by Lila Dubois
She was a Deschamps, of the Château Rossolina Deschamps. Her family was one of the dozen Primum Familiae Vini—“first families of wine.” The Deschampses had been making wine since before the Revolution, and now Château Rossolina, the Deschamps family’s country house where they’d been growing grapes and making wine for generations, was the flagship label for Château Rossolina, a world-wide brand with dozens of vineyards in not only France, but Italy and even the U.S. Château Rossolina wine had name recognition even among people who would never buy a bottle of their appropriately expensive wine, and the Deschamps regularly made lists of the richest families in France.
And so she’d rebelled by studying medicine, drinking whiskey, and falling in love with a bold and charming young American.
The bartender set a shot glass down in front of her.
Solomon planted his elbow on the bar, settling in to watch her. He was smirking.
Vivienne didn’t look at him as she said, in French, “I do so hate to drink alone. Please, would you pour one for him?”
The bartender looked at Solomon, then slowly reached for a second shot glass.
She used the time to compose herself.
It may have taken me a while to learn to hate this place.
By the time the bartender set Solomon’s shot down, she was smiling and confident her face wasn’t showing any of her feelings.
Shot in hand, she turned. He was still slouched, weight on his elbow on the bar, but he no longer looked as composed as he had.
She raised her shot glass. His eyes narrowed and he snatched his up.
“To Paris,” she said.
His jaw tightened, and when he looked at her, their gazes collided.
Looking into his eyes was a physical blow.
Hatred, contempt, pain. She thought she saw all of those things, or maybe it was none of them. Maybe there wasn’t a word in any language she knew that could capture the feeling she saw in this once-familiar man’s eyes.
He raised the shot glass and tossed back the whiskey. Almost reflexively, she did the same. It burned and she had to fight the urge to cough by swallowing hard and then clearing her throat.
“Don’t do that much anymore?” Solomon smirked.
She raised a brow, then tapped the bar twice with her finger. The bartender hopped over, filling their shot glasses again.
This time she was the first one to knock back the shot. The burn felt good now, the fire warming a place inside that had gone cold the moment she’d seen him.
“You haven’t lost your touch.” She put just the right amount of faux admiration into the comment. “Still doing shots of cheap whiskey? How…delightful.”
“Still pretending to be submissive?”
She froze mid-inhale, the world around her seeming to glaciate.
She forced herself to exhale, imagined the warm heat of her breath thawing the world. “For a moment I thought we might get through this unscathed,” she murmured.
“‘Life is pain, highness. Anyone who tells you differently is selling something.’”
“And what are you selling, Solomon?”
“Abso-fucking-lutely nothing, Vivi.”
“Do not call me that.”
“Not even for old time’s sake?”
“You always had the manners of a barbarian. A gentleman wouldn’t bring up the past.”
“Look at me, Vivi. Look at my face and tell me I’m a gentleman.”
She looked at him, at the scar that marred his cheek, the corner of his beautiful mouth. Her own lips trembled. “A wise man would realize that he is not the only one armed with pain.”
“‘Armed with pain.’” He snorted. “That’s not how normal people talk.”
“I’m not normal—”
“You can say that again.”
“And neither are you.”
“I, at least, live in the real world,” Solomon shot back.
“Really? Last I heard, you were holed up on some little island, hiding from the world in your private kink club.”
“Keeping tabs on me?”
She pursed her lips and pretended he hadn’t said anything. “Or perhaps you were just hiding from me?” It was a low blow, and she hated herself for saying it.
His hand came up, touching the scar on his cheek. It was a protective gesture but his gaze wasn’t frightened. He looked angry.
And dangerous. So terribly dangerous.
Her nipples were diamond-hard inside her bra, and she wanted him so badly in that moment it was an almost physical ache.
“You think I’m scared of you, Vivi?”
“I doubt you think about me at all. You made it very clear I didn’t matter to you when you left.”
“Revisionist history? How very French.”
“Fuck you.”
“You wish, sweetheart.”
“I assure you, I do not.”
Lie, lie, lie.
“Really?” Solomon took another step, now close enough that if he reached out he would touch her. “You know where I live. I think you’ve been asking about me.”
“It’s not exactly a huge community.” She gestured to the club. “There’s plenty of gossip. Stories about the parties you throw.”
“A party you weren’t invited to? That had to hurt.”
“Hardly.”
“And this brings us back to the topic of you pretending to be submissive.”
She wanted to slap him. He was hurting her, his words cutting as deep as if he’d plunged a knife into her belly. She wanted to hurt him back, wanted to slap him and—
She closed her eyes.
She’d slap him, but it wouldn’t hurt him. Then he’d bend her over the bar, force her down with one strong hand, and spank her with the other. He’d force her to submit, and for a brief time she’d be able to let go. She’d cry and scream and come because with him she could.
She exhaled and opened her eyes, looked at the bartender. “Pour.”
He tipped whiskey into their shot glasses.
Vivienne didn’t wait to see if Solomon was going to join her. She took the shot. Keeping her head tipped back, she closed her eyes as the whiskey burn warmed her from within.
