Chapter 4 Julian
Julian
I woke slowly, consciousness filtering through the haze of the deepest sleep I'd had in months. Sunlight streamed through unfamiliar curtains, and for a moment I was disoriented—until I became aware of the warm weight pressed against my side.
Vivienne.
She was curled against me, her chestnut hair spilled across my chest, one hand resting over my heart.
Even in sleep, she seemed to radiate contentment, her breathing deep and even.
I found myself mesmerized by the sight of her—the way her lashes fanned across her cheeks, the soft curve of her lips, the peaceful expression that made her look younger somehow.
I'd always been an early riser, driven by schedules and obligations. But lying here with Vivienne tucked against me, I felt no urge to check my phone or plan my day. I just wanted to watch her sleep and marvel at how right this felt.
When was the last time I woke up wanting to stay in bed?
My stomach chose that moment to remind me that dinner had been many hours ago. Carefully, so as not to wake her, I reached for my phone on the nightstand. 7:30 a.m. Sunday. My ride with the guys wasn't until noon, which gave me time.
I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number for the French café I favored when I wanted quality without fuss. They delivered, discretely, to clients who valued both excellence and privacy.
"Bonjour, this is Julian Thorne," I said quietly into the phone, slipping out of bed and padding to the hallway. "I need a breakfast delivery..."
I ordered carefully—fresh croissants, fruit, coffee, eggs Benedict, orange juice. Enough for two people to have a proper meal, the kind of breakfast that lent itself to leisure and care rather than grabbing something quick.
When I returned to the bedroom, Vivienne was still sleeping, one arm now stretched across the space where I'd been lying. The sight made something twist pleasantly in my chest. She'd been reaching for me, even unconsciously.
I settled back beside her, careful not to disturb the mattress too much, and resumed my study of her sleeping form.
In the growing daylight, I could see details I'd missed in the passionate darkness of the night before—a small scar on her shoulder long-since healed, probably from childhood, the way her skin held the faintest golden undertone, the delicate architecture of her collarbones.
She was beautiful, but it was more than that. She was real in a way that made everyone else in my world seem like cardboard cutouts.
A soft knock at the front door interrupted my thoughts. I must have been staring for longer than I realized.
I slipped on my boxers and padded downstairs, grateful that Vivienne's townhome was small enough that I could move about quietly. I accepted the bags from the delivery driver with a generous tip.
When I returned to the bedroom, arms full of breakfast, Vivienne was sitting up in bed, blinking sleepily. The sheets had pooled around her waist, leaving her beautifully bare from the hips up, her hair adorably mussed from sleep.
I stopped in the doorway, struck speechless by the sight. She looked like a Renaissance painting—all soft curves and warm skin in the morning light. I felt myself stir with renewed desire, the bags in my hands suddenly feeling heavy.
Then her stomach gave an audible rumble, and she laughed, the sound musical and unselfconscious.
"That smells delicious, I hope you don't mind sharing," she said, her voice husky with sleep.
"Always," I managed, finding my voice again. I held up the bags. "I may have gotten carried away ordering."
Vivienne's face lit up with delight. "You ordered us breakfast? That's..." She seemed to search for words. "That's incredibly thoughtful."
"I wanted to take care of you," I said simply, surprised by my own honesty.
Something soft and warm flickered across her expression. "Come here," she said, patting the bed beside her.
As I approached, she grabbed the sheet and pulled it up to cover her breasts and tuck it beneath her arms, but not before I caught another glimpse that made my mouth go dry. Focus, I told myself. Food first.
"What did you get?" Vivienne asked, making space for me on the bed.
I unpacked the containers, spreading them between us like a picnic. "Croissants, fruit, eggs Benedict, roasted coffee that's not full of sweetener and cream..." I paused, suddenly uncertain. "I hope you like French food."
"I love it," she said, reaching for a strawberry. "Though I have to warn you, I'm not very elegant when I eat in bed."
"I find that hard to believe."
She proved me wrong by immediately getting croissant crumbs on the sheets, but somehow that only made her more endearing.
We ate and talked, her asking about my work, me asking about her students.
She had a way of making me want to share things I usually kept private—my frustration with the superficiality of my industry, my genuine love for the craft of design, my complicated relationship with success.
"So what's your plan for today?" Vivienne asked, licking butter from her fingers in a way that made me lose my train of thought entirely.
"I..." I forced myself to focus. "I have a standing appointment. Every Sunday, I go out with some guys I served in the military with. More like brothers, though one of them just started a serious relationship, so he brings Morgan along most Sundays."
"That sounds nice," she said, and I could hear genuine warmth in her voice. "It's important to have people who knew you before you became... all this." She gestured vaguely, encompassing my wealth and status.
I nodded, surprised by her understanding. "What about you?"
"Grading papers," she said with a slight grimace. "The glamorous life of a teacher. I have about sixty essays on the Industrial Revolution to get through before class tomorrow."
"Sixty?" I felt a stab of something that might have been guilt. "That's a lot of work."
"It's what I signed up for," Vivienne said with a shrug. "Besides, some of them are actually quite good. There's always one or two that surprise me."
We finished breakfast in comfortable conversation, and I found myself reluctant to suggest we get dressed and face the day. This felt too good, too right, to end.
But something was nagging at me—a persistent discomfort I couldn't quite place. It wasn't until I shifted positions that I realized what it was. I'd slept in my gloves. All night. The leather felt wrong against my skin now, stiff and foreign after hours of wear.
I never stay over. The thought hit me with uncomfortable clarity. I had rules about these things, boundaries that kept my life compartmentalized and safe. One night, usually a hotel, always gone by morning. Clean, simple, no complications.
