Chapter 2: Kiss the Burgundy Toes
The bedroom smelled like her.
That was the first thing Marcus registered as he crossed the threshold—the tuberose and oud from downstairs had been amplified here, saturated into the velvet drapes and the silk sheets until the air itself felt like a living thing pressing against his skin. Candles burned on every surface. The flames guttered in some invisible draft, casting shadows that moved like fingers across the walls.
Vivienne's bare feet whispered across the carpet as she crossed to the bed. The robe had slipped further now, pooling at her elbows, and the candlelight traced the long line of her spine through the fabric.
Henry's hand was still on Marcus's shoulder. A reminder. A brand.
"Sit," Henry said, nodding toward an armchair in the corner—a heavy thing of dark leather and brass studs, positioned at an angle that gave its occupant a clear view of the bed and everything that happened on it.
Marcus didn't move.
Henry's grip tightened. "I said sit."
"I—"
"Do it, Marcus." Vivienne didn't turn around. She was fiddling with something at the headboard—leather straps, black against the dark wood. "We haven't even started and you're already being difficult."
Marcus walked to the chair. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else. He sat.
The leather creaked beneath him.
Henry moved past him without a glance, crossing to a sideboard where several crystal decanters caught the light. He poured two fingers of whiskey into a glass and settled against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, the picture of casual ownership. His shirt was still half-unbuttoned. A thin gold chain rested in the hollow of his throat.
"Comfortable?" Henry asked.
Marcus couldn't tell if he was joking.
Vivienne finally turned from the bed. In the candlelight, she looked like something out of a painting—the kind of woman artists ruined themselves over. The robe had fallen open completely now, revealing a slip of black silk beneath, the kind that wasn't designed to be seen by accident.
"Stand up," she said.
Marcus stood.
"Now take off your clothes."
His hands moved to his tie before his brain caught up. He fumbled with the knot, fingers clumsy, and heard Vivienne's soft laugh from across the room.
"Slowly," she said. "We have all night."
The tie came loose. He draped it over the arm of the chair, then started on his shirt buttons. His hands were sweating. Each button took an eternity, and all the while he could feel their eyes on him—Vivienne's bright and hungry, Henry's flat and assessing.
The shirt came off. He folded it, because that was what his mother had taught him, and laid it over the chair with the tie. His undershirt followed.
"Wait," Vivienne said.
He froze, half-naked, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.
She crossed the room slowly, each step deliberate, and stopped in front of him. Her eyes traveled over his torso like she was reading a menu. He knew what she saw—a soft body, unremarkable, the body of a man who spent too many hours hunched over a computer screen and too few in any kind of physical activity.
"Trousers too," she said. "But leave the boxers."
He kicked off his shoes, then unbuttoned his trousers and peeled them down. The fabric caught on his ankles. He stumbled. Henry made a sound that might have been amusement.
Marcus stepped out of the trousers and added them to the pile on the chair. He stood in his boxers, a plain gray pair, suddenly aware of every flaw and imperfection. His hands wanted to cover himself. He clasped them behind his back instead.
Vivienne walked a slow circle around him. He felt her gaze like a physical touch—the back of his neck, his shoulders, the soft roll of flesh above his waistband.
"You really are handsome," she said, and it almost sounded like a compliment. "In a sad sort of way."
She completed her circuit and stopped in front of him, close enough that he could smell the wine on her breath.
"On your knees."
He went down.
The carpet was softer than the marble downstairs, but the position was the same—the same vulnerability, the same exposure. He stared at her feet, the burgundy polish catching the candlelight.
"Kiss them," she said.
His head snapped up. "What?"
"My toes, Marcus. Kiss them. One at a time. Start with the left."
He stared at her. She stared back, patient as stone.
"You can't be serious," he whispered.
"I'm always serious." She wiggled her toes. "And you're always desperate to please me. So what's the problem?"
The problem was everything. The problem was that he could see Henry in his peripheral vision, watching with that same flat expression, giving nothing away. The problem was that a part of Marcus—a part he hated, a part he couldn't name—wanted to obey. Wanted to press his lips to her skin and feel her approval wash over him like warm water.
He bent forward.
