Chapter 34: Something Better Than Dinner Pt1
Vivienne’s back was pressed against the dining table, her breath caught in her throat, as André kissed her like a starving man who had found dessert after a lifetime of famine. His mouth was desperate, hot, bruising, and all she could think in between gasps was that this bastard must have truly lost his mind.
Didn’t he already have me for breakfast? Now dinner too? Can’t I eat my roasted duck in peace without being roasted myself? At this point he’s not kissing me. He’s trying to kill me. What type of shit is this?
But, like always, her mouth betrayed her. While her brain screamed curses and insults, her lips opened up, kissing him back with a hunger that matched his. It was always like this with him. Her head said no, her lips said yes, and her body screamed fuck me now.
When he finally pulled back, both of them were breathless. His chest rose and fell against hers, and his eyes burned into her like she was the only thing keeping him alive.
"You are so beautiful," he whispered, brushing his thumb across her flushed cheek. "You are driving me insane."
She wanted to spit in his face. She wanted to roll her eyes and scream. But the way his voice cracked with hunger, the way his pupils were blown wide, it made her chest twist.
Inside his mind, André wasn’t thinking of her beauty. No. He was thinking, look at you. Thinking you are in control. Walking around with your little smug smirk like you are the one playing me. Poor thief. Too bad the only control you have is in your head. The only one who controls anything here is me.
He leaned down, kissed her lips again — soft this time, brief — and then whispered against her mouth, "I love you so much, Vivienne. I love you so much."
Her whole body froze. Her brain went completely blank. Excuse me? What the fuck? Who says that while pinning someone to a dining table like a psychotic lion about to eat its prey?
But before she could recover, his mouth moved lower. He kissed her neck, slow, tender, deliberate, like worship. Then he found that sensitive spot just behind her ear — the one she didn’t even know existed until he discovered it.
The moment his lips touched it, she melted. Her body arched off the table, a moan tore from her lips before she could bite it back.
He smiled against her skin and kissed the spot again. And again. And again.
Her hands shot into his hair, tugging him closer, desperate. She hated herself for it, hated how her body betrayed her every single time.
Fuck you. Fuck you. Why does this feel so good? Why do you know every single place that ruins me? It’s like you studied a map of my body and memorized every weak point. God, I hate this bastard.
But she didn’t push him away. No. Her nails scratched the back of his neck, her hips tilted, her legs trembled, and she hated herself for it.
His lips left her ear, trailing down to her collarbone, kissing across her chest, then lower, down her shoulder. Each kiss was soft, lingering, torturous.
"God, Vivienne," he groaned, as if the taste of her skin was breaking him apart.
His hands slid lower, tracing her sides, brushing her waist, then her hips, then finally her thighs. He traced them slowly, deliberately, as if savoring the feel of her trembling beneath him.
Her body was already betraying her completely. She was wet, aching, trembling. She could feel the heat pooling between her legs, could feel herself begging without words.
Her mind screamed louder than ever. Why? Why is my body like this? Why do I turn into a puddle for this insane man? No. No. I have to stop this. I have to do something. I can’t let him win. I can’t fuck him on the dining table like a desperate bar wench. There’s literally food here. The roast duck is looking at me with judgmental eyes. I cannot let this happen.
Her heart raced faster. And the servants. Holy shit. If they hear me moaning like a whore, I’ll never recover. I’ll rather die.
Her lips parted, and she whispered, "My lord..."
His mouth paused against her skin. His voice was soft, dangerous, sweet. "What is it? I told you to call me by my name."
She swallowed, desperation in her voice. "My dress... it’s tight. I don’t feel comfortable."
For a moment he froze. Then he slowly pulled back, helping her sit up gently, as if she were fragile crystal. His eyes softened. "Is that so?"
"Yes," she whispered, nodding quickly. Inside her mind, she was screaming, Obviously! Yes! It’s tight! I can feel my stomach twisting, my lungs collapsing, my soul leaving my body! Please just stop. Please end this here before I lose the last shred of dignity I have left.
André’s expression turned heartbreakingly tender. He caressed her cheek, pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, and whispered, "I am sorry, my love. I didn’t know you were uncomfortable."
Her chest tightened. For a second she almost believed him. Almost.
But then his fingers slid to her back. To the ribbons of her corset.
Her eyes widened. "What... what are you doing?"
He kissed her temple, voice dripping with poison-sweetness. "You don’t have to worry. I’ll make sure you aren’t uncomfortable."
Her blood turned to ice. Wait. Wait. Hold the fuck up. What is he talking about?
And then she felt it.
One tug. The first ribbon loosened.
Another tug. The second came free.
Her chest expanded as the tightness began to fall away.
"That’s better now, isn’t it?" he murmured against her ear.
Her eyes went wide with horror. This man is seriously mad. I get he is in love with me, but he’s insane. He’s undressing me. To fuck me. In the dining hall. With roast duck watching. What the actual fuck is my life?