It's no secret that my siblings and I aren't particularly close. For most of our lives, there's been a gulf between us. But it wasn't there when we were kids.

We used to have a game, the three of us. I'm not sure who started it, but we called it 'Mummy.' Chloe and Joseph would pick me up, one at my legs and one at my shoulders. They'd then parade me through the house while I pretended to be, well, a mummy. It's a silly thing to remember, but it's the last time I can recall the three of us having anything in common.

Shortly after that, we all grew up. It wasn't long before I became aware of that gulf between us. Chloe was always good at being the center of attention—but for the right reasons, unlike me. She was pleasantly charming, not so stubborn and sarcastic. She got her big break on social media around the same time Joseph discovered his talents lay in the family business. My brother has an eidetic memory, meaning he can look at something once and recall it perfectly. 

At that time, I was still a moody teenager whose preferred pastimes were locking myself in my bedroom to listen to my favorite bands or sneaking out with my friends to get drunk in their hot tubs. I wasn't showing signs of being good at anything. Unlike my siblings, I didn't have that one talent that stood out.

After parenting two wildly successful children, my parents took one look at me and had no idea what the hell to do. So they mostly left me alone. My siblings did too, once they realized that constantly criticizing my life choices only drove a wedge further between us. 

Which is why the text from my sister to our family group chat shouldn't surprise me. And it actually doesn't—but worse? It stings. Just a little.

It's a short message, thanking us for attending her company's gala this past weekend. She knows how I feel about all her shallow influencer friends, but I've always been there for her milestones when I can. Watching my family's replies stream in only adds to the sting. They don't even seem to know I wasn't there. Nobody acknowledges it. And worse, their texts tell me they've been looking forward to this event for months. And I'm just finding out about it now.

I set my phone down to curl the last section of my hair. By the time I'm done, I've managed to get past those unnecessary negative feelings caused by my family. Because you just can't feel shitty when you look good. And standing in Massimo's bathroom in the tight, backless emerald dress that makes my tits look about two cup sizes bigger than they are, I'm sure I'll be getting good tips tonight.

I play to my strengths. And I'm good at what I do. At connecting with people in unlikely circumstances. It can take one conversation or one thoughtfully timed compliment, and before long, people give me what I want. At my job, I may meet a Forbes billionaire one second and a member of the Mexican cartel the next. I like the lack of predictability. I also like the fact that out of all the bartenders, I bring in the most tips. It doesn't hurt to be the best at something for once.

Shrugging on my jacket, I tiptoe down the hallway with my heels in hand. It's been hours, and Massimo is still asleep on the couch. He hasn't moved once—arms crossed protectively over his chest, legs spread, head tilted at an uncomfortable looking angle. I've actually had to check a few times that he's still breathing.

After the bastard drifted off, I ended up Googling to my heart's content—I needed something to distract me from the knifelike sensation in my chest at seeing him like that. And it turns out it's very common for someone to absolutely conk out after a seizure.

He hasn't been completely out of it though. Because he did mumble a name in his sleep. Cora.

He said it twice, but it's not like I was counting. 

Because it's not my business.

For some weird fucking reason, I hesitate by the door. My shift starts soon; it's not like it's my choice to leave. Yet I feel oddly guilty about slipping out when he's unaware. Some part of me wants to stick around to make sure he's okay when he wakes up.

At the thought, I roll my eyes, making sure the door shuts silently behind me. I'm not obligated to him and I don't owe him anything—even if I am living with the guy.

I do still mean to shoot him a text, but it's fucking freezing outside and my fingers protest when I try. And I fully intend on doing it when I get to Pulse, but the evening crowd is in full swing and there's no time. It's been three hours of serving drinks, turning down advances from lonely millionaires, and charming my favorite regulars before I think about Massimo again.

And that's because he appears right fucking in front of me.

"Oh shit—hi!" Slower than I'd like, I recover from the jump scare of his face, pasting on my usual customer-service smile.

Massimo stands out like a sore thumb. The rest of the men crowd my bar with overly flirtatious grins, talking loudly. He looks comically grave just standing there, looming expressionlessly a head above everyone else. Like the fucking grim reaper or something. Before I know it, I'm full-on grinning at him.

