I prefer to sleep naked, but if it means keeping Vivienne in my bed, the boxer briefs will stay on. But there’s no disguising the bulge inside them.
She finally drags her eyes back to my face. In the darkened room, they glow with an unbanked fire that heats the blood inside my veins to unsafe levels. “Would it be too much to ask for a good night kiss?”
My cock swells even thicker as I lift a corner of the blanket and slip beside Vivienne. “I think I can manage that.”
Vivienne gives a slow blink, and I can practically hear the wheels turning inside her head, wondering if I’ll be able to stop at just one kiss.
But she knows I can, because I have.
And that’s when I realize Vivienne isn’t concerned about me. She’s worried that she won’t be able to stop herself from asking for more.
But even if she does, even if she begs for it, it will be just her pussy talking. If I give in, even the brightest bits of the memories we made tonight will be tarnished once the haze of passion leaves Vivienne’s mind.
With my resolve fortified, I slide one arm in the space between Vivienne’s neck and the pillow, my other hand curving over her waist to splay across the narrow expanse of her back, pulling her body against mine.
Vivienne’s gasp steals my breath. I close the remaining distance between our mouths, slanting my lips over hers and sliding my tongue along the crease, seeking entrance. She gives in with a soft sigh as I slide my fingers through the hair at the nape of her neck, tracing the shape of her scalp and gathering a mound of silken strands into my fist.
I deepen our kiss with a growl, sliding a knee between Vivienne’s legs and feeling her buck against my thigh.
Vivienne’s hands aren’t idle. One slides up my chest, her nails piercing the skin along the rise of my shoulder. The other is wrapped around my hip like a lever, holding me steady as she grinds against me.
Our mouths mate, our hands explore, each of our breaths beg for more.
More, more, more.
There’s something about this kiss that’s different from any of the others we’ve shared. Just as there’s something about this night that is different from those that have come before it.
How could there not be, after what we shared around the firepit?
Before tonight, I thought I knew almost everything about Vivienne.
What she likes for lunch and the tunes she hums while making it. That she prefers to drink her first cup of coffee outside and likes to read romance novels while sitting on the steps of the pool. The hotter the day, the deeper the step. And she has an unhealthy addiction to tracking her steps, that damn Fitbit always on her wrist.
I’ve seen what she can do to an empty space and a blank page. And that it’s impossible for her to walk into a room without changing it somehow. Straightening a painting, fluffing a pillow, wiping down a counter.
Tonight, I learned that Vivienne has seen betrayal at its most intimate level. Just as I have.
Her hurt runs as deeply as mine. She knows what it is to love someone you can barely look at. To lose respect for a person you once admired.
And I learned that sharing the deepest parts of my soul—my hopes and fears and most fervent desires—doesn’t make me weak. Strength flows through my veins tonight.
Because of Vivienne.
I’m not a religious man, but this kiss, this melding of mouths and breaths and lips and teeth and tongues . . . it feels like a christening. A rebirth.
The man I was before tonight, the family that raised me, the women I fucked—they are all in the past.
I’m shaped by my experiences, but I am no longer defined by them.
I have a new standard by which to measure myself. A new goal. And she’s in this bed with me.
I disengage with a groan that’s matched by Vivienne’s wanton moan. “Don’t stop,” she whispers, her breath a hot invitation caressing my lips.
But I pull away, watching her eyes flutter open, confusion and longing etched into the frown creasing the otherwise elegant sweep of her brows. “No regrets in the morning, remember?”
“I’m already regretting saying that,” she mumbles, blinking at me with a steady, disappointed gaze.
I grin, loving the surly pout to her lips.
I regret nothing.
Which is why I roll Vivienne onto her back, bracing myself over her with my forearms, letting my swollen, cotton-covered cock rub between her parted thighs. “Yessssss.” It’s the sweetest, softest sigh of relief, of surrender. But I’m not conquering her.
Tonight, I’m worshiping this girl. My treasure.
I lean down, planting feather-light kisses all over her face. Forehead, nose, cheeks, chin. The delicate shell of her ears, the line of her collarbone, and the fluttering hollow between.
The whimpers that escape her lips are hot as fuck, and so is the way she writhes beneath me.
But I’m not about to blow my shot.
Literally or figuratively.
Finally, I press a last, lingering kiss on her lips. They open in a smile as she wraps her legs around my hips, locking her ankles at the base of my spine as her palms curve over my jaw, her thumbs sweeping over my cheeks.
Against her mouth, I murmur, “Good night, Vivienne.”
Chapter 42
Vivienne
9 DAYS UNTIL LABOR DAY
Another week passes, days disappearing like footsteps in the sand. Every night, Lance and I sit out by the firepit and swap stories. We’ve abandoned our once upon a time safety net. And we’ve shared more than just our pasts. More than our favorite foods and songs and books and movies. Lance now knows my hopes and dreams.
And I know his.
I fall asleep with his goodnight kisses on my lips, his arms wrapped around my body. But nothing more.
At this point, I’ve resorted to begging. Whatever we are, whatever we will or won’t be, I love him. Not that I’ve uttered the four-letter word out loud. Lance doesn’t love me back. If he did, I would be his actual girlfriend, not just his pretend girlfriend. Although things between us are heating up privately, he still hasn’t called off our public farce.
So if the only way I can express my feelings is by making love to him, I need to take the chance. Now.
Before he’s lost to me, possibly forever.
Last night, he almost relented. Almost. But I am determined to seduce him today.
And I have the perfect plan.
Tomorrow, the custom built-ins for my former bedroom are being installed so if things get a little messy—and I hope they will—it won’t matter.
I’ve already covered the floor with a drop cloth and lugged the seven-by-five canvas I ordered from an art supply company into the room, leaning it against the wall across from the window. In front of the canvas are six open paint cans, also ordered from the art supply company, that are non-toxic, allergen-free, and washable. The colors are the same colors I’ve used throughout the house. Pale blue, light gray, beige, pewter, navy, and gold.
And at six o’clock, wearing my skimpiest bikini, I mix up a batch of frozen margaritas in the kitchen. At the sound of the blender, Lance pokes his head out of his office. I turn it off, making sure to stand at the edge of the kitchen so Lance can see me. All of me. I feign innocence. “Sorry, margarita craving. Am I bothering you?”