But here I was, having breakfast in bed with a woman who wasn't my usual type at all. Vivienne was soft where the women I usually chose were bony, genuine where they were calculating, passionate about teaching teenagers instead of climbing social ladders.
And yet she was the first person in years who'd made me want to talk about my work—really talk about it, not sell it or defend it, but share the parts of it that mattered to me.
When was the last time someone had understood what I was trying to achieve?
When had anyone seen past the brand to the actual craft?
"You're thinking pretty hard over there," Vivienne said, pulling me from my thoughts.
I glanced up to find her watching me with those perceptive hazel eyes.
I caught her gaze flicking briefly to my hands, still covered in black leather despite the intimate setting.
I saw the moment of curiosity cross her features, the slight furrow of her brow as if she wanted to ask but was holding back.
She notices everything.
"Just thinking about the day ahead," I said, which wasn't entirely untrue.
Vivienne nodded, but I could see she wasn't entirely convinced. Still, she didn't press, which only made me appreciate her more. She had the instinct to know when to push and when to let things be.
"I should clean up," I said, standing and gathering my clothes.
"Of course," Vivienne said, gesturing toward the hallway. "Feel free to use the shower, though I should warn you—you might smell like vanilla and jasmine afterwards."
My smile was soft and genuine. "I think I'd be perfectly fine smelling like you throughout the day," I said, and was rewarded by the pretty blush that spread across her cheeks.
I gathered my pants and boxers and entered her small bathroom. I turned on the shower and finally, carefully, peeled off my gloves.
The relief was immediate, but I found myself staring at my hands in the mirror above the sink. At the tattoo that curved along my right index finger and thumb—the words that had guided me for years, the reminder of the things I'd done, of who I'd sworn never to become.
I traced the letters with my left hand, remembering the day I'd gotten it inked, the vow I'd made to myself. The promise that had shaped every interaction, every relationship, every moment of control I'd ever exercised or surrendered.
Vivienne was different from my usual encounters in so many ways, but perhaps the most significant was that she made me want to be worthy of everything those words represented.
I turned on the shower and as it heated, I gently washed the outside of my gloves in the sink before setting them on a towel to dry off.
I jumped in the shower for a quick scrub, in and out in less than four minutes, military habits came in handy on occasion.
I dried off with one of the fluffy white towels she had rolled up on a shelf, then hung it up on a waiting hook and returned to the bedroom where I found Vivienne getting dressed.
"I should go," I said reluctantly, pulling on and buttoning my shirt from the night before. "Let you get to your grading."
"That's probably for the best," Vivienne said with a sigh, pulling on a soft sweater. "Otherwise I might drag you back to bed and call in sick tomorrow."
"That sounds divine," I said, meaning it completely.
"Don't tempt me." She gave me a look that was both stern and playful. "I'm a responsible educator."
I laughed, charmed by her dedication. "Friday," I said impulsively. "There's a gallery opening I'm supposed to attend—new contemporary artists, some really innovative work. I'd appreciate your company if you'd attend with me."
Vivienne's face lit up with genuine excitement. "Really? I'd love that. I haven't been to a proper gallery opening in ages."
"It's not just any opening," I said, warming to her enthusiasm. "The curator specifically chose artists who are challenging traditional boundaries, mixing historical techniques with modern concepts. I think you'd find it fascinating from a cultural perspective."
"That sounds incredible," she said, her eyes bright with interest. "I'd absolutely love to go."
We exchanged numbers, and I programmed her contact and texted her to be sure it was correct. When I leaned down to kiss her goodbye, I meant for it to be brief, but she melted against me and suddenly we were clinging to each other like we might not see each other again.
"Friday," she whispered against my lips.
"Friday," I confirmed.
I'd dismissed my driver the night before when I made the decision to stay, but had texted about thirty minutes ago for my driver to come pick me up, and the sleek black car was waiting when I stepped outside her townhome.
I settled into the back seat in a haze of satisfaction and anticipation, my body still humming from our time together. I'd never experienced anything like what I'd shared with Vivienne—the combination of physical chemistry and genuine connection was intoxicating.
At my penthouse, I changed into riding gear and tried to focus on the day ahead. The Sunday ride was sacred time, a weekly ritual that kept me grounded and connected to the men who'd seen me at my worst and still had my back.
A little past noon, I was pulling into the parking lot of one of our usual meeting spots—a diner on the outskirts of the city that served crappy coffee and minded its own business. Four motorcycles were already there, their owners clustered around a picnic table.
"Look who finally decided to show up," called Diesel, his bearded face split by a familiar grin. "We were starting to think you'd been kidnapped by fashion pirates."
"Or found yourself a woman," added Hawk, his sharp eyes taking in my unusually relaxed posture.
I felt heat rise in my cheeks, which only made Diesel's grin widen.
"Oh, he definitely found himself a woman," Kane observed quietly. "Look at that blush."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, but I couldn't quite keep the satisfaction out of my voice.
"Right," Bullet said, standing and stretching.
It seemed he'd come alone today without Morgan, the woman who had broken through his walls and brought out the best in him.
"Well, whoever she is, she's put you in a good mood.
Let's get out of here. Morgan is packing up her apartment for her move and wanted me out of her hair for a bit. "
We mounted our bikes—me on my sleek green Aston Martin AMB 001 Pro, the others on their various bikes—and pulled out onto the open road. The familiar rumble of engines and rush of wind cleared my head, but couldn't quite erase the memory of Vivienne's smile or the promise of Friday.
As we carved through the curves of the mountain highway, I found myself thinking that for the first time in years, I had something to look forward to that had nothing to do with work, success, or maintaining my carefully constructed image.
I had Vivienne, and Friday couldn't come soon enough.