André and Vivienne were still seated on his bed. The room was quiet, heavy with that strange tension that always hung between them like a rope pulled too tight. André's hand held her left wrist delicately, almost like it was made of glass. He kept pressing his lips against it, slow, deliberate kisses, the kind of kisses a gentleman would give his beloved.
"The bracelet suits you," he murmured, his voice low and smooth, as though every word was honey sliding off his tongue. His lips brushed her skin again. "So beautiful."
Vivienne's blood was boiling so hard inside her veins she thought she might burst into flames right there. She wanted to snatch her wrist back and slap him with it. But her face—her damn face—smiled sweetly at him instead, all soft eyes and fake warmth. Her fingers rose to tuck a strand of his dark hair behind his ear, the gesture so tender it made her want to throw up.
