And I won't apologize for that, either.
CHAPTER NINE
Cohen
I would like to say that the last thing I expected was that my ex-wife would show up here, dressed in the same calf-high boots and similar tight-fitting outfit she'd wore the day before, but that would be a lie. Not because I ever actually expected Liz to be on my doorstep this morning, but because the very last thing I ever expected to happen was that Vienna would be right about Liz and her misguided attempt at getting back together with me.
That's just something I didn't see coming at all.
Vienna, however, saw right through her attempt yesterday at our party, and called her out on it the only way she knew how without saying it outright. She must have channeled every ounce of attitude and sassiness she could muster in order to put on that spectacle, and she did it, not only because Liz should have never been there in the first place, but because the threat of her presence was very much real.
The deluded woman from my past wanted one last chance to make us work, despite being long since divorced and knowing that Vienna and I had made it back into each other's arms and stayed that way for the past year.
And Vienna saw that. She knew that, the way a woman just knows without needing proof.
And I reprimanded her for it, told her that her reaction was exaggerated and unwarranted.
I'm a total asshole.
I watch Liz retreat dazedly back down my front steps. She turns back and looks at me through clouded eyes. The expression that greets me isn't one of anger or confusion.
It's one of understanding. Yes, there's a rigidness in her features that shows the defeat she's succumbing to, but Liz left me all those years ago for one main reason—she accused me of still being in love with the memory of Vienna Anderson.
And there's only one part of that realization she got wrong.
I'm not in love with Vienna’s memory—I'm in love with Vienna, period.
The real Vienna. The Vienna who stood up to Liz in an attempt to protect what she loved most—me. The Vienna who loves so hard and so completely that she is willing to create waves with other people in order for us to enjoy the day that is supposed to be ours, to celebrate our love.
And I'm the jerk who gave her a hard time about it.
I step back from the doorway and close the door firmly. Then, I lock it.
I turn back into the kitchen with the intent of picking my coffee mug up again and pouring myself a warm refill. But when I turn, Vienna's eyes stare back at me from the middle of the kitchen. She's still in her tank top and pajama shorts, her hair still tousled from sleep.
But, my God, she looks gorgeous to me.
She holds my gaze steadily, not blinking. I can see it in an instant that she's just witnessed my interaction with Liz, and I can feel the tension that's built up between us. There's a long moment of silence stretching through the seconds that follow, and in the silence a mutual agreement is found without so much as a word spoken.
“I'm so sorry Vienna,” I say to her, at the exact same time “I'm sorry, Cohen,” tumbles from her lips.
Suddenly, she's running into my arms and I'm enveloping her within them, holding her to me and relishing in the warmth and firmness of her body against mine. My mouth crashes down onto hers, our tongues colliding with each other and dancing feverishly together. The desperate groan that she makes as my hands roughly maul her abdomen, raking higher up her body to squeeze the soft mounds of her breasts—it unleashes something inside me.
Moments ago, I’d been content to leave her be, let her take the time she needed to calm down and maybe try to have a rational conversation later.
But now, to hell with words. And to hell with letting her get even an inch away from me. My control is gone, replaced by a primal, hungry need I can’t ignore. I need her, and I need her now.
Vienna’s hands are tugging at the hem of my t-shirt, then fumbling desperately at the drawstring of my jogging pants—she’s just as overcome with the need for me, too.
“Let me help you,” I mumble against her lips, pulling away only long enough to reach behind my back and pull the t-shirt off with one hand. It’s one fluid movement; me tugging it off and tossing it to my floor before my hands find her hips again and press her back against the cupboard. I pull her tank top from her body without needing to ask Vienna to raise her arms—she’s racing to remove all the barriers that separate our tense bodies as well.
The desire that burns through our veins is threatening to ignite, and the rushed feverishness of our movements only fuels the fiery compulsion that drives and consumes us both.
“Cohen...” she breathes. Her head tilts back as I push down her shorts and begin to leave a damp trail of kisses along the swell of her breast, bending at the knees to graze my teeth further down her side to her hips, where I bite down hungrily and find satisfaction in the breath she sucks in sharply.
“Shh, Vi, I know.” And I do. I know exactly what she’s feeling, exactly what she’s pleading for. Because the tightness of every muscle within me and the stiff erection protruding from my jogging pants is proof that every fiber of my being is begging for her, too.
Her pajama shorts fall to the floor, and Vienna kicks them away. I keep her held in place by pushing myself against her, only letting up enough to slip my pants over my hips and discard them as well.