Chapter 3 Vivienne
Vivienne
My hands trembled slightly as I unlocked the front door, hyperaware of Julian's presence behind me.
What am I doing?
The question echoed in my mind as I stepped into my small entryway, flicking on the warm lamp that cast gentle light across my living space.
He's here because he wants to be.
I reminded myself, stealing a glance at him as he followed me inside. He could have easily said no, could have gotten back in that expensive car and disappeared into whatever world he came from.
But he was here, in my modest townhome with its mismatched furniture, stacks of books and scattered papers that needed grading on my dining table, looking around with what seemed like genuine curiosity rather than judgment.
"Coffee?" I asked, needing something to do with my hands. "I know it's late, but—"
"Coffee sounds perfect," Julian said, his voice carrying that same calm tone it had held in the car.
I moved to my small kitchen, grateful for the familiar ritual of grinding beans and measuring water. The domestic normalcy of it helped settle my nerves, though I remained acutely aware of Julian moving through my living room, taking in the details of my private space.
"This looks like a..." he trailed off, studying the painting that dominated the wall above my worn leather couch. "Where did you get this?"
I paused, coffee scoop in hand. "It's one of my student's works—it was a gift," I said, pride evident in my voice.
Julian turned, confusion flickering across his features. "Was Diego Castellanos your student?"
"You know Diego?" Surprise colored my words. It wasn't often that people in Julian's world knew about my former students, especially ones who'd graduated six years ago.
"He's... he's a magnificent painter," Julian said slowly. "His work has been creating quite a stir in the art world."
My smile was soft with affection. "He almost didn't pursue art at all.
His parents had this grand plan for him to be a lawyer, follow in his father's footsteps.
But Diego would spend lunch periods in my classroom, sketching in the margins of his history notes.
" I resumed preparing the coffee, memory warming my voice.
"I finally convinced him to take an art class, helped him build a portfolio for college applications.
He even came back to ask for advice when he was preparing for his first gallery show. "
The smile slipped from my face, "I was supposed to be there for the opening, but my dad ended up in the hospital with chest pains that weekend. I needed to fly home to Kentucky to be with family." I shook my head. "I felt terrible about missing it, but Diego understood."
Julian was quiet for a long moment, studying the painting with new eyes. "Vivienne," he said carefully, "This piece is probably worth half a million dollars. Maybe more."
I nearly dropped the coffee pot. "What?" I turned to stare at the painting, then back at Julian. "Oh god, I need to call my insurance company. My renter's policy definitely isn’t enough to cover that."
Julian stared at me, something like amazement crossing his features. "That's your first thought? Insurance?"
"Well, yes," I said, as if it were obvious. "I can't exactly hang a half-million-dollar painting in my living room without proper coverage. What if something happened to it?"
"Most people would consider selling it."
My expression turned almost offended as I set down the coffee pot.
"Sell it? Diego gave this to me because I believed in him when no one else did.
It's not about the money—it's about what it represents.
" I gestured toward the painting. "Every time I look at it, I remember why I teach.
It's a reminder that sometimes the most important thing you can do is help someone discover who they're meant to be. "
Julian moved closer, his steel-gray eyes intense.
"You're unexpected," he said quietly, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear.
His gloved fingers lingered against my cheek.
"Most people would see dollar signs. You see a reminder of why you matter to someone.
You're extraordinary." He searched my eyes as he leaned closer. "May I...?"
My breath caught. "Yes," I whispered, then more breathlessly, "Yes please."
Julian leaned in, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that was soft at first, tentative, asking permission. But when I melted against him, my arms winding around his neck, he deepened it, one hand sliding to cup the back of my head while the other settled at my waist.
I could taste the faint remnants of whiskey we'd shared at dinner, could feel the careful control in the way he held me—like I was something precious that might break if he wasn't careful.
But I didn't want careful. I pressed closer, threading my fingers through his dark hair, and felt him make a low sound against my mouth as he tightened his arm around my waist.
"Vivienne," he murmured, pulling back just enough to search my eyes. "Are you sure about this?"
Instead of answering with words, I rose on my toes and captured his mouth again, letting my body communicate what I wanted. Julian's control seemed to slip then, his arms tightening around me as he backed me against the kitchen counter.
The edge pressed into my lower back, but I didn't care.
All I could focus on was the heat of his body against mine, the way his hands—still gloved—mapped the curves of my waist and hips through the satin of my corset.
When he trailed kisses down my throat, I let my head fall back, a soft moan escaping my lips.
"Tell me what you want," Julian whispered against my pulse, his voice rough with desire.
"You," I breathed without hesitation. "All of you."
He pulled back to look at me, his eyes dark with need but still searching my face. "We can go slow—"
"No," I interrupted, surprising myself with my boldness. "I don't want slow. I want..." I struggled to find words for the hunger that had been building all evening, the way every look, every touch had stoked something deeper than simple attraction. "I want to feel seen."
Something shifted in Julian's expression—surprise giving way to heat, control giving way to desire. He lifted me easily, setting me on the counter so we were eye level, stepping between my parted thighs.
"Then let me show you how much I see you," he said, his voice a low promise that sent fire through my veins.
His mouth found mine again, more demanding this time, and I lost myself in the sensation. My hands explored the breadth of his shoulders, the lean strength of his chest through his expensive shirt. My legs came up to circle his waist.
When I began working at his jacket, he helped me push it off, never breaking the kiss, though I noticed he made no move to remove his gloves.
I could feel his hands at the laces of my corset, the meticulous way he loosened them, and then the blessed relief as the tight fabric gave way. Julian pulled back to look at me, his breathing ragged.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his gloved hands cupping the weight of my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples until they peaked under his touch as he traced soft kisses along my collarbone.
The contrast of the leather gloves against my sensitive skin sent sparks of pleasure through me, and when he leaned down to draw one hardened peak into his warm, wet mouth, I arched against him with a soft cry.
I reached for the buttons of his shirt, my fingers working quickly, desperate to feel skin against skin. But when I pushed the fabric aside and saw the lean lines of his torso, the defined muscles of his chest and abdomen, I paused in appreciation.
"My turn," I whispered, leaning forward to press kisses along his collarbone and the abstract colors of a tattoo there, tasting salt and something uniquely him. Julian's hands fisted in my hair, a soft groan escaping him when I found a particularly sensitive spot.
"Bedroom," he managed, his voice strained.
I pulled back, meeting his eyes. "Upstairs," I said breathlessly.
Julian lifted me from the counter, my legs tightening around his waist as he carried me toward the stairs.
I peppered kisses along his jaw and neck, the friction of my bare breasts against his chest sending waves of heat through my body.
I reveled in the way his grip tightened on my thighs, the quiet sounds of pleasure he couldn't quite suppress as I explored and found sensitive spots along his throat.
My bedroom was small and cozy, dominated by a queen-sized bed covered in soft linens and scattered pillows. Julian set me down gently beside it, his hands framing my face as he kissed me again, slow and thorough.
"Are you certain?" he asked one more time, his forehead resting against mine.
"I've never been more certain of anything," I replied, and meant it completely.
He looked me over as if to be sure my words were true.
Then his mouth followed suit, taking his time despite my earlier protests about not wanting slow.
His fingers found the waistband of my pants, and I helped him peel them away along with his own, until he stood before me in just his black boxers and those ever-present gloves, while I was left in a simple black thong.
He mapped every curve, every sensitive spot, until I was trembling with need. When he grabbed the globes of my ass with his leather covered hands and pulled me against him, I surprised him by spinning us around and pushing him down onto the bed.
I straddled his hips, grinding down against the hard length of him through our remaining barriers, drawing twin moans from both our throats.