"You're angry about all the right things," Vivienne corrected. "You just need to direct that anger at the people who are actually responsible."
We lay together in comfortable silence for a while, the weight of my confession settling between us. Finally, Vivienne spoke again.
"Julian?"
"Mmm?"
"Would you... would you like to touch me without your gloves?"
My breath caught.
Such a simple request—but it was everything I'd been afraid to want, afraid to need. No one had asked me that before. No one had seen the gloves as anything more than a quirk, a style choice, maybe even a kink. But Vivienne saw past them. Past me.
"Are you sure?" I asked, my voice low and tight, like speaking too loud might break the fragile spell between us.
"I'm sure." Vivienne looked up at me, bare and open and so goddamn beautiful it made my chest ache. "I want to feel your skin against mine."
I stared at her for a moment—her lips parted in anticipation, her eyes soft with trust—and then I slowly sat up. With deliberate care, I began tugging at the fingers of my left glove, peeling it away one inch at a time. Once my left was unveiled I hesitated just a moment before doing the same with my right glove.
My right hand trembled as it emerged, the skin pale and unmarked except for the bold, inked lettering that ran along the curve of my index finger and thumb like a secret prayer:say please.
Vivienne's eyes flicked to the tattoo but didn't linger. She just smiled gently and whispered, "Yes please."
The words, spoken without irony, pierced straight through me. She barely knew the history, didn't know the full extent of the violence or the pain—but somehow, she knew. And in her voice, the phrase sounded holy.
I swallowed hard and reached for her, my newly bared hands tracing the curve of her shoulder with reverence. Her skin was warm and soft, and the contact felt like lightning—electric and overwhelming, too much and not enough all at once.
Vivienne exhaled on a soft gasp and leaned into my touch, arching against me like she'd been waiting for this moment just as long.
"How does it feel?" she whispered.
"Like I've been starving for it," I murmured. "You feel... perfect."
My bare fingertips continued their path—along her collarbone, the soft weight of her breast, the delicate dip of her navel. Skin on skin. It was like touching the sun after years of living in shadow.
She reached for me too, her hands smoothing over my chest, fingers brushing the lines of muscle and scars, the slight tremble in my shoulders. I groaned at the contact, pressing harder into her palms as if I could fuse us together.
"Again?" she asked, voice husky, pupils blown wide.
I reached for a second condom with a nod, too overwhelmed to speak. God, yes.
But this time—this time I wanted to see everything. To feel everything.
I eased her onto her hands and knees, pausing to kiss down her spine, her lower back, the dip above her tailbone. I pushed her hair to one side, dragged my tongue up the nape of her neck, then kissed her shoulder as I gripped her hip with my bare hands.
The first thrust had her moaning low in her throat, her body arching into me instinctively as I filled her from behind. She was so slick, so tight, her inner walls pulsing around me as I slid in deep, all the way to the hilt. I gritted my teeth and stilled, eyes closing briefly against the rush of sensation.
"God, Vivienne," I rasped, "You feel like sin and salvation."
She pushed back against me, her ass brushing my hips in a maddening tease. "Then don't stop. I need you to move."
I did. Slowly at first, watching the way her spine arched with each stroke, the way her breath stuttered when I hit just the right angle. I kept my pace deep, deliberate, grounding. My bare hand slid from her hip to her waist, then down between her thighs.
"Let me take care of you," I whispered, and my fingers found her clit—slick and swollen, just waiting for my touch. I rubbed in small, tight circles, my middle finger stroking her bundle of nerves with meticulous attention.
Vivienne cried out, her head dropping as pleasure rolled through her. "Julian—don't stop—please, please—"
The sound of that word on her lips—the raw, desperate edge—snapped the last thread of my restraint.