He opens his mouth but stalls. I hear my name being called so I turn my back on Massimo, finishing the old fashioned I'd been working on before the interruption.

"Who's that?" the man, one of my most faithful regulars, glares over at Massimo with jealousy clear on his face. "Why were you smiling at him like that?"

I give him some bullshit response of I smile at everyone like that, winking so he feels like he's in on something. While internally rolling my eyes at the misplaced sense of entitlement. You run into it often but thankfully, these guys are pretty easy to appease. 

Soon enough I get lost in the sea of others still waiting for their drinks, and I forget about Massimo again. Getting sucked into the rhythm of pouring and serving and smiling. Throwing a compliment here or there, remembering to ask my patrons about their wives, businesses, investments... whatever I can recall from past conversations. 

Suddenly, there's a hand pressing into the small of my back. I whirl around, expecting to have to land a punch on a stray customer. I manage to relax when I realize it's Jason, and that I can't punch my manager in front of the entire bar.

"Viv, take five. Miranda's filling in," Jason orders. I frown in confusion at the other bartender, who sends me a clueless shrug as she gets to work.

"Have I done something wrong?"

Jason shakes his head. He seems annoyed but, if I'm not mistaken, there's an element of fear there too. "Viv, I make the most money on the nights you're here. Your regulars are my highest paying members. So I mean it when I say that you need to go deal with that," he jerks his head towards the corner, where—surprise—Massimo is waiting for me, "fucking pronto."

Massimo doesn't feel the need to look one bit contrite as I stalk up to him.

"I will admit, threatening my manager is worlds better than having me kidnapped, so I'm hesitant to even complain right now. But is it really too much to ask that you would communicate with me in a normal fucking way? Like—oh," I gasp as he grabs my elbow the second I'm within reach, pulling me into the back and down a long hallway.

"You left," he says, not releasing me.

"I had a shift," I shrug. "Wh—"

"You left."

Pausing, I carefully look over the hard lines of his face. There are dark smudges under his eyes that betray his fatigue. But even exhausted, Massimo doesn't lose one ounce of that authoritative, quietly dominant appeal. And he fills out a suit in a way that should be illegal.

"Did Nik piss everywhere?" I sigh, crossing my arms. Massimo's grip on my arm doesn't relent. It just moves listlessly with me. "He does that if he's in a new place. It makes him nervous. I did try to make sure he'd pissed and shat before I left, but no offense, I wasn't about to be late for work. And you're the one that insisted we live with you, so I figured it would partly be your own fault."

Massimo makes some sort of noise that can't be categorized as positive or negative.

"Sometimes he'll just yowl. It's a hideous fucking sound." I mindlessly trace my eyes over his tight jaw, watching it slowly relax. "Not to mention it sounds like he's literally dying. He does that when his stomach is upset. At least I think so—because every time it happens, he throws up everywhere a few minutes later. Did he wake you up?"

Massimo slowly shakes his head, and I consider that somewhat of a win. 

"Okay, that's good. So, you slept for a very long time. Let's talk about how I got so bored that I almost started looking for your gun so I could shoot myself. But let's walk as we talk, because I gotta get back t—"

"Vivienne."

Finally, he doesn't look like he's in his own world. I wait expectantly, but his lips seal shut.

Okay. Getting him to engage is like unlocking different levels to a game. I got past "You left" but now I'm stuck at my name.

"Massimo, what's going on? Why did you threaten Jason?"

His eyes sharpen, and unfortunately, my body takes this moment to register that we are alone in a hallway with just a few inches of space between us. And that the last time we were this close, Massimo almost kissed me.

"Why do you care if I threaten your manager?"

"How about for the sake of my job? You can't just do that shit."

He tilts his head at my sharp tone, and it's his turn to observe me carefully. "I only told him I needed to speak with you. People tend to interpret the things I say as threats." Surprisingly, I do believe him there. "I would have told you, but those men were falling over themselves for your attention. Would you prefer that next time I jump over the bar and manhandle you to get what I want, Vivienne?"

