3. Violet
VIOLET
The sheets against my skin feel too soft, too luxurious. Nothing like the worn cotton of my bed back home—back at Vincent's house. My eyes open slowly, adjusting to the unfamiliar room bathed in pale morning light.
Where am I?
The ceiling is impossibly high, adorned with ornate molding. Heavy curtains frame floor-to-ceiling windows, pulled back to reveal a view of Parisian rooftops, all gray slate and terracotta chimney pots. The bed beneath me is massive, king-sized at least, and I'm alone in it.
Paris. The hotel. The plane.
Memory crashes through me like a physical blow. The note I slipped into Vincent's hand. The way I'd positioned myself under that blanket, bare beneath my dress. Falling asleep while he—while he?—
Heat floods my face even as my thighs clench involuntarily. The movement sends a sharp ache through my core, unfamiliar and undeniable. I'm sore. Really sore. The kind of deep, internal tenderness that speaks of something irrevocably changed.
I sit up carefully, the sheet pooling around my waist. I'm still wearing my dress from the flight, now hopelessly wrinkled and twisted around my body. Vincent's suit jacket hangs over a nearby chair, but there's no sign of him.
The nightstand holds a small white card, masculine handwriting scrawled across it: Had to go to site meeting. Back by lunch. Order room service if you're hungry. -V
I check my phone. 9:23 AM. We landed around seven, I think. Everything after the plane is hazy—Vincent carrying me through customs, the black car, being deposited in this bed. I'd been too exhausted to fully surface from sleep, only aware of his strong arms and the rumble of his voice.
The suite around me is opulent in that understated way that screams serious money. Through the open bedroom door, I can see a sitting area with elegant furniture, a marble kitchenette, and what looks like a second bathroom. Vincent doesn't do anything halfway.
But all I can focus on is the persistent ache between my legs and what it means.
My stepfather took my virginity last night while I was asleep on a plane, thirty-five thousand feet in the air, surrounded by strangers who had no idea what was happening just rows away from them.
The thought should horrify me. Instead, liquid heat pools low in my belly.
I need to see. Need to confirm what I already know in my bones.
The bathroom is all white marble and gold fixtures, with a soaking tub that could fit three people. I lock the door—an absurd instinct since I'm alone—and strip off my dress with shaking hands.
My reflection stares back at me from the mirror above the double vanity. Same dark blonde hair, now tangled from sleep. Same blue eyes. Same face.
But when I look lower, the evidence is unmistakable.
Small bruises bloom on my hips, finger-shaped and deliberate. Dark purple marks where Vincent gripped me, held me in place while he?—
I touch one gently, watching my reflection wince. The slight pain sends another rush of arousal through me. He marked me. Claimed me. Left proof of ownership on my skin.
My hands tremble as I spread my legs wider, bracing against the counter.
The view in the mirror is explicit, clinical.
My inner thighs show faint traces of dried blood, rust-colored streaks I must have been too out of it to notice earlier.
Between my legs, everything looks slightly swollen, pink and tender.
I reach down carefully, my fingers ghosting over sensitive flesh. Even that gentle touch makes me inhale sharply. I'm definitely sore, the kind of deep ache that confirms penetration, stretching, use.
The physical proof makes everything real in a way my memories don't. Vincent really did it. Pushed inside me. Took what I offered. Filled me with his?—
My knees go weak and I have to grip the counter to stay upright.
This shouldn't turn me on. I should feel guilty, ashamed. My mother's ex-husband just deflowered me on an airplane, for God's sake. But standing here examining the evidence of his possession, all I feel is fierce satisfaction and desperate need for more.
I run the bath as hot as I can stand, adding the expensive French bath salts provided by the hotel. The scent of lavender fills the room as I sink into the water with a grateful sigh. Heat soothes my aching muscles, though it does nothing to quiet my racing thoughts.
Vincent Drake. Forty-seven years old. My former stepfather.
The man I've lived with for three years.
My mother met him when I was eighteen, about to start my sophomore year at Whitmore College.
She'd always been flighty, chasing excitement, moving from one infatuation to the next.
Vincent was different from her usual type—older, established, serious.
She'd worked at his architectural firm as a receptionist, and he'd taken her to dinner after work one night.
Two months later, they were engaged. Four months after that, married.
