"Tenacity requires rewarding," Collin said, his voice a low baritone, entirely distinct from Marcus's easy timbre. It was the voice of a man who expected immediate compliance. "Thank you for accepting the offering, Ms. Hayes."
"You're welcome, Mr. Vance," Allison replied, refusing to be intimidated by his sheer physical presence or the implied weight of his surname. "Though I believe your brother volunteered the introduction."
A faint, predatory smile touched Collin's lips. "Marcus is an excellent preliminary tactician. I prefer the direct engagement." His eyes finally moved to her hand, which she was still holding out to Marcus. He dismissed Marcus with a flicker of his eyes and took Allison's hand himself. His touch was unexpectedly warm, strong, and immediately possessive. He held it for a beat too long, turning her palm over as if examining a valuable asset.
"You celebrate well, Ms. Hayes. But I suspect you celebrate infrequently."
Allison felt a flush rise on her neck, a reaction she hadn't experienced since a disastrous college debate. "I celebrate successes, Mr. Vance. I don't require arbitrary excuses for leisure."
"Arbitrary?" Collin let go of her hand only to gesture toward the remnants of the conversation by the bar. "This room is filled with arbitrary noise. I'm offering something focused."
Chloe and Mark wisely decided that the main event was underway and began a strategic retreat back toward their booth.
"Focused on what?" Allison challenged, leaning in slightly so she wouldn't have to shout over the renewed volume of the music.
"On moving past the merger," Collin stated, his gaze locking onto hers with an intensity that suggested he was bypassing all superficial conversation and zoning in on her core desires. "On genuine release. I have a private skybox upstairs. The security is absolute. We can discuss both our respective successes without the intrusion of your friends or my well-meaning brother."
The proposition was blatant, immediate, and utterly devoid of the gentle courtship that usually characterized the early stages of romance—or even casual hookups he was rumored to engage in. This was a directive.
Allison should have balked. She should have reminded him that she was a VP at Thorne & Finch and not some impromptu conquest. But the sheer audacity, paired with the undeniable pull emanating from him, short-circuited her professional caution. She saw the fatigue of the last six weeks suddenly pressing down on her, and she realized she wanted exactly what he was offering: an escape hatch, perfectly constructed, no strings attached—at least, that's what the atmosphere suggested.
"I usually require more data before making a commitment, Mr. Vance."
"Data is overrated," Collin said, already maneuvering her away from the bar by placing one hand lightly at the small of her back, a gesture so proprietary it stole her breath. "Tonight, rely on instinct. I assure you, your instincts will be well rewarded."
He didn't ask if she wanted to go upstairs. He simply began steering her toward the discreet, unmarked elevator reserved for club owners and high-tier clientele. Allison followed, the bass vibrating again, but this time it felt like the rhythm of her own accelerating heart.
The ascent was silent but thick with anticipation. The elevator was mirrored, forcing them to confront their own reflection—Collin, impossibly imposing; Allison, suddenly feeling slightly underdressed despite the designer gown.
When the doors hissed open onto a private floor, the contrast was jarring. The club noise vanished, replaced by a plush, hushed silence. They walked a short, carpeted hall, and Collin unlocked a solid oak door.
The skybox was minimalist luxury: dark leather, panoramic windows overlooking the glittering grid of the city, and a sound system that played low, sophisticated jazz instead of pounding electronica.
"Better?" Collin asked, walking over to a hidden bar cabinet and pulling out two crystal tumblers.
"Significantly quieter," Allison admitted, shedding the remainder of her nervous energy as the adrenaline began to convert into something keener.
He poured the amber liquid—aged rye, neat—and handed one glass to her. "To instinct, then, Ms. Hayes."
Their fingers brushed again as she took the glass. This time, the contact sent a more pronounced shock through her. She took a deliberate sip. The liquor burned clean and warm.
"You still haven't told me your first name, Mr. Vance," she challenged, bracing herself.
Collin didn't immediately answer. He took a slow drink, his eyes never leaving hers. The silence stretched—not awkward, but charged, expectant. He was setting the pace, dictating the rules of engagement.
"It's Collin," he finally conceded, the name sounding heavy, important. "And you are Allison."
"Yes," she confirmed. "And I came up here expecting to discuss the logistics of my celebratory drink, not the current market valuation of my Friday night."
Collin put his glass down on a nearby black granite surface with a decisive click. He walked toward her, closing the distance with an economy of movement that spoke of utter self-possession.
"Logistics can wait. Valuation is subjective," he murmured, stopping just inches away. The air crackled between them. "Tonight, the market is simple, Allison. I saw you. I wanted you. You followed."
He lifted a hand, not to touch her face, but to brush an imaginary piece of lint from her shoulder. The briefest contact was electric.
"There's no acquisition strategy here, no merger agreement. Just tonight. Do you want this distraction, or are you going to return to the booth and analyze the risk?"
She looked up at him. The wealth, the notorious reputation, the sheer force of his personality—it dissolved any lingering doubt. She hadn't sought this out, but now that it was here, it felt inevitable, a collision course she was suddenly desperate to meet.
"I never shy away from a calculated risk, Collin," she breathed, the unspoken admission hanging heavy in the sophisticated silence of the skybox.
He didn't smile, not really. He simply lowered his head, and the kiss, when it happened, was everything the night had promised: intense, uncompromising, and entirely consuming. It was less a beginning and more an inevitable conclusion to a tension that had been building since the moment his gaze had found hers across the crowded room. It tasted like rye, ambition, and the sudden, terrifying promise of something far beyond the boardroom.
He backed her towards the large, panoramic window, the city lights a dizzying smear below them. The cool glass was a shocking contrast against the fevered skin of her back. He held her there, his body a hard, unyielding wall, trapping her. His gaze was a physical touch, searing her as he methodically undressed, his movements economical, deliberate. He was magnificent in his raw, naked confidence, his body a testament to discipline and power.