Before I could come down too far, his thumb came from my mouth with a wet pop and he leaned back on his knees. He pulled one of my legs straight up against his chest, changing the angle so he hit a different spot inside me, while his gloved thumb, still wet from my mouth, found my clit and rubbed in tight circles. The dual stimulation as he thrust in perfect rhythm sent me quickly flying again, and this time Julian followed me over, his thrusts faltering as he found his own release.
I pulled him down for a kiss, and he rested his forehead against mine, both of us breathing hard.
In that moment, something passed between us—deeper than lust, more profound than simple attraction. I tilted my chin up to kiss him again, this one sweet and tender, sealing whatever understanding had just formed between us.
We collapsed together, breathing hard, hearts racing in tandem. I felt boneless, sated in a way I'd never experienced before. Julian gathered me close, pressing soft kisses to my temple.
"That was..." I started, then trailed off, unable to find adequate words.
"Perfect," Julian finished softly, echoing the intimacy we'd just shared, and I could hear the smile in his voice.
He left me briefly to remove the condom but was back in a moment, his gloved hands reaching for me and pulling me into his arms.
I curled against his chest, marveling at how perfectly I seemed to fit there, my fingers absently tracing the tattoo on his chest. Outside, the city hummed with late-night energy, but here in my small bedroom, wrapped in Julian's arms, I felt like I'd found something I hadn't even known I was looking for, and I was nervous to let it go so soon.
"Can you stay?" I whispered against his skin.
Julian's arms tightened around me. "There's nothing I'd like more," he murmured back.
And as sleep began to claim me, I smiled, knowing that whatever came next, tonight may have changed everything.
4
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.