I came home that summer to find my mother installed in Vincent's gorgeous historic house in the city, playing at being a wife. She'd seemed happy at first, giddy with the novelty of it all. Vincent had been patient, indulgent even, buying her expensive gifts and taking her on weekend trips.
But my mother isn't built for stability. She'd expected Vincent to finance her shopping addiction while she contributed nothing to the household or relationship. She threw tantrums when he worked late, accused him of being boring when he was tired, demanded constant entertainment.
I watched Vincent grow colder as the summer progressed, his initial warmth replaced by distant politeness. I felt bad for him. My mother had trapped him with her act, only to reveal her true self once he'd signed the marriage certificate.
When I left for my sophomore year that fall, their marriage was already crumbling. By Christmas, it was over. The divorce finalized before they'd reached their first anniversary.
My mother left without a backward glance. Literally. She called me from the airport to say she was moving to California, that I was an adult now and could "figure things out" on my own. Her parting gift was abandonment.
I'd assumed I'd have to find an apartment, scramble for housing. But Vincent had pulled me aside after the final divorce papers were signed, his gray eyes unreadable.
"You can stay," he'd said simply. "For as long as you need. This isn't your fault."
So I'd stayed. Through the rest of my sophomore year, my junior year, and now into my senior year. Living in his house, eating meals across from him, passing him in hallways, existing in this strange limbo where we weren't related anymore but couldn't quite define what we were.
At first, we'd been cordial. Distant. He was my former stepfather, nothing more.
But slowly, something shifted. Glances that lasted too long. Accidental touches that sent electricity through my veins. The awareness that built every time we occupied the same room.
I'd started testing boundaries. Wearing shorter skirts around the house. Finding excuses to brush against him in the kitchen. Leaving my bedroom door open when I changed. Watching his eyes track my movements before he'd force himself to look away.
The tension had become unbearable over the past six months. I knew he wanted me. I knew it was wrong—he'd been married to my mother, he was twenty-eight years older than me, society would crucify us both if they knew.
I didn't care.
The Paris trip had been my opportunity. Vincent's firm was renovating a historic property in the Marais, and he'd needed to oversee the project personally.
When he'd mentioned the business class flight and week-long stay, I'd immediately asked to come along.
Claimed I needed research for my graduate thesis on European architecture.
He'd hesitated, those gray eyes searching my face like he could see through my flimsy excuse. But he'd agreed.
Three days ago, I'd bought the lingerie. Planned every detail. Written the note that gave him explicit permission to do what we both wanted.
And last night, he'd taken it.
The water has cooled by the time I emerge from the bathroom, skin pruned and body marginally less sore. I dry off with one of the impossibly plush towels and wrap it around myself, suddenly nervous about what comes next.
Vincent will be back soon. We'll have to talk about this. Face each other in full consciousness, no more pretending.
What if he regrets it? What if he tries to pretend nothing happened?
The thought makes my chest tighten with something close to panic. I can't go back to the way things were before. Not now. Not after he's been inside me, claimed me, marked me as his.
I'm staring at my reflection, wrapped in my towel with damp hair falling around my shoulders, when I hear the suite door open.
My heart lurches into my throat. Vincent.
I force myself to breathe, to move. Opening the bathroom door, I step out into the bedroom.
Vincent stands in the sitting area beyond, loosening his tie. He's still in his meeting clothes—charcoal suit, white shirt, silver tie that matches the streaks in his black hair. He looks tired, the lines around his eyes deeper than usual.
Then he sees me.
He goes completely still. The tie slips from his fingers, forgotten. His gray eyes rake over me—damp hair, bare shoulders, the towel that barely covers me—and darken to slate.
The air between us crackles with tension, sexual and sharp. This is different from the plane. No pretense of sleep to hide behind. No darkness to obscure us. Just me and Vincent, standing in a sunlit Parisian hotel room, both fully aware of what we've done.
I walk toward him slowly, hyperaware of how I must look. The towel clings to my damp skin, emphasizing every curve. My legs are bare, still slightly pink from the hot bath. I'm not wearing anything underneath.
Vincent's jaw clenches. His hands curl into fists at his sides, knuckles white.
I stop a few feet away, suddenly unsure. What do I say? Thank you for taking my virginity? Let's do it again?
"We need to talk." His voice is rough, strained.