by Tara Leigh
Chapter 40
Vivienne
True to his word, Lance didn’t kiss me.
No. He licked me.
Jesus take the wheel.
And then drive us to the beach house, so Lance and I can make out in the back like teenagers.
I’m not sure how I manage not to lunge at him, but somehow I hold myself in check, at least while Lance takes the unfinished cotton candy from my hand and tosses it, along with the funnel cake plate, into a nearby trash bin. “Ready to go?”
I offer a shaky nod and some semblance of a smile, despite not feeling ready at all. Every time I look at the pool, I remember what we’ve done in it. Every glance at the trees edging his property and I see the hammock that’s no longer there. Passing the door to the master bedroom, especially knowing Lance still sleeps there every night, has me drowning in an avalanche of lust.
If all I felt for Lance was lust, I could handle it. But lust is just a fraction of what is surging through my veins. The snippets I’ve seen of Lance when his guard is down and he’s being open and vulnerable—over margaritas and tequila shots, eating lobster rolls and walking along the beach, and now tonight at this carnival—makes it impossible not to want more from Lance than just sex.
But I don’t just want more.
I want everything.
The fairy tale. The happily ever after ending. The love story worthy of a romance novel.
Want. It’s a shiny, ephemeral thing that surges through my bloodstream, weaving through my red and white blood cells like ribbons of gold. It lightens the blue veins visible on the inside of my wrists, brightens the tan I’ve earned during my weeks of summer sun.
I’m swollen with it. It shimmers inside my lungs with every breath, buzzes inside my brain like a drug, slides down my throat with every swallow.
The problem with want is that there’s no logic to it. No elegant solution or explicit plan.
Because want isn’t just a shiny gold ribbon. It’s also the toddler chasing after that ribbon. Will she catch it? Will she trip over it? Will she throw a tantrum because it evades her grasp?
The emotion is both powerful and paralyzing. Motivating and malignant.
And. It. Is. Inside. Me.
I toe off my shoes as Lance shifts into gear and drives along the highway, music thumping through the speakers, wind whipping my hair into a frenzy.
We arrive at the house and by the time I find my shoes, Lance is pulling open my door, the obscenely large unicorn in his arms.
I wrap my arms around the belly of the animal, but Lance doesn’t let go. “We haven’t tried out the fire pit yet.”
It’s a warm summer night, but the breeze coming off the ocean brings a noticeable chill with it. And I’m in no hurry to go back to my room alone. “Let’s do it.”
His face lights up with a smile that stretches between broad, high cheekbones and is punctuated by the cleft in his strong chin. I have an urge to lick it, to swipe my tongue through the shallow groove already dusted with golden stubble. Lance releases the unicorn into my grip, and we walk inside.
“Wanna grab drinks and I’ll start the fire?”
I drop the unicorn on the couch in the living room and swallow at the casual tone to Lance’s voice, as if we’re a real couple who do this sort of thing every night. “Sure.”
In the kitchen, I open a bottle of beer for Lance and pour myself a white wine, adding a few ice cubes. Not exactly classy, but the ice serves two purposes. It dilutes the wine, and since my head is already spinning, that’s a good thing. Plus, the cold is refreshing. Just looking at Lance sets my skin on fire. I linger in front of the freezer for a minute longer than necessary, cooling my cheeks.
By the time I get out to the fire pit, the flames are already dancing within the stone enclosure. And when I hand Lance his beer, an electric charge shoots through my arm at the brush of his fingers against mine.
He pats the cushion beside his thigh. There’s enough room for me beside him, but I lift a brow and gesture at the remaining three curved armless chairs surrounding us.
“I like having you close.” His answer is straightforward and honest, no pretense.
My defenses turn to ash. I sit.
There is nothing soft about Lance. He’s all hard lines and packed muscle. But when his arm slips around my shoulders, pulling me close, his thumb sweeps along my neck in a gentle motion. I rest my cheek against his chest, curling my hands around my wineglass and staring up at the stars. “Tell me a story.”
“What kind of story?” he asks.
“Anything, really. There’s something about sitting around a fire, looking up at the stars, that makes me think we should be toasting marshmallows and telling stories. But since I’m stuffed full of sugar and cake, I’ll just take the story.”
A few beats of silence pass between us before Lance’s deep voice joins the crackle of the fire. “Once upon a time, there was a boy who climbed onto the roof of his family’s house every night, just so he could stare up at these same stars.”
“You climbed onto the roof?”
“Not me, a boy. Well, until he decided to take his chances on a rainy night and fell off. Then the boy was stuck inside with a broken leg for the next two months.”
