Chapter 8 – The Temptation Suite
Dominic's POV
He couldn't shake her.
No matter how many files he reviewed, deals he signed, or contracts he mentally dissected, Kirah's name kept floating back into his thoughts like smoke—warm, persistent, uninvited.
It wasn't just her sharp tongue or how she held her ground in a boardroom full of men trained to intimidate. It was something in the way she didn't try to please him, didn't try to melt under his gaze like every other woman did. She had walls—high ones—and something about that made him want to scale them with bare hands.
But Dominic Vierra didn't chase.
He conquered.
And right now, he needed to stop thinking. About her. About the way her lips moved when she spoke. About the slight rise of her breasts beneath those crisp, fitted blouses she wore like armor. About how good her scent would be when she let her guard down.
"Enough," he muttered under his breath, rising from the desk and pacing toward the floor-to-ceiling windows of his penthouse office.
His reflection stared back at him—six feet of dominance wrapped in tailored Italian wool, eyes burning with tension he refused to name.
Desire.
But not for Kirah. Not tonight.
Tonight, he would release it the way he always did.
The way that never asked questions and never came with consequences.
---
By 11:03 PM, Dominic's black McLaren pulled up to The Haven—a private hotel tucked into the edge of the city. Unmarked. Discreet. Elite.
Most of the world didn't even know it existed.
But billionaires did.
This was his place—acquired under a shell company, run like clockwork. The Haven wasn't for meetings or vacations. It was for one thing only: pleasure.
Soft lighting illuminated the private entrance as a woman in black silk greeted him with a warm, sultry smile.
"Mr. Vierra," she purred, bowing her head slightly, "Your usual suite is prepared."
He nodded once.
"Shall I send in someone familiar… or would you prefer something new tonight?"
Dominic paused. Usually, he didn't care. They were beautiful, skilled, trained to please without attachment. But tonight… tonight, something felt off. His body was tense in a way that couldn't be untangled with just touch.
Still, he needed this.
"Someone new," he said simply, his voice low and commanding.
"Of course."
---
Suite Forty-Five was nothing short of a fantasy. Wide windows framed the city lights, casting a soft golden hue across the deep mahogany floors. Velvet drapes, gold-dipped edges on the mirror. A king-sized bed wrapped in jet black sheets.
A room designed for indulgence.
Dominic shrugged off his jacket, undid the first two buttons of his shirt, and poured himself a drink from the minibar.
The knock came minutes later.
He turned, drink in hand.
The woman who walked in was tall, curvy, and stunning. Dressed in silk that clung to her hips and threatened to slip from her shoulder, she moved like water—elegant and fluid. Her skin glowed, her eyes glinted with knowledge of what she was here to offer.
"Good evening," she said softly, stepping in and letting the door fall shut behind her. "I'm here to serve you, Mr. Vierra. However you desire."
Dominic's jaw flexed.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
His stare alone had her swallowing gently and lowering her lashes.
The game had begun.
---
She approached him slowly, fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt, undoing another button, exposing the hard planes of his chest.
"You're tense," she whispered, lips barely a breath away from his neck. "Let me help."
Dominic closed his eyes briefly as her hands moved across his shoulders, down his arms. He let the glass slip from his fingers onto the bar top as she guided him backward toward the bed.
The sheets were cool against his skin as he sat, shirt now unbuttoned, her fingers trailing fire down his chest. Her lips found his throat, jawline, chest—soft, deliberate, designed to tease.
He let her work.
Let her undress him.
Let her straddle his lap and move in slow, sensual rhythm—her body pressing into his, her breath hot against his mouth.
But it wasn't enough.
Not tonight.
Something was missing.
Connection? Emotion? A challenge?
No. He didn't do emotional.
And yet—
His hands gripped her hips as she moved against him, her soft moans slipping past her lips.
He kissed her—once. Hard. Dominant. Then pulled back, gaze locked.
"Say my name," he commanded.
"Dominic," she gasped.
"Louder."
"Dominic…"
But it was hollow.
There was no fire in it. No rebellion. No fight.
No Kirah.
Damn it.
He inhaled sharply, his body responding but his mind a million miles away. This woman—flawless, eager, nearly naked in his arms—was doing everything right, and still, he felt nothing.
That realization hit harder than expected.
He gripped her waist, shifted her off him gently, then stood, breathing heavy, shirt half open, desire unresolved.
"I… I didn't please you?" she asked, startled, confused.
"It's not you," Dominic said, voice rough. "You were… perfect."
She blinked, unsure whether to feel flattered or rejected.
He reached for his shirt, fastened the top buttons, and poured himself another drink.
The woman lingered a moment longer before silently gathering her things and slipping out the door.
---
Alone again, Dominic stared at his reflection in the massive mirror.
Chest rising. Muscles tense.
And still… unsatisfied.
What the hell is wrong with me?
He could have any woman.
And yet, the one he kept picturing wasn't on the menu.
Kirah Evans.
All bite. No flirt.
He imagined her walking into this room—not to seduce, but to glare at him for wasting her time. And that mental image alone did more to him than the soft lips and naked curves from just moments ago.
Dominic sighed and ran a hand through his hair.
It wasn't about sex anymore.
It was about her.