Enchanted Nightfall: Falling for Destiny

Tyrone stood in silence; his dark complexion was a stark contrast to the dimly lit living room. Quintessa had just yawned her way past him, while her fingers trailed on his ebony face; her voice was laced with the weight of impending slumber, “I’m beat. Gonna hit the hay and don’t you dare disturb me.” NôvelDrama.Org: owner of this content.

With a nonchalant push to the bedroom door, she waltzed in, kicked off her shoes without a care, and flopped onto the bed, fully clothed. The night had taken its toll, and she was out cold as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Tyrone lingered alone, feeling a cocktail of emotions brewing within as minutes ticked by.

As he pondered over Quintessa’s audacity, a wry smile played on his lips. How could she be so bold to sleep so soundly under his roof, with her fate resting in his hands?

She had dragged him through a night of mischief, all to implicate him in her schemes, and to ensure he’d be unable to threaten her any longer. Now that her crisis was averted, her true colors shone through, and turned to be unapologetically indifferent.

Was she toying with him just like that day at the photo–shoot?

As he slowly unbuttoned his shirt, Tyrone’s eyes glinted with a dangerous allure.

Quintessa had guts, but she seemed to have forgotten one crucial detail–Tyrone was not a man to be trifled with. He had entertained her antics because he chose to, but should she truly irk him, he had a myriad of ways to put her in her place. As Tyrone strode into the bedroom, his torso was now bare. His figure was a sculptor’s dream, chiseled to perfection. Any woman would kneel before him–if he wished it.

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But no audience was present to appreciate the show.

There, Quintessa lay asleep; her slumber was deeper than the allure of the most handsome man.

Tyrone felt like he was the sole actor in a one–man play, his frustration boiling over, as Quintessa slept like a rock.

In a rough grab, he flipped Quintessa over, and reached out his hands to peel away her clothes with brute force.

Soon, her black tracksuit lay discarded, leaving her in a sports bra and panties. The morning light bathed her, turning her complexion into a radiant pearl–an indescribable temptation.

Tyrone squinted, leaning in.

Before his body made contact with her, the sleepy woman on the bed spoke in a voice heavy with drowsiness, “Mr. York, if you find the idea of assault so thrilling, be my guest.”

Tyrone froze, feeling his pride wounded. He was not a paragon of virtue, but assault? That was an insult to his ego, an affront to his dignity.

With a cold, detached expression, he felt his fiery desire vanished as if it had never been. He was always in control–except when it came to Quintessa.

“Fine,” Tyrone’s voice was icy, “I’ll let you off the hook this time. You now owe me another night.”

Quintessa, eyes still closed, smirked disdainfully, turned away, and fell back into her deep sleep, utterly indifferent to her state of undress.

Tyrone’s eyes were as cold as the heart of winter. He could not fathom why he tolerated this woman.

What was so good about her, anyway?