Her foot was cool. He pressed his mouth to the smallest toe first, a dry, chaste kiss, and felt her shudder slightly. Not from pleasure—from amusement. A laugh she was holding in.
"Good," she said. "Next one."
He kissed the second toe, then the third, then the fourth. By the fifth, he was trembling. His lips had left faint smudges on her skin, and he could taste the polish, chemical and bitter.
"Now the other foot."
He did the other foot. He saved the big toe for last, pressing his lips to it like a supplicant at an altar. When he finished, he sat back on his heels, breathing hard, his face burning.
Vivienne withdrew her foot and examined the faint red marks he'd left behind. "Not bad," she said. "Could use more enthusiasm."
She walked back to the bed and sat on the edge, crossing her legs. The robe had finally given up entirely, falling away to expose the black slip and the long, pale lines of her arms. She looked like a queen holding court.
"Now," she said. "Tell me what you imagine doing to me."
Marcus's throat closed. "What?"
"Oh, don't play coy. I know you think about it. You've been thinking about it since you first saw me. So tell me." She leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "What do you want to do to me, Marcus?"
"I..." He swallowed. "I want to touch you."
"Where?"
"Your face. Your hair. I want to—"
"You want to what?"
"I want to kiss you."
"On the mouth?"
"Yes."
She laughed. "Boring. What else?"
He closed his eyes. The images were there—they were always there, waiting for him when he couldn't sleep, when he was alone in his apartment with nothing but the dark and his own hand. He'd imagined holding her. Worshipping her. Making her see him, really see him.
"I want to hold you," he said. "I want to feel you against me. Your skin. I want to—"
"You want to fuck me," she interrupted. "Just say it."
His jaw tightened. "Yes."
"Say it properly."
"I want to fuck you."
The words hung in the air, ugly and raw. Vivienne smiled.
"There. Was that so hard?" She stretched her arms above her head, a lazy, feline movement that made the slip ride up her thighs. "Henry, what do you think?"
"I think he's imagining things he'll never have," Henry said from the corner. He'd finished his whiskey and set the glass aside. "Which is exactly where you want him."
"Exactly." Vivienne lay back on the bed, the slip riding up further—Marcus caught a glimpse of lace and pale skin and forced himself to look away. "Come here, darling."
Henry moved past Marcus, and Marcus watched him go. Watched him climb onto the bed. Watched him run a hand up Vivienne's thigh.
"Watch," Henry said without turning around. "That's the only part you get."
The next hour was the longest of Marcus's life.
Henry fucked her from behind, slow at first, then harder, his hands gripping her hips with a possessiveness that made Marcus's stomach turn. And Vivienne—Vivienne never looked away from him. Her eyes stayed locked on his face, even as her breath came faster, even as her fingers twisted in the sheets.
"Look at him," she moaned. "He's shaking."
Marcus was. He was shaking so hard he could barely keep his balance. His hands were fists against his thighs, nails biting into his palms. He was hard—painfully, humiliatingly hard—and she knew it. She could see it.
"It's okay," she said, her voice breaking on a gasp. "You don't have to hide it. I want you to feel this."
Her eyes never left his. Even when she came—shuddering, crying out—she was watching him. Making sure he saw everything. Making sure he understood exactly what he was missing.
Afterward, Henry rolled off the bed and went to the bathroom. Water ran. Vivienne stretched like a cat, then propped herself up on one elbow to look at Marcus.
"Still with us?" she asked.
He nodded. He couldn't speak.
"Good." She slid off the bed and walked to him, her feet silent on the carpet. She crouched down so they were face to face, close enough that he could smell the sex on her breath.
"You were perfect," she whispered. "The best audience I've ever had."
She pressed a kiss to his forehead—gentle, almost tender—and stood.
"Same time tomorrow," she said. "Henry will walk you out."
Marcus didn't remember getting dressed. He didn't remember the walk down the stairs. He only remembered the cold of the marble foyer, the click of the front door opening, and Henry's voice behind him:
"Seven o'clock. Don't be late."
Then the door closed, and Marcus was alone on the steps, breath fogging in the night air, his lips still tasting of her skin.
He stood there for a long time.
Then he went home to wait.