Chapter 23
Vivian
I can’t remember the last time I had a day completely to myself.
It feels strange-almost foreign-but it’s exactly what I needed.
This morning was a whirlwind of packing Riley’s favorite snacks, brushing her curls into place, and sending her off with Greg and Mindy, along with a little treat I slipped in for them too.
Just a small thank you for taking her off my hands.
Now the kitchen’s spotless, the living room is quiet, and the silence settles around me like a warm blanket. It’s just after two in the afternoon—time stretching out in front of me, unclaimed and uninterrupted.
I flop onto the couch and grab the remote, aimlessly flicking through channels until something catches my eye. Fifty Shades of Grey. Of all things. I haven’t watched it in years, but I let it play.
I pad over to the freezer and pull out a tub of ice cream, spoon in hand. The elevator scene flashes on screen—intense, electric, unapologetically raw. The kind of tension that burns through fabric and fills the air like static.
And that’s when I notice he sort of looks like Miles.
It’s the eyes. That quiet control. That low, gravelly voice that crawls down your spine and coils at the base of your stomach.
Suddenly, I’m not watching Christian and Ana anymore.
I’m imagining Miles—his body pressing into mine, his hands mapping my skin like he’s memorizing it.
His mouth finding mine, claiming, slow and hungry. That low whisper only I get to hear.
Heat pulses low in my belly, sharp and unmistakable.
It’s been so long since I’ve been touched. One year and eight months. Since anyone’s looked at me like they want to devour me. Since I’ve let myself want.
I don’t even recognize this version of me—the one who’s suddenly aching, breath catching, craving.
I turn off the TV and sit in the quiet, ice cream forgotten beside me.
Temptation lingers. Bold. Unrelenting.
And maybe…just this once, I let it.
I make my way upstairs, every step feeling heavier with the weight of want I haven’t let myself feel in a long time. My bedroom is quiet, sunlight casting golden stripes across the bedspread. Familiar. Safe. Mine.
I open the drawer beside my bed and find it—my old pink vibrator, tucked beneath a pile of forgotten self-care. I haven’t touched it in ages. Haven’t needed to. Or maybe I just haven’t let myself.
It buzzes to life in my palm. Still works. That’s something.
I settle onto the bed, lying back as the ceiling blurs above me. The hum in my hand is soft, but the anticipation is louder. I close my eyes.
The elevator scene flickers in my mind again.
It’s Miles.
The image comes to life so vividly it steals the breath from my lungs. The cut of his jaw. Those eyes—sharp, knowing—undressing me with nothing more than a look. His broad shoulders caging me in. That slow, possessive drag of his hands down my body like he owns every inch.
His mouth would taste like heat and trouble. His voice, low and rough, whispering against my skin. “Tell me to stop, Viv.”
I press the vibrator closer, my thighs tensing, breath hitching.
“Don’t stop, Miles.”
His hands run down to my lower stomach, removing my jean button slowly, his lips are on mine, or tongues tangled in this moment.
I move the vibrator a little faster as I imagine his fingers on it, circling my clit as I feel him growing in his pants.
“You’re so wet.”
I whimper, the pulse growing.
“You want more?” he asks, his eyes growing darker.
I moan. “I need more.”
“Atta girl.”
He sticks his fingers in me, and I grind on them.
So close.
So fucking close.
And just when that pressure builds—right on the edge.
Silence.
The damn thing dies in my hand.
I blink at it, stunned.
“Seriously?” I groan, flopping back onto the mattress.
Of course it picks now to quit on me. I stare at the ceiling, biting back a laugh that borders on desperation. I don’t even remember where I put the charger.
I press a palm to my forehead. “Just my luck.”
The silence settles again, but this time, it hums with something different. A reminder.
Desire is back.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand, breaking the quiet. I reach for it lazily, still trying to steady my breath, only to see his name flash across the screen.
Miles: Should we go to the lake? Can get you that ice cream you like so much.
A soft laugh escapes me, low and breathy, my skin still tingling from earlier.
Vivian: Bribing me with my favorite ice cream just to spend time with you?
My cheeks flush all over again, but this time it’s from something sweeter. Anticipation. That low simmer of tension that always seems to exist between us.
Miles: Maybe…
Vivian: I’m in. Only because the last of my ice cream wasn’t cookie dough and I’m still a little bitter about it.
Miles: I’ll make you feel better. Pick you up in twenty.
Vivian: See you soon.
I stare at the screen for a second longer, smiling like a damn fool.
Then reality kicks in.
