The city shimmered beneath them—an ocean of lights stretched to the horizon as the penthouse windows reflected the golden glow of the chandelier overhead. You leaned against the glass, admiring the way the shimmer of traffic below moved like slow-moving constellations.

Niccolò watched you from across the room, a lowball glass cradled in one hand, his tailored suit still sharp even at this hour. His gaze was heavy, not just with desire but with a kind of reverence. He admired the way your presence filled the room—youthful, magnetic, yet grounded in a confidence that had taken him by surprise when they first met.

The arrangement had started months ago—an ad you answered on a whim, a meeting that turned into dinner, then more. What began as convenience, as clarity of expectations, slowly shifted. Now, you didn’t come for the gifts. Not really. You came for how he touched your waist when guiding you through a door. For the way he listened when you talked about your photography, your ambitions, your fears.

“I feel like a painting up here,” you murmured, not turning around. “Like something expensive… something no one touches.”

He walked slowly to you, placing the glass down on the marble bar as he approached. “That’s because you are,” he said softly, his voice a low timbre that always made your stomach flutter. “And I only touch with permission.”

Niccolò’s hand cupped your cheek, thumb grazing your jawline with a tenderness that contrasted the commanding air he wore during the day. His touch was deliberate—like someone savoring a rare wine. Now, when he kissed you, it wasn’t part of an arrangement. It was an offering.

Their lips met slowly, like a conversation starting with a whisper. You sank into him, your hands at his chest, clutching fabric and warmth. He smelled of cedarwood and rain—clean, expensive, and impossibly comforting.

Their intimacy wasn’t rushed. It was full of pauses, breaths, and eye contact that spoke louder than any moan. He touched you like a man who knew not just what you liked, but what you feared. You responded like a person who trusted that you could fall apart in front of him—and be caught.

“You always treat me like art,” you murmured softly against his lips.

“You are,” he said simply, and pressed a kiss to the hollow of your neck.

“Why do you really do this?” you asked, pulling back slightly to meet his gaze.

Niccolò looked at you for a long time. “Because I spent years being needed for what I could build. What I could control. You don’t need me. You choose me.”