Chapter 17: A Very Very Bad Decision
He continued fingering her, slow at first, then pressing deeper, curling his fingers just enough to make her legs jerk. He wasn’t even looking at what he was doing. He was looking at her face, his expression calm, almost peaceful, like he was listening to music only he could hear.
And she hated that face. She hated the way his gaze pinned her like she was some delicate thing he was admiring when she knew better.
Her thighs started to tremble. She could feel her body reacting against her will. Her breath kept coming faster. She tried to clench her jaw, to hold everything in, but a soft sound slipped out anyway.
He caught it. Of course he did. His eyes warmed instantly, as if her tiny, humiliating moan was exactly the gift he’d been waiting for.
It was in that look. That quiet, knowing softness that said, I know you want this.
She wanted to slap it right off his face.
Inside her head she was screaming. Stop. Push him away. Slap him. Bite him. Scream in his ear so loud he goes deaf.
But she didn’t do any of those things. Instead, her hips gave the smallest push forward. Her fingers dug into the edge of the vanity, nails biting into the wood, and another sound slipped from her throat.
What the hell is wrong with you, Vivienne? she thought.
He leaned down, his mouth finding her breast again. His lips moved slow, dragging heat across her skin. He kissed her like she was his only prayer, and she hated how good it felt. Then he moved higher, to the side of her neck, brushing his lips over that one spot she never wanted him to find.
She felt his breath before she heard the words.
"I didn’t know you’d look so pretty when you fall apart," he whispered, his tone low and intimate, as if he were confessing something tender.
Her eyes opened, sharp. Fall apart? she thought. What the fuck does that even mean?
But she didn’t get to puzzle it out, because her body was burning. The ache between her legs had grown unbearable. Her pride was still holding out, but it was slipping fast.
And then it happened.
"Please," she said.
The word tasted like betrayal in her mouth. It was small, almost broken, but it was there.
He froze for half a second, like he wanted to savor it. Then his mouth curved into that soft, devastating smile. The kind of smile that would convince anyone watching that he was hopelessly in love with her.
He said nothing. His fingers kept moving, slow but merciless, until her breathing turned into short, desperate gasps. Her muscles tensed, her hips pressed forward, and she came, hard, her whole body shaking against him.
Only then did he stop.
He slid his hand back, wiping nothing away, just leaving her bare and shivering. With quiet, unhurried movements, he hooked his fingers into the waistband of her underwear and pulled it down her legs. The fabric slid over her skin, whispering against her thighs, before pooling at her feet.
Now there was nothing between them.
He kissed her softly, the kind of kiss that felt like it should mean something. His lips were warm, his movements gentle, like he was afraid she might break.
And it was exactly in that false gentleness that she felt the danger.
Then he lifted her from the vanity, holding her with care, as if she were fragile porcelain.
Inside his head, the words were nothing like his touch. Oh, I cannot wait to break you.
Her thoughts were scrambled messes. Bits and pieces of sense clashed with the rush of heat in her blood. She didn’t even know if she wanted to shove him away or pull him closer.
He carried her to the bed and set her down slowly, almost reverently. The sheets were cool under her back, the room quiet except for their breathing.
Then came the sound — the low, deliberate pull of leather sliding through metal. He was taking off his belt.
Her eyes followed his hands as he removed the rest of his clothes. He was calm, patient, as though there was all the time in the world.
When he was bare, he came back to her. His hand cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking softly. Then he kissed her again, slow and deep, the kind of kiss that would fool anyone into thinking this was love.
She didn’t kiss back right away. But she also didn’t pull away.
Then he positioned himself over her, looking right into her eyes as he entered her.
Her breath hitched, her fingers curling in the sheets.
The first thrust was slow, deliberate, dragging through her until she felt every inch. Her lips parted, a sound catching in her throat.
"You feel perfect," he murmured, his voice low and warm. "Like you were made for me."
She said nothing. Her eyes stayed locked on his.
He leaned in closer, his lips brushing her ear. "So quiet tonight," he whispered. "Is this your first time?"
First time? Definitely not. But this way. It definitely was.
She tried to keep shut because she was afraid she might cuss at him. Or say something she would regret but the only thing that left her lips were moans.
"You don’t have to worry," he said softly. "I will never hurt you. You are too precious to me."
Her nails bit into the sheets. She hated that his words were working on her. She hated that she was getting close again.
His hand moved to her hip, holding her in place as he thrust deeper. His pace was slow but strong, like he had all night to ruin her.
"You don’t have to worry," he whispered. "It’s just you and me. No one else matters."
And she did. Her body betrayed her again. She came hard, her legs trembling uncontrollably.
He stayed close, his forehead against hers, his breathing steady.
Then he pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, lingering there, and said in the gentlest voice, "I love you, Vivienne."
She didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
The silence was everything.