I just fantasized about this man in vivid detail…and now I have twenty minutes to act normal and pretend I wasn’t just imagining him taking me apart with his hands and mouth.
He’s actually driving me insane.
I drag myself off the bed, cheeks still warm, and head to the bathroom for a shower. My reflection catches my eye in the mirror-hair tousled, lips flushed, skin glowing in that just barely touched way.
I run cool water over my wrists, trying to calm my heartbeat.
Ice cream by the lake. With Miles. Alone.
After almost having an orgasm over him.
I should be fine, right?
* * *
My doorbell rings.
I glance at my reflection one more time, heart hammering like it’s trying to jump out of my chest. My denim shorts hug my hips just right, my red corset top tied loosely at the back, clinging to my waist in that flattering I wasn’t even trying kind of way.
The heat today is no joke, so of course I’ve got my hat on, shading my face from the afternoon sun.
Beneath it all, my orange bikini peeks through slightly—just in case we end up swimming. When I put it on earlier,
My hair falls in soft curls down my back, loose and easy. I slip on my tan sandals—the ones I basically live in every summer—and grab my tote bag, sunglasses, keys, purse, lip gloss. All the essentials.
Then I open the door to find Miles leaning casually against the frame, one arm braced above his head, the other holding a to-go cup with a straw.
He’s wearing worn-in dark denim jeans, a fitted white tee that clings to his chest and shoulders like a damn prayer, and an open flannel over it in deep rust tones that makes his olive skin glow beneath the sun.
Cowboy boots, dusted and broken in. A tan Stetson pushed slightly back off his forehead.
And that grin.
I flush instantly.
Like full-body, skin-heating, thighs-clenching kind of flush.
Because now, staring at him, all I can think about is what I imagined earlier. His hands. His mouth. That look he gives when he’s about to ruin me in the best way.
“Hey, Bambi,” he says, voice a low drawl that slides over me like warm honey. “You look…”
He doesn’t even finish the sentence. Just lets his eyes do the rest as they trail down and back up, pausing at my legs, my waist, my mouth.
“Ice cream,” I blurt, too loudly. “Let’s go, I’ve got a craving for it.”
He chuckles, stepping back so I can lock the door.
But even as I move past him, I feel his gaze trace every inch of me like a brand. And my skin? It remembers every thought I shouldn’t be having.
God help me. This man is going to wreck me.
We climb into his truck, and the moment the door shuts behind me, I’m wrapped in him.
That scent again, faint leather, warm spice, a hint of fresh air and whatever cologne he uses that should honestly be illegal. It clings to the interior like it belongs here, like he’s woven into every fiber of this space.
Is it hot in here? Or am I just malfunctioning in a closed vehicle with him sitting this close?
Jesus. I feel like a hormonal teenager.
He glances at me just as I buckle my seat belt, brow furrowing slightly. “You’re not wearing your necklace today.”
My hand flies to my chest instinctively. It’s bare.
Shit.
I must’ve left it on the bathroom counter in the rush to shower and get ready. My stomach twists a little, like I’ve left behind something sacred. That necklace, with Trevor’s wedding band on it, hasn’t left my neck since the day I put it on.
“Oh,” I say, voice softer than I intended. “Must’ve left it in the bathroom.”
He studies me for a second, something unreadable in his eyes. “Do you wanna go back and grab it?”
How does he always do that? Gentle. Considerate. Attuned to things most people would miss.
I hesitate, fingers fidgeting with the hem of my corset. A part of me aches to have it on again. But another part…quietly wonders if it’s okay to not wearing it today.
“No,” I say finally. “It’s okay.”
His smile is small but warm. Understanding, without pressing.
The engine rumbles to life, and the soft strum of a guitar and the beautiful sound of Ella Langley’s voice flows through the speakers.
He shifts into drive, the corner of his mouth lifting into that stupid, devastating smirk as if he knows his music taste is turning me on a little.
I glance out the window to hide the way my lips curve against my will.
Goddammit.
“I had fun yesterday,” he says, eyes flicking to me as we drive through town. “Haven’t had a family barbecue like that since Greg’s parents lived here.”
I glance over and catch the faint smile on his lips. Genuine. Warm.
“I remember Greg saying they left him the ranch,” I say, leaning back in the seat. “Decided to travel around the world together?”
He nods, chuckling. “Yep. Called us last week from Ireland—soaked to the bone, wearing raincoats, and grinning like fools with huge pints of beer in their hands.”
I laugh. “You must miss them.”