5. Vivienne #3
Around us, the bar keeps going, the few linger people’s laughter and chatter fading into the background, but I am acutely aware of nothing but him. When we finally break apart, we’re both panting and breathless. His forehead drops to mine, his thumb tracing a slow line along the curve of my lips.
“Vivi,” he murmurs, my name wrapped around his lips like a prayer and a plea.
“I know,” I reply, my voice trembling. It sounds like a confession of everything I haven’t said.
We close out the tab and step into the frosty air together, my shoulder tucked under his arm against the biting cold that snaps at us after the warmth of the bar. The streets are slick from rain, reflecting light back up at the sky, the moon casting a silvery glow over everything.
His apartment is just two streets away. We don’t discuss which direction we’re walking. We don’t discuss much of anything, really; there’s nothing that needs saying. Not tonight. And we both seem to know it.
His arm stays around me as we walk, protecting me against the chill, and I find comfort in the way it feels so instinctive. I fit against him perfectly, like a missing puzzle piece finally found.
When we reach his apartment — a small, one-room space with a window overlooking the street — he clicks on a lamp, casting a soft glow that dances across the room.
There are dishes in the sink, a jacket thrown over the back of a chair, and his knife roll resting on the counter.
It’s a chaotic kind of cozy, and I can’t help but feel a sense of warmth washing over me.
He turns around and looks at me, and for a moment, everything else fades away. The world outside, the expectations of the future — none of it matters. Then we crash into each other, the air thick with the electricity of unspoken words.
His hands cup my face like I’m something precious, and he kisses me hard, backing me toward the bed. When the backs of my knees hit the mattress, I pull back just enough to breathe, our foreheads still touching, our breaths mingling in the space between us.
“Tell me what you want,” he says, his voice low and rough with desire.
I’m breathless, my fingers already working at the buttons of his shirt, each one slipping free with a soft pop. “You. I want you.”
“Yes, Chef,” he murmurs against my mouth, and I can feel the smirk tugging at his lips.
I laugh, the sound escaping before I can stop it, charged with a mix of nerves and excitement. “Did you really just say that?”
“Too much?” His dark eyes are dancing and full of mischief while I pull him down with me onto the bed.
“Say it again.”
He does, low against my ear, then his mouth is trailing down my jaw, and I stop thinking about words entirely.
He takes his time with me. Unhurried like he’s trying to make this last and he already knows it won’t. His hands move slowly, his mouth following behind them, and he stops every so often just to look at me in the warm light, his eyes moving over my face with an attention that feels unbearable.
“Cal, please.” His name comes out unsteady.
“I like when you beg.” He presses his lips to my collarbone, my sternum, the curve of my breast.
His mouth closes over my nipple, and I arch into him with a sharp inhale, my fingers sliding into his hair.
I reach for him, pulling at his shirt until he shrugs it off and tosses it somewhere behind him. The tattoos are still fresh in places, the ink still healing, dark against his skin. I trace the lines of them without thinking.
“You’re staring,” he says.
“You’re distracting.”
He grins and kisses me again, slower this time, one hand sliding slowly up my thigh, and I stop paying attention to anything else.
“God, Vivi.” His voice comes out rough. “You’re so —” He shakes his head. “You have no idea.”
“Tell me.”
His eyes darken. “Beautiful,” he says, his hands skimming up my sides. “Stunning.” His mouth drops to my throat. “So good.” The praises land against my skin, heating my core. “So incredibly perfect for me.”
I make a sound I wasn’t expecting to make.
I can hear the smile in his voice. “Yeah?”
“Shut up,” I gasp.
He doesn’t shut up. He keeps going, a steady stream of praise murmured against my skin that absolutely should not be working as well as it is.
Good girl. Perfect. Just like that. I file away the information about myself for later — specifically the part where apparently all Callum Reid has to do is tell me I’m doing a good job and my entire nervous system short-circuits.
By the time we’re both breathless, the narrow bed creaking under us, I’ve completely lost track of who I was twenty minutes ago.
“Please,” I whisper against his mouth. “I need more.”
He shifts his hips and pushes forward, watching my face the entire time. I exhale at the stretch of him, at the fullness, my hands gripping his shoulders tightly.
“Okay?” His voice is strained, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding still.
“Yes.” I roll my hips up to meet him. “Yes. God. Move, Callum. Please.”
“I love it when you say my name.” He surges forward with a rhythm that unravels me completely. I wrap my legs around him and he groans into my neck.
“Vivi, baby.” My name comes out wrecked. “Do you have any idea — God, you feel —”
“Don’t stop.”
“Never.”
The word lands somewhere deep inside me. I feel tears behind my eyes and I pull him closer so he can’t see my face.
The rhythm builds, less controlled now and more desperate. His hand slides between us, his thumb finding the spot that makes me gasp. I’m already so close, my whole body winds tight around him.
“You’re squeezing me so good, Vivi,” he breathes. “You good, perfect, stunning, girl. Let go for me. I’ve got you.”
I do. With his name on my lips, pleasure crashes through me in waves that leave me shaking. He follows moments later with one final thrust, my name torn from his throat, his body going rigid, and we hold on to each other while the world reassembles itself around us.
Afterward, we lie in his tiny bed, my back against his chest, his arm heavy across my waist. We’re both breathing heavily, the warmth of our bodies creating a cocoon against the world outside.
The lamp still glows softly, casting shadows across the walls.
Outside, footsteps fade as the night deepens.
His thumb moves in a slow circle against my stomach, barely touching me, but it feels electric, sending shivers through my body. I turn my head slightly, and he leans in, his breath ghosting against my ear.
“I meant what I said earlier. At the bar.”
I don’t say anything, just pull his arm a little tighter across me as if to anchor myself.
“Wherever you go” — his voice comes out low and serious — “however long it takes, I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here. Just please find your way back.”
My heart stutters at his words, and the street outside grows completely silent.
“You’re it for me,” he says, and the weight of the admission hangs in the air. “I think you’ve been it for me since the first time I saw you.”
I close my eyes, feeling the low timber of his voice resonate down my spine. He’s always been it for me too.
But I don’t say it back. Instead, I bring his hand up and press my lips to his knuckles, kissing the scarred skin. It feels like a promise I don’t have the right to make but am making anyway.
I let myself have this moment, just for tonight. Just for the hours before the morning comes and London reasserts itself, pulling me forward the way it always does.
He falls asleep before I do, his breathing slowing and evening out, and I lie there in the dark listening to it. Memorizing it like it’s the last piece of something I’m afraid to lose.
I tell myself I’m not afraid of losing this.
I’ll never lose this.