He pressed her palms against the cool window. His hands traced her sides, her hips, her thighs. His breath was hot on her neck. “You wanted the VIP treatment,” he whispered. “This is it. No one else gets this. No one else gets you tonight.”
Before she could answer, his mouth was on hers. Not gentle. Certain. His tongue parted her lips, and she felt the heat of him—leather, cedar, something raw and clean. Her fingers tangled in his shirt, pulling him closer. The city hummed below, irrelevant.
He broke the kiss, took her hand, and led her inside the penthouse. The room was all matte black surfaces and floor-to-ceiling windows. He undressed her slowly, deliberately, like unwrapping a gift he’d waited years to open. Each piece of clothing dropped to the floor with a soft whisper. Blacked - Sybil - VIP Treatment
He leaned over, kissed her shoulder. “For anyone else, yes. For you, I’ll make an exception.”
The invitation arrived on cream-colored paper, embossed with a single word: Indulge. He pressed her palms against the cool window
“Sybil,” he said. Not a question. “You’re the last piece.”
He was relentless. Not cruel— focused . Every touch, every thrust, every pause was calibrated to pull another sound from her throat, another arch of her back. He watched her come undone with a kind of reverence, as if she were the art, and he the collector. “You wanted the VIP treatment,” he whispered
Later—minutes or hours, she couldn’t tell—they lay tangled in the sheets. His hand traced lazy circles on her stomach. The city had gone quieter, the club’s bass now a distant heartbeat.