Kyle's POV
I carried her out of the sterile expanse of the main penthouse, leaving the desk and the silent monitors behind. The feeling of her—solid, warm, and finally mine—was a systemic shock to my discipline. It was better than any corporate victory, any market gain, any carefully executed strategic move.
I entered the sanctuary of my private quarters. The lighting was low, the air cool, filtered, and utterly silent.
I set her down gently beside the massive bed, the only piece of furniture in the apartment designed for comfort over control. My hands rested on her hips, anchoring her to the present moment.
"The war ends now," I stated, my eyes holding hers. "No more games, no more containment strategies. Just the truth. My love for you is non-negotiable, permanent, and publicly documented in a trust fund."
She laughed, a husky, tear-soaked sound. "The most romantic thing a billionaire has ever said to me."
She reached up, slowly pulling the soft cashmere sweater over my head. I let her. When it was off, she smoothed her hands over the bare skin of my chest, her touch a searing confession.
"Your confession was the only thing I truly wanted," she murmured, her gaze dropping to my mouth. "Now, let's talk about the final terms of surrender."
Her hands moved to the buttons of my trousers, her movements deliberate, predatory, and utterly confident. I knew this was her power move, her way of reclaiming the narrative of our physical intimacy. She was showing me she was in charge of the pleasure, and I was utterly, gloriously defenseless against it.
I let out a low groan, gripping her hips. The control I had maintained for weeks—the self-denial born of necessity and strategy—was dissolving under her touch.
"I love you, Viola," I said, the words tumbling out, raw and unplanned. "I love you more than stability, more than profit, and more than silence."
She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear, her voice a seductive promise. "Then surrender to the chaos, Kyle. I intend to use every strategy I've learned from you to ensure you never have a moment of silence in this penthouse again."
Viola's POV
I felt the cool expanse of the bed against my back as he lowered me, but the heat emanating from his body was all-consuming. The air was thick with expectation, and I knew exactly what was supposed to happen next. It was the natural, inevitable culmination of the tension, the surrender, and the confession.
My hands went to the waistband of his trousers. I was going to finish what I started.
"You said you wanted to finish this," I whispered, my voice thick with a mix of genuine desire and a deeper, frantic anxiety. My fingers fumbled with the clasp. "I'm not waiting any longer, Kyle. I'm ready to stop fighting. I want to be all yours."
He caught my hands, his large, warm palms enveloping mine, stopping the motion gently but with absolute finality. I looked up, startled, expecting to see frustration, perhaps even anger, for the interruption. But his eyes were dark, serious, and full of an emotion that looked a lot like pain.
"Stop, Vi," he commanded, his voice a low, steady rumble.
"You sure?" I challenged, pulling my hands free. "The games are over, right? The waiting is over. I came here, you confessed, and I just told you I love you. What else are we waiting for?"
I reached for his belt again, driven by a sudden, sickening panic. He'll lose interest. He'll think I'm holding out, and he'll go find someone who isn't. He'll regret selling the bookstore for me. The fear was a lifetime of believing that female worth was conditional upon sexual compliance. If I didn't satisfy this final need, he would realise I wasn't enough, and Jenna, or someone else, would be waiting to step in.
"I need you," I urged, my voice losing its sharp edge and becoming desperate. "Don't make me think I'm still auditioning for a permanent position here."
He braced his forearms on either side of my head, trapping me not with force, but with the weight of his undeniable presence.
"Look at me, Viola," he instructed, his eyes locking on mine. "I want you so badly the desire is a physical ache. You are the most intoxicating woman I have ever encountered, and I have spent four weeks in self-imposed torture thinking about being inside you."
He paused, his breathing ragged. "But I won't. Not tonight. Not when you're offering it like a final clause in a contract. You think this is the only thing that will keep me here, don't you? You think that if you don't fully satisfy all my supposed 'needs' right now, I'll lose interest and find someone else. You think sex is a payment for my devotion."
His words hit me harder than any of his strategic maneuvers, piercing the core of my deepest, most private anxiety. I couldn't meet his gaze.
"That's not what I think," I lied, turning my face away.
"Don't lie to me," he said, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "I see it in your eyes. You're doing this for me, because you think it's what I require for permanence. And I refuse to let the purest, most terrifying thing I've ever felt be tainted by your insecurity."
He gently lifted my chin, forcing me to look at him. "Listen carefully, Vi. As a man who loves you, I am telling you the truth: I value your soul, your mind, and your fierce, glorious chaos more than a momentary physical release. If a man truly loves you, he will not initiate or allow a moment of intimacy that isn't founded on your absolute, genuine desire, free from expectation or fear."
He leaned down and pressed a slow, tender kiss to my forehead. "I want you to sleep here tonight. I want you to wake up in my bed, in my life, knowing that you are safe. I want you to know that the man who loves you would wait a year if it meant when we finally do this, it's not because you think you owe me, but because you want me with the same terrifying certainty that I want you."
He stood up, pulling the cashmere throw up to my chin. He looked down at me, his face etched with a love that felt far more potent and destructive than any power play.
"The surrender is complete, Vi. And you are not auditioning for anything. You are the immovable object of value in my life. I'll be in the guest room. Sleep, Arbiter. You're home."
He walked away, leaving me alone in the vast bed, the silence of the penthouse no longer cold and sterile, but warm, protective, and overwhelmingly real.
Instead of embarrassment, I feel a sense of relief. It's like I just got taught a lesson on how valuable I am. A lesson on how valuable my body is.
This is the side of him that wrote all those romance novels. The side of him that saw women as more than just passing faces. He did mean those things he wrote about. He just proved it to me.
Then why was he such a jerk when we met? And why does he kind of treat people like trash at times?