Page 84 of If It Can't Be Us

“I’m not wired, I’m excited. There’s a difference,” she says, sitting up on the bed and crossing her arms.

“Okay, it’s your trip; let’s go get you what you want. Does this count as your favor?”

“Hell no! This is just you being nice because you’re a good person,” she says, poking me as we head out the door. “When do I get to see the Eiffel Tower?”

“Whenever you want. Today is wide open. I figured we’d just explore and chill a bit after the long flight.”

“Really?” She gasps, her eyes wide with excitement.

I let out a laugh. “Yeah, really.”

“Sounds great to me,” she says, her smile lighting up the room. “Leo?”

“Yeah?”

“Thank you,” she says, turning toward me as we wait for the elevator. “Thank you so much for this trip. And if I forget to tell you later, it was unforgettable.”

We stare into each other’s eyes until the elevator dings.

This trip might be harder than I expected, being here with her… as just a friend.

* * * * ** * * * *

Three Days Later

The trip so far has been incredible, and Vivian is loving every minute of it. We’ve fallen back into our old routine as friends, keeping everythingstrictly platonic. Our sleeping arrangement has been fine, except Vivian seems to think sexy pajamas are perfectly appropriate. She comes to bed in matching sets, usually short shorts and a low-cut top. It doesn’t matter whether they’re tight, loose, soft, or silky—I’m turned on either way. I’m left falling asleep with my back turned, dick hard, and my mind scrambling to think of the most boring shit possible—taxes, traffic jams, real estate documents—anything to deflate my damn hard-on.

We’ve been to the Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, Notre Dame, and the Arc de Triomphe. We’ve shopped on the Champs-Élysées, gone on a bike tour, and dined at three different Michelin Star restaurants. Tomorrow, we have Versailles in the morning and tickets to the Moulin Rouge for the evening. It’s been a packed trip and a lot of fun.

I’m waiting for her to come out of the bathroom. I have a surprise evening planned. We’re going to an exclusive art exhibit I found online. The tickets were expensive and require black cocktail or formal attire. After that, I’ve arranged a private yacht cruise along the Seine, with a five-star chef for dinner tonight.

I wait patiently in my black suit, white shirt, and black tie. When I hear the lock click on the bathroom door, I turn to see her step out.

I’m momentarily speechless. Her New Year’s Eve look had been jaw-dropping, but this—this is on another level.

God, I want to tear that dress off her. Just the thought of her lips on mine, her body pressed tight against me, her panties sliding down around her ankles—it’s going to drive me crazy. I want to taste her, run my hands and mouth over every curve, claim every inch of her.

Jesus, get a grip, man.

She’s with Nick.

I had my shot, and I blew it. I take a slow, calming breath. “Christ, Vivian,” I whisper, “You look incredible. That dress…” I trail off, taking in every detail from top to bottom. “Fuck.”

Am I seriously supposed to keep my hands to myself when she looks like that?

Her dress is strapless and black. The bottom’s flowy and long, grazing the floor, while the top—I swear to God—looks like lingerie.It’s tight and pushes her tits up, making it impossible to look away. The whole thing is sheer, her skin teasing through the lace patterns—solid fabric only covering her nipples. A high slit runs up her thigh, giving me a perfect view of those legs. It’d be so easy to push the fabric aside and tease her until she’s begging for it—begging for me.

She smirks as she fastens her earrings and walks toward me. Placing a hand on my chest, she looks up at me with a calm, collected gaze. “Thank you. You look very handsome,” she says, her voice steady and sincere.

I’m starting to understand the resentment she felt toward me months ago. She chased me for months, only for me to pull away. It feels like we’ve reversed roles. I’ve always wanted her, but now, now I truly want her, and she is unavailable. It kills me. I extend my arm for her to take, and she links it with hers, flashing a smile that makes me weak in the knees.

“You ready, Tiger?” she asks playfully, bumping her shoulder into mine.

“I’m ready,” I say steadily, my voice low.

* * * * ** * * * *

The exhibit was incredible, and Vivian turned heads everywhere she went. The art was unique and intriguing, and as an artist herself, Vivian truly appreciated it more than I did.

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