“All right then.” She heard him swallow, heard the clink as he set the shot glass back down.
“All right what?” she asked.
“It’s a race.”
At that she opened her eyes. “A race between us? What are we racing toward?”
“No, it’s a race between the alcohol and our fucking common sense. Right now common sense is losing, because we should just walk the fuck away.”
“And the alcohol is keeping us here?” she asked doubtfully.
“Yep.”
“No.” Vivienne pushed her hair back off her shoulder. “The alcohol isn’t why I’m standing here.”
“Why then?”
“Masochism.”
He laughed—a real laugh—and the sound hurt her heart. “You always were a masochist,” he said.
“I thought I wasn’t a submissive?”
“You’re not. I mean, you faked it pretty well for a while. Doesn’t mean you’re not a masochist.”
The urge to slap him was back, and the alcohol was making it harder to fight that impulse. She planted her slapping hand on her hip. “Please, tell me more about myself. I, of course, couldn’t possibly know my own wants or needs. I need you to tell me.”
“Careful, Vivi, your bitch is showing. Oh, but I forgot, I’m the one you had no trouble being a bitch to.”
“You were the only one I trusted,” she shot back.
She realized what she’d just said a moment after the words were out of her mouth. It wasn’t something she hadn’t said before, all those years ago, but it was a statement so painful and raw that it doused the wall of flames their words had erected between them.
Solomon’s expression went blank, but his gaze moved over her face.
They’d been speaking English, but now she switched to French, needing th
e security of her native tongue.
“No,” she whispered. “Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?” he asked softly.
“You know.” Her stomach roiled from a combination of the alcohol and the emotions bubbling up.
“I don’t.”
“What we had, it didn’t just end. We destroyed it and set fire to the ruins.” The scars he’d left on her heart and soul had healed, but she could feel those same scars stretching, threatening to tear open and leave her bleeding.
He’d been bleeding the last time she’d seen him.
Her gaze drifted to his mouth. “Solomon, I’m—” She took a step and wobbled.
He put a hand on her bare shoulder, steadying her.
Vivienne exhaled slowly as everything she’d been feeling was wiped away, replaced be a single powerful emotion.
Desire.
He’d touched her, skin to skin, and the contact was intimate in a way it had no right to be. His palm on the curve of her shoulder elicited more response than some men had managed with their tongues on her clit.
She wanted this man. Despite everything that had happened between them. She was an addict who’d managed abstinence only by staying away from her drug of choice.
Now her drug was standing in front of her, and he hadn’t taken his hand off her shoulder. She licked her lips and his gaze shifted to her mouth. She took a breath, and his attention dropped to her breasts.
They were both drunk—at least she knew she was. Three shots, two cocktails, and a glass of wine were more than enough to lay her low, and the full effect of the shots hadn’t even kicked in yet.
She could pretend to lose her balance and fall against his chest. He’d left the top button of his shirt undone, and she cold kiss him right there, on that sexy little spot at the base of his throat. She’d breathe deep and smell him, and maybe that would be enough to take her back—not five years to the end of their relationship, not six years, to the beginning of the end, but even further back—seven, eight, nine years ago, when their love had been new, the future was an adventure, and time had no meaning.
Then he’d put his arms around her, and she’d be able to cry. Cry and come and let go, because the last time she’d let herself experience the full depth of her emotions was in his arms.
And that had ended in blood and pain.
She was standing side on to the bar, facing Solomon, and now she grabbed the edge of the marble top, holding tight so she wouldn’t give in to the desire to sway into him.
Blood and pain.
When she was sure she wouldn’t stumble, Vivienne took a deliberate step back, breaking their contact. The skin he’d been touching felt frigid without the warmth of his hand.
“Vivienne, you need—”
“Another shot,” she said shakily. She swallowed several times, gathering her defenses as she did. Once the bartender poured—and the smart man poured for both of them—she looked at Solomon. “Well?”
She saw his tongue slide over his teeth, under his upper lip. It was something he did when he was thinking. Considering.
She snorted. “Tap out, Carter.” She was drunkenly proud of using the English idiom.
He snatched up his glass. “Fuck it.”
“Well done.” The words were a taunt, but she wasn’t done yet.
The rational part of her wanted to go home, fall into bed, cry, and then spend tomorrow hating herself. It would mean retreating, maybe even sprinting out of this ballroom, but she no longer cared about keeping up appearances. Nothing Celeste had ever taught her provided direction on how to deal with a drink-off with a former lover in a sex club, while surrounded by people who knew the story—or at least some of the story—about their acrimonious split.
The alcohol had done its job, lowered her inhibitions, and left her masochism in charge. That pain-loving, destructive streak was slowly taking control of her mouth. She didn’t want to scene anymore. She wanted to poke at Solomon. She knew he could still hurt her, and was fairly certain her barbs had hurt him, based on his reactions.
But did he still want her?
