Enchanted Nightfall: Falling for Destiny

Quintessa’s laugh was wickedly enchanting, “Besides, I’ve never had the pleasure of making love in a Maybach.”

Her flippant words, laced with a hint of promiscuity, led one to subconsciously assume she had played this game with many men.

From the shadows, Tyrone exuded a chilling aura of fury. Quintessa paid no mind to Tyrone’s rage, reaching out to unbutton his shirt.

To her, the angrier Tyrone got, the better. If he wasn’t mad, what was the point of all this? Surely she wasn’t expected to pacify him? His discontent was her comfort. All text © NôvelD(r)a'ma.Org.

Tyrone’s shirt was bespoke, crafted overseas, with even the cufflinks chosen from the finest gems.

As Quintessa undid the buttons, she taunted, “Didn’t you say that my chests and chin are implanted, my waist liposucked, my nose augmented? And you still want to get a room. with me? Quite the peculiar taste.”

Tyrone didn’t move, leaning back lazily, allowing Quintessa to strip him of his clothes, raising an eyebrow to ask, “Upset?”

Quintessa let out a cold chuckle, “Oh, Mr. York, so your eyes do work? And here I thought you had a vision problem.”

With the last button undone, Tyrone’s chest was exposed, lean and strong, without exaggerated muscles, but each defined line hinted at power.

Quintessa had known about Tyrone’s physique for three years now. Why not feel if it was free? Her index finger traced a line down from his sternum, but before it could reach his abdomen, Tyrone caught her hand, “In such a hurry?”

She arched her lips upwards, lifting her dress and pulling down her neckline to reveal swathes of skin, her shoulders round and smooth, the black lingerie accentuating her curves in the dark, a sinful temptation.

Quintessa grabbed his hand and placed it on her chest, “Yes, I can’t wait for you to see if these are real or just saline bags.”

Suddenly, Tyrone’s stern voice cut through the tension, “Stop the car.”

The driver jolted, swerving into an S–curve before slamming to a halt.

Tyrone commanded harshly, “Get out.”

The driver hesitated, wondering if the command was for him or the fiery beauty in the back.

Tyrone repeated, “Get out.”

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His tone was so icy; the driver didn’t dare linger, stumbling out and running a good twenty meters without looking back.

Now there were only Tyrone and Quintessa inside the car. The latter leaned into Tyrone’s embrace, nibbling the soft flesh of his neck, giggling, “Afraid of being seen?”

Tyrone, clutching Quintessa’s slender waist and kissing her exposed shoulder, retorted, “Your sunt was right; you really have no shame.”

A cold glint flashed in Quintessa’s eyes; she’d deal with Rachel eventually.

Pressing down on his lap, Quintessa challenged, “And what about you? You got any shame? You are not even over her, aren’t you? And yet you’re feeling up her niece? Should I call you plain shameless, Mr. York?”

Tyrone grunted, Quintessa was a siren, and he was perversely curious to see how far she’d go.

Tyrone felt himself on the verge of frenzied outburst; his breathing grew heavier as he reached for the zipper of Quintessa’s dress, “You really are a…”

Just as his fingers found the hidden zipper, Tyrone suddenly cried out in pain.