André and Vivienne continued kissing. The kiss started soft, teasing, as if they were testing the limits of each other's patience. Then it shifted—slowly, deliberately—growing hungrier, sharper, rawer. Every brush of lips, every tilt of a head, was like a challenge thrown across the battlefield of their bodies.
Vivienne's hands dug into his shoulders. She wanted to claw him, strangle him, shove him into the mirror and laugh as he fell apart. But instead, she held him like he was something sacred, like he wasn't the man she hated more than anyone on the planet.
