenge. "It's entirely too absolute."
He closed the distance between us. "Black is the color of total commitment, Vi. And tonight, I'm committed to one thing only."
He didn't kiss me again. He simply reached out and found the hem of my short black silk dress, his thumb tracing the soft fabric where it met the bare skin of my thigh. The movement was slow, deliberate, and entirely possessive.
The silence of the massive room roared around us. I could feel the heat radiating from his hand, the promise of the inevitable. The internal war was over. The surrender was complete. My only thought was that I needed to shatter his perfect control, one calculated, intimate move at a time.
The air in the penthouse was thick with the scent of his cologne and the absolute, terrifying stillness of his control. He didn't kiss me again, didn't move past tracing the silk hem of my dress where it met my thigh. That small, possessive action was more devastating than any physical struggle.
"Black is the color of total commitment, Vi," he repeated, his voice low, a promise and a threat.
"Then commit," I challenged, my voice barely a whisper, the final shred of my intellectual defense crumbling.
He took the challenge. He slid his hands beneath the hem of the dress, the black silk a sheet of fire against my skin. His hands moved up my thighs—slow, deliberate, agonisingly thorough. He was mapping the terrain, claiming the space, proving that his focus was singular and absolute.
When his hands reached my hips, he lifted me effortlessly, pressing me back against the cold, smooth granite of his writing desk. The gold-plated typewriter, the monument to my initial crime, was now mere inches from my head, a silent witness to our perfect, brutal synergy.
He didn't touch the zipper of my dress. He simply focused on what the short skirt allowed, his movements a symphony of self-denial and profound intention. The contrast was maddening: his suit was perfect, his tie still firmly knotted beneath his shirt, while my dress was pushed high, the silk pooling around my waist. The severity of his clothing amplified the raw intimacy of his touch.
He leaned in, burying his face in the soft, dark curve of my neck, his hot breath a desperate confession against my skin. "I wanted to take you on this desk when you threatened me with this ridiculous machine," he confessed, his voice rough. "But this is better. I don't want you to forget, for a single second, that your worth is the only thing that matters."
He held me steady, his focus absolute, his mouth and hands turning the intellectual arousal of the dinner into a profound, breathless reality. The cold granite of the desk, the sterile perfection of the penthouse, the relentless weight of his commitment—it all fused into an exquisite, consuming intimacy that defied every rule of casual contact. He wasn't taking me; he was worshiping the line he refused to cross. I wrapped my legs tightly around his waist, pulling his disciplined, suited body closer, desperate to feel his full weight, to shatter the control I knew he was hanging onto by a thread.
I watched him intensely analysing my reactions to his touch and could barely keep composure. He went down on me again and seeing him enjoying doing that drove me insane.
Especially because I know he's okay with getting nothing in return. He does it for his pleasure. That's rare.
The climax, when it came, was a shuddering, total surrender, a confession of pure, terrifying need that echoed in the vast, silent space of his domain.
He had finished what he started this morning and looked completely mesmerised.