22
Vivienne
I woke slowly Wednesday morning, my body registering several things at once: the unfamiliar luxury of Julian's soft and surely expensive sheets, the soreness in my thighs from yesterday's motorcycle ride, and a deeper, more intimate ache that reminded me of exactly how we'd spent our evening after the Thai food had been forgotten.
Sunlight just started to peek through the floor-to-ceiling windows, painting Julian's massive, minimalist bedroom in golden hues that made it look less sterile and more like something from an art magazine. I could hear the distant sounds of the city far below, but up here in Julian's penthouse, the world felt remote and manageable.
Julian was still asleep beside me, his dark hair mussed against the white pillowcase, his face relaxed in a way I never saw when he was awake. Even in sleep, he was beautiful—all sharp cheekbones and defined jaw wrapped in bronzed skin. The kind of masculine elegance that belonged on magazine covers.
I shifted slightly, trying to ease the pleasant soreness between my legs, and Julian's arm tightened around my waist automatically, pulling me closer even in his sleep. The possessive gesture sent warmth spiraling through my chest.
"Good morning," Julian's voice was rough with sleep, his eyes still closed but his mouth curving into a small smile.
"Good morning," I replied, studying his face in the morning light. "How did you know I was awake?"
"Your breathing changed," Julian said, finally opening his steel-gray eyes to look at me. "Plus, you're trying very hard not to move. Sore?"
Heat rose in my cheeks. "A little. The riding, and then..." I trailed off, gesturing vaguely at the evidence of our evening activities.
Julian's smile widened, becoming decidedly wicked. "I could kiss it better."
"As tempting as that sounds," I said, laughing despite my embarrassment, "I should probably get home at some point today and start packing. It's still the plan to leave tomorrow morning, right?"
Julian's expression grew more serious. "Right. Which means we need to get you back to your car so you can pack, and I need to make some arrangements."
We shared a lazy shower—Julian's bathroom was like the most luxurious hotel, all marble and expensive fixtures—before I dressed again in Julian’s white button-down. He seemed to find something deeply satisfying about seeing me in his white button-down shirt again if the way he looked me up and down was any indicator.
When he caught me staring he said, “I like seeing you in my clothes."
The possessive undertone in his voice sent a shiver of awareness through me, but there was no time to explore that particular dynamic. We had a day to get through and a trip to prepare for.
The ride to Julian's studio was slower than yesterday, both of us more aware of my inexperience and the soreness that made every bump in the road a reminder of our evening together. But I was already more comfortable on the bike, more trusting of Julian's skill and more confident in my own ability to move with him.
At the studio, Roy greeted us with professional courtesy and what looked like barely concealed curiosity about our relationship status. I supposed it was obvious—we were both wearing yesterday's clothes, Julian looked thoroughly satisfied, and I was wearing his shirt.
"Good morning, Mr. Thorne, Ms. Ellis," Roy said smoothly. "Your car is still in the lot, Ms. Ellis. Shall I have someone move it to a more convenient spot?"
"That's alright, thank you," I said, grateful for his discretion.
Julian disappeared into his office for a few minutes, presumably to handle whatever business couldn't wait, while I studied the sketches and fabric samples scattered around the main workspace. Even in daylight, the creative energy of the place was palpable.
"Ready?" Julian asked, reappearing with his helmet and jacket.
"Actually," I said, "Would you mind if we took one more ride before I get my car? Yesterday was so perfect, and I feel like I'm just starting to get the hang of it."
Julian's smile was brilliant. "I was hoping you'd ask."
This time, Julian took us on a longer route that wound through the hills outside the city, past scenic overlooks and through tree-lined curves that made me understand why he found riding meditative.The rhythm of it, the way the bike responded to subtle shifts in weight and pressure, the complete focus required—it was like a moving meditation.
We'd been riding for about an hour when the sky, which had been threatening rain all morning, finally made good on its promise. The first drops were large and warm, splashing against our helmets and leather jackets with increasing frequency.
"There," Julian called over the engine noise, pointing toward an overpass ahead. "We can wait it out."
We pulled off onto the shoulder under the concrete bridge just as the sky opened up in earnest, rain drumming against the roadway above us and creating a curtain of water at both ends of our makeshift shelter.
"Good timing," I said, pulling off my helmet and shaking out my hair.
"The bike doesn't like heavy rain," Julian explained, dismounting and helping me off. "Better to be safe."