“And after that, did the boy every climb out on the roof again?”
“Almost every night,” he says on an exhale, his heart rate steady and sonorous beneath my ear.
“Why? Once he knew the risks, why not just look outside the window?”
“Because on the roof, he was closer to the stars.” His voice quiets. “And on the roof, he was out of reach. Far above everything he had to see in the light of day. The unopened, unpaid bills covering the kitchen table, most with Final Notice stamped somewhere. M—The boy’s father just left them there, so every afternoon, he did his homework on a steadily rising pile of bills.”
“And did the boy grow up to be like his father?”
“No. He’s nothing like his father. He knows how to focus, how to work hard. He’s successful.”
“Is he happy?”
“Sometimes.” He looks at me, a flicker of something I can’t quite read in his expression. Or maybe a question I don’t understand. “Now it’s your turn.”
I consider my options. I can choose something silly, something light. Each word an obvious effort to rebuild the wall between us. Or I can follow Lance’s lead, revealing a part of myself that actually means something. And do my part to knock down that wall even more.
“Once upon a time, there was a girl,” I begin my story just as Lance had, “who went to work with her mother. Until then, she thought she had the perfect family. But that night, she found out it was all a lie.”
“I thought you said your life was boring.”
“Not me, a girl. She saw her mother with another man.”
“What did the girl do?”
“Nothing. But at night, she would sit by the window of her bedroom and stare out at the stars, wishing she was anywhere else. Then she went to college, and never came back. Not for longer than a night or two, anyway. It was too hard to feel sick to her stomach every time she looked into her mother’s face. Every time she saw her parents pretending like they were in love.”
With Lance’s story sitting heavily on my heart and my own spewing from my mouth like a sewage pump, I’m struck by how much toxic waste we’ve been carrying around inside ourselves.
“They’re still married?”
“Still married. Still pretending. He knows about the affair, too. She told him. And he forgave her.”
The ice clinks in my glass when I take the last sip, and Lance glances down at me. “Have you?”
I shake my head slowly. Not giving voice to the answer that sits like lead inside my mouth. No.
“I—I should probably get inside.”
I stand to go, and he reaches for my wrist, encircling it with his long fingers. “I don’t want tonight to end.”
There’s such vulnerability inside h
is gaze, and the wall I’ve been trying to keep between us is a pile of rubble. Escaping to the safety and solitude of my room is a tempting option. Safe. But it’s no contest against the mystery that swirls inside Lance’s eyes. A mystery I’m compelled to explore, despite the risks. Or maybe even because of them. “Me neither.”
He stands, too, his wide shoulders and muscular neck at eye level until I tip my head to take in the entirety of his face. “Don’t go back to your room. Stay with me.”
My eyelashes flutter as I push myself to be completely honest. “Tonight has been perfect. If I go back to your room, we both know what will happen. And I’d hate for anything to overshadow . . .” My voice trails off as I struggle to explain. I want to keep the memory of our night untainted and frozen in time, like a scene from a snow globe.
“I promise, I won’t let that happen. But don’t make me go to bed alone, without you in my arms. Not tonight.”
Chapter 41
Lance
Vivienne crawls across the mattress and slips beneath the sheets, her hair spread across the pillow like crimson brushstrokes on a white canvas. I grasp my shirt from the back of my neck and pull it over my head. Her eyes unlock from mine, hungrily devouring my chest. They follow my hands as I unclasp the button of my jeans and tug at the fly, pushing the denim from my thighs and to the floor.
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?”
Lance shakes his head. “No. No bother at all.”
“Will you have a drink with me? You know I hate to drink alone.”
He strolls over, one hand in his pocket, the other running through his hair. “Sure.”
“You know,” I say, pretending like a thought has just occurred to me, “I could use your help with something if you’re not too busy.”
“Not at all. What do you need?”
I lead him to the canvas. “I want to create something to hang over the fireplace, something big and eye-catching.” I reach my arms over my head, making sure to arch my back and rise onto my tiptoes, giving a little shimmy. “As you can see, I can’t reach the top.”
I bite my lip as his eyes drop to my ass, hoping he won’t point out the obvious. That all I have to do is turn the thing sideways to reach every inch on my own.
“So, you need me to pick you up to reach the top?”
“That’s an idea.” I have absolutely no objection to Lance’s strong hands cinched at my waist. “Or,” I gesture toward the open cans of paint, “you can paint with me.”
“I’m not an artist.” The words are soft, almost an apology.
“You don’t have to be. Just take off your clothes and get in here. I’ll show you.”