She’d never known desire like what she’d felt for Solomon. Maybe it had been youth, maybe it had been a quirk of chemistry. Whatever it had been, she’d never found that intensity with another man. No matter how good the sex, how intense the impact play, it had never been enough to wipe away the memory of Solomon’s touch.
Was it the same for him? When he touched another woman, did he remember her?
“Let’s drink, and then you can help me pick out someone to pretend to submit to,” she taunted.
Solomon snarled and tossed back the shot.
Vivienne’s stomach rolled, and this time the burn of the whiskey was like salt in an open wound.
CHAPTER 5
V ivienne was drunk and he was two out of three sheets to the wind.
He’d come here to warn James that he had to choose. He could be a boyfriend or a Dom, but not both.
Solomon had tried to be both, and end up fleeing Paris, scarred, angry, and with—he fucking hated this phrase, but it was accurate—a broken heart.
“Let’s drink.” Vivienne’s voice was throaty and feminine. “And then you can help me pick out someone to pretend to submit to.”
Vivienne knelt before him, naked and soft. Her nipples were rose-pink from the torment he’d already put them though. Next he’d take care of her pussy. He’d play with and torture her clit, he’d tug and suck until she could not longer hold herself still. She usually had the perfect submissive posture, moved with the fluid grace that proved she practiced rising from her knees using only the muscles of her legs, and was just the right amount of sassy when she spoke. Every word and movement intentional.
She was perfect like this, but his favorite part was when he made her lose control, when the bindings holding her to the bed weren’t just props, but functional restraints. He would play with her, bringing her closer and closer to the edge until she was sobbing his name—not Sir, or Master—Solomon.
Solomon snarled, hating how clear that memory was. He tossed back the shot, letting it burn away the remnants of the memory.
Beside him, Vivienne too drank, grimacing as she set the glass down.
The bartender was eyeing them. “Leave the bottle,” Solomon ordered.
Vivienne laughed, and it was a wonderful, husky sound. It was an intimate sound, one meant to be uttered by a sleepy, well-loved woman while she lounged amid tousled sheets.
“I should go.” Solomon wasn’t really talking to her, but to himself. He waited, seeing if his feet would move; they didn’t.
“You plan to scene tonight?” Vivienne asked.
“No, I came here to tell James not to fall in love.”
“Excuse me?” she asked, lapsing back into French.
He replied in the same language. “My friend James is in love with his submissive.”
Vivienne turned to face the ballroom and leaned back, elbows on the bar. “And you came to warn him against the dangers of love?”
“I came here to tell him that he has to choose.”
“Choose?”
“Submissive or girlfriend. It can’t be both.”
Vivienne let out a disgusted laugh. “You absolute dick.”
“I’m not wrong.”
“You’re miserably wrong.”
Solomon wanted to chuck his shot glass across the room and listen to it shatter. Instead he stepped in front of Vivienne, blocking her view. “Oh, I’m sorry, are you now happily married to a Dom?”
“Fuck you.”
“You have fucked me.” Solomon planted his hands on the bar, caging her between his arms. Dimly he was aware of alarm bells ringing somewhere in the back of his mind. He loomed over her, staring down at her pretty face and even prettier cleavage. “In more ways than one.”
She was breathing harder than she had been a moment ago. He watched as she nervously licked her lower lip, shifted her weight from one bare foot to the o
ther.
You’re slipping into Dom mode, just like you did with Christiana, and Vivienne is going to submit.
But that couldn’t be true, because Vivienne wasn’t really submissive. She was kinky, certainly a masochist, but not submissive.
And yet she wasn’t staring him in the eyes. She was looking at his nose. No, his chin.
She was lowering her gaze.
Her elbows slipped off the bar, hands falling to her sides.
Solomon leaned in until his chest nearly skimmed her breasts, until he could smell her hair, see that there were now a few strands of silver amid the brown.
Time had passed. They weren’t the same people they’d been when they’d met. Weren’t the same people they’d been when they’d torn holes in one another’s lives.
And yet she was so familiar. Just being near her made him feel centered in a way he hadn’t know he could be. This stranger was anything but strange. She was Vivienne. His Vivienne.
The room around them seemed to spin lazily, and he was now drunk enough that it didn’t feel like he was drunk at all. It felt like he was home. Home because she was his home. She was what he’d been missing.
“I have a home,” he said aloud.
“So do I…”
A word hovered there, in the narrow space between them.
Master.
“Say it,” he commanded.
“You hate me,” she whispered.
“And you hate me. But say it.”
“Mistake. This is a mistake.”
Solomon lifted his right hand from the bar. The movement threw him off balance for a moment, but he corrected and managed to stay on his feet. He slid his hand around her neck, tips of his fingers sliding under the cloud of her hair to touch her nape, while his thumb rubbed up and down her throat.
He pressed on the underside of her chin, forcing her face up.
She sighed, and it was a sound of relief.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
He knew that sound. It’s the sound she’d make when he ordered her to kneel. The sound that let him know she didn’t just want to scene, but needed it. It was the sound that told him without words that she needed him to take care of her.
But she hadn’t let him.
He’d tried, oh he’d tried.
