6. Vincent
VINCENT
The service car pulls through the gates of my property just after six PM.
Two days since that last morning in Paris.
Violet is asleep against my shoulder, her breathing soft and even.
She slept through most of the private jet ride home too—eight hours in the air, and she was out for six of them, curled up in the bedroom while I pretended to work in the main cabin.
Pretended, because I couldn't focus on anything except her.
The jet was an indulgence. I'd been successful in Paris despite my distraction, closed the deal I'd flown overseas to finalize. But every meeting, every site inspection, I was thinking about Violet. Her taste. Her sounds. The way she looks at me like I'm the only thing that matters.
We had more encounters after that day exploring the city. Each one deeper, more intense. Each one pulling me further under.
I tip the driver generously and help Violet out of the car. She's groggy, disoriented from sleep. I keep my hand on her lower back as we walk to the front door, a possessive touch I can't resist.
Inside, the house is exactly as we left it. Modern, masculine, all clean lines and dark wood. I designed it myself five years ago, before my disastrous marriage to Deborah. The marriage that brought Violet into my life and destroyed any chance I had at normalcy.
The house sits on two acres in a gated community. Private. Isolated. No neighbors close enough to see inside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
Violet has been living here for three years, but it's still clearly my space. Her bedroom upstairs is the only feminine room—softer colors, lighter furniture. We've always maintained separate bedrooms even though there's no one to maintain appearances for.
It was about boundaries. About pretending our relationship was appropriate.
That pretense is gone now.
We order Thai food for dinner. Violet sits at the kitchen island picking at her pad Thai, quieter than usual. I watch her over my own plate, wondering what she's thinking.
The normalcy feels strange after Paris. We're back to regular life, but everything has fundamentally changed.
"You okay?" I ask.
She looks up, offers a small smile. "Just tired. And... adjusting to being back."
I understand. Paris was a bubble, isolated from reality. Here, the weight of our secret relationship feels heavier even though there's no one to hide from. Deborah is long gone, and I have no family nearby.
Still. The taboo nature of what we're doing is impossible to ignore.
After dinner, Violet loads the dishwasher while I put away leftovers. The domestic routine is comfortable, familiar. But now every movement is charged with awareness.
I pass behind her and let my hand rest on her lower back. Possessive. Claiming.
She leans into the touch without a word.
Around eleven PM, Violet announces she's going to bed. She's exhausted from travel, still catching up on sleep after I wore her out in Paris.
I nod, don't suggest she sleep in my room. I never have.
She pauses at the base of the stairs, looks back at me. There's a question in her eyes, but she doesn't voice it.
"Goodnight, Vincent."
"Goodnight, Violet."
She climbs the stairs. I hear her bedroom door close.
I stay downstairs, opening my laptop at the dining table. Try to focus on work emails. But my mind is upstairs with her. Imagining her getting ready for bed. Is she wearing pajamas, or did she strip naked? Did she shower? Is she thinking about me?
An hour passes. I can't concentrate on anything.
The pull toward her room is magnetic. Irresistible.
I've been trying to give her body a break—she's still recovering from the intensity of our Paris nights. I promised her rest during travel.
But the need to touch her, claim her, is overwhelming.
Just after midnight, I give up fighting it.
I climb the stairs quietly. Approach Violet's door and listen. No sound from inside.
I open the door carefully, slip into the dark room.
My eyes adjust. Violet is in bed, deeply asleep. The room smells like her—vanilla body lotion, the subtle scent of her shampoo. She's on her back, one arm above her head, breathing deeply. Wearing a thin tank top and sleep shorts, blankets tangled around her legs.
She looks peaceful. Unaware of my presence.
I should leave. Let her rest.
But the thought lasts only a second before need overwhelms reason.
I sit on the edge of her bed carefully. She doesn't stir. Truly deep in sleep.
I pull the blankets down slowly, exposing her body inch by inch.
The soft cotton whispers as it slides over her skin.
In the dim light filtering through the window—moonlight mixed with the faint glow of streetlamps—I can see the outline of her form.
Small breasts pressing against the thin fabric of her tank top, the gentle rise and fall with each breath.
The curve of her waist, the way the material clings to her.
My pulse quickens. The anticipation is almost unbearable.
I hook my fingers in the waistband of her sleep shorts and slide them down her legs carefully, watching her face the entire time. Her breathing doesn't change. Remains deep and even.