"Pretty sure you've manhandled me at least a few times," I mumble mutinously, lifting my chin. "Don't speak like you're above it."

Unfortunately, I now realize that I'm at eye level with Massimo's chin. As a woman who has always been taller in heels than the men I'm with, this is ridiculously fucking hot.

"Furthermore," Massimo continues like he's giving a PowerPoint presentation, "I texted you. You didn't respond."

"You texted me?"

Something flutters in my chest at the almost childlike simplicity of his words. He really texted me, just like I told him to.  

He nods. "You left."

Now I can't stop the smile from spreading across my face. His eyes flit to the movement and stay glued there.

"Hm. Would you like for me to not do that again?"

He nods, face hardening in emphasis.

"Great. Noted. Now, would you like to step back so I can get back to work?"

"Yes." He huffs out a small breath of frustration. "But I find myself unable to at the moment."

And here's the thing. I am only human.

The man looks like the prince of hell in a suit, smells divine, and is currently pressing me into a wall. My thighs practically beg to wrap themselves around his hips, mess up that pretty hair, and kiss him until I can't think of anything else. I don't care that trouble seems to follow him everywhere he goes, and that's probably why he moved to Rhinebeck all by himself. I don't care about his line of work or that by associating myself with him, all his enemies are now mine.

But I do unfortunately care that he might not be fully... himself right now. That some part of him is very, very sick and I don't want that part to be the one kissing me.

Even though that part of him would definitely still fuck me the way I like to be fucked. 

Carefully, he wraps one of my loose curls around his finger. He seems momentarily enthralled by the change I've made to my hair, so I let him explore. Then, gradually, one of his thighs presses between mine to force himself closer. The hall is dimly lit and he looms over me—a thick, dark shadow. Unyielding. He cups the back of my neck, and I can't miss the way his throat bobs as he takes me in.

And suddenly—God help me—I feel a distinct hardness pressing against my hip. My mouth goes dry at the frustrated look on his face, either directed at me or himself. And there's something about his own desire becoming impossible for him to hide—so impossible that it brings him to emotion—that absolutely shatters the rest of my resolve.

I tilt into him, slick heat flooding between my legs as my body gives a little shiver against his. Massimo's eyes light up with some dark thrill, lips parting as he observes the effect he has on me.

"Do you know what you're doing?" I whisper, and he tightens his hand on my neck, tilting my lips towards his. 

His ownership of my body does something to me. I've never enjoyed relinquishing control, but Massimo is a man who demands it. And I find I very much enjoy giving it when I can see the way it tortures him. 

"I am no good at emotions, Vivienne," his voice is weighed down by breathless anticipation, the most effected I've heard it. "My mind... and my body," he shifts and I can feel just how fucking big and hard he is, "they aren't in sync. If you don't want what I want, I won't know."

Seconds drag by like syrup.

"Fuck your disclaimers, Massimo," I say slowly. He's crazier than I thought if he doesn't realize how little I care about his issues. "Are you going to kiss me, or do I need to do it?"

His fingers flex on my neck, eyes turning molten as he drops his head and claims my lips with his.

Massimo is all hardness. Ice. Control and suppression.

But none of that is present in his kiss.

At first, it's the gentlest kiss I've ever received, yet somehow still completely incendiary. It starts with a barely there brush of his lips—as if he thinks I'll belatedly take heed of his warning. I lengthen my spine, lifting up to press harder against his mouth. He tenses, and there's a tremulous moment in which I wonder if he regrets this. Then his lips part on an aching inhale, and the kiss turns into something more. The hot velvet of his mouth burns me, searing my nerve endings until I'm on fire from the demanding pull of his lips.

I barely remember to keep my hands behind my back; my screaming instinct is to tangle them in his hair, to drag them down his neck and pull him closer. Instead, I try and communicate everything through my lips alone, tilting my head back until my neck aches, just so he can take full ownership of my mouth. 

This kiss is nothing I could have ever expected. It's full of pent-up need, his body curving slowly around mine, causing my spