Third Person's POV.
The click of the hotel door lock was the only sound in the hallway, but inside the suite, the air was already vibrating. Harlow was standing by the window, silhouetted against the neon glow of the city. He hadn't even bothered to take off his leather jacket yet. When he heard the door shut, he turned slowly, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips.
"Hello, Boss," he said, his voice smooth and maddeningly calm. "I followed your instructions today. I believe my performance was...perfect."
Penelope didn't even drop her bag. She marched across the room, her heels clicking a sharp, aggressive rhythm against the hardwood. He thinks he's so clever, she thought, the frustration of the entire day boiling over. He thinks he can just flip a switch and be a stranger.
"Shut up, Harlow," she commanded, her voice low and dangerous.
She didn't give him a chance to say anything else. She reached up, grabbed the lapels of his jacket, and pulled him down into a kiss that was less of a greeting and more of a reclamation. It was deep, hungry, and carried the weight of every hour they'd spent pretending the other person didn't exist.
Harlow groaned into her mouth, his arms wrapping around her instantly, lifting her off her feet until her back hit the nearest wall. The "professional" mask he'd worn all day didn't just crack; it disintegrated.
Finally. I thought I was going to lose my mind today, Harlow thought. Watching her walk past me in the lobby like, smelling her perfume, and having to act like she was just another employee... it was torture.
She wanted the rules, but he knew she'd be the first one to break them. The way she's kissing him right now—it's like she's trying to punish him for actually listening to her. And God, he'll take every second of it.
They didn't make it to the bed. Not at first. There was a frantic, desperate energy to the way they moved, hands fumbling with buttons and zippers as if they were running out of time. Penelope's hands were in his hair, her nails grazing his scalp, while Harlow's touch was everywhere, possessive and urgent.
She was the one who told him to ignore her outside this room, Penelope thought. She was the one who set the boundaries. So why does it feel like she's the one being played? He's so good at this—at being exactly what she asked for until she can't stand it anymore. But right now, with his heart hammering against hers, she doesn't care about the office or the Moore name. She just wants this.
The transition to making love was a shift from the jagged energy of the day to a deep, rhythmic intensity. This time, there were no slaps or heated arguments—only the sound of heavy breathing and the physical manifestation of a yearning they both refused to put into words.
Harlow moved with pure devotion, his eyes never leaving hers, as if he were trying to read the fine print of her soul in the dark. He held her waist with those steady, strong hands, guiding her as they found a pace that felt like a secret they'd been keeping from the world.
Every moan that escaped Penelope's lips felt like a concession, a small victory for the man who was currently worshipping every curve of her body. When they finally reached the peak together, it wasn't explosive—it was a quiet, shattering collapse.
Later, wrapped in the plush hotel sheets, the silence was no longer heavy. It was comfortable. Harlow had his arm draped over her, his fingers tracing the line of her shoulder.
"So," Harlow murmured, his voice thick with post-coital satisfaction. "How was my performance today, Ms. Moore? Scale of one to ten?"
Penelope leaned her head back against his chest, a small, genuine smile tugging at her lips. "You were a ten. It was the most infuriating day of my life."
Harlow chuckled, kissing the top of her head. "Good. Because doing that again tomorrow might actually kill me."
"Don't worry," Penelope whispered, closing her eyes as sleep finally began to pull at her. "Tomorrow is Saturday. The rules no longer apply on weekends."