She's not wearing panties underneath. My good girl, remembering what I like even in her sleep. The thought sends satisfaction coursing through me.
Her pussy is bare to me now. Exposed and vulnerable in the darkness. The sight makes my cock harden immediately, straining against my pants. I can feel the heat of my own arousal, the urgent need building.
I remove her shorts completely, let them drop silently to the floor.
Next, her tank top. I sit her up slightly, supporting her sleeping weight with one arm around her back.
Her head lolls against my shoulder, completely pliant.
I pull the shirt over her head carefully, easing her arms through.
The vanilla scent of her body lotion intensifies as I move her, warm and sweet.
She murmurs something unintelligible. A soft sound that might be a word but isn't. Doesn't open her eyes. Her breathing hitches for just a second, then settles back into that deep rhythm.
Now she's completely naked in her bed. Vulnerable and trusting in a way that makes something possessive and dark curl in my chest.
I take a moment just to look at her. Really look. Small breasts, pale in the dim light. Narrow waist. The slight flare of her hips. The smooth plane of her stomach. Every detail is exquisite. Perfect.
And mine.
I start with my hands. Trail fingers down her arm slowly, feeling the softness of her skin, the warmth. Across her collarbone, tracing the delicate bone. Violet's breathing stays even, deep, completely undisturbed by my touch.
I cup her breast, feeling the weight of it in my palm. Roll the nipple between my fingers gently. It tightens automatically, pebbling under my touch. Her body responding even though her mind is asleep. Even unconscious, she reacts to me.
I lean down, take her nipple in my mouth. Suck gently, swirling my tongue around the tightened peak. Tasting her skin, feeling the texture change as I work it.
She sighs in her sleep. A soft exhalation that sounds almost content.
I move to her other breast, give it the same attention. My hand slides down her stomach, feeling the warmth of her skin, the softness. Between her legs.
Her thighs fall open easily. Unconscious permission. Trusting even in sleep.
I explore her pussy with my fingers, learning it again even though I know every inch. Outer lips, soft and smooth. Finding her clit, that sensitive bundle of nerves. Circling slowly, applying just enough pressure.
She's not wet yet, but her body begins to respond to my touch. I can feel the subtle changes—the way her flesh warms slightly, the minute shift of her hips. I slide one finger inside her, testing. Feeling the tight heat.
She's still slightly tight, slightly sore from our Paris nights. The evidence of how thoroughly I fucked her over those days. But her pussy accepts my finger, yielding to the intrusion. Her inner muscles clench around it reflexively, an automatic response.
I add a second finger. Begin pumping slowly, curling them to stroke her inner walls. Working her open. Her pussy is warm around my fingers, gripping them with each withdrawal.
Her hips shift minutely. An unconscious movement toward pleasure, seeking more.
I position myself between her spread thighs, settling my weight on the bed. She remains deeply asleep, her face peaceful and relaxed. Unaware of what I'm about to do.
I press a kiss to her inner thigh, feeling the softness against my lips. Then my tongue finds her clit, circling slowly. Tasting her.
Her taste is intoxicating. Familiar now after Paris, but still uniquely hers. Slightly sweet, distinctly aroused. I want more of it.
I lick her thoroughly, dragging my tongue through her folds. Getting her wet, preparing her for my cock. My fingers continue working inside her, stretching her gently. Pumping in and out with wet sounds that seem obscenely loud in the quiet room.
Small sounds escape her. Soft sighs that catch in her throat. Quiet murmurs that might be words but aren't.
But her eyes stay closed. Her face peaceful, relaxed. She's so deep in sleep that nothing reaches her conscious mind.
I suck her clit into my mouth, applying suction. Her hips lift slightly off the bed, an unconscious arch. Still asleep, but her body responding to the pleasure. Chasing it without thought.
Her pussy grows wetter, slicker with each pass of my tongue. Her arousal building even unconsciously, her body preparing itself for what it knows is coming.
I continue for several minutes, bringing her close to orgasm. Her breathing speeds up gradually, becomes shallow and quick. Her thighs tremble on either side of my head, muscles twitching. The taste of her arousal intensifies—sharper, more urgent.
But I stop before she can come. I want her to orgasm on my cock instead. Want to feel those contractions around my shaft, not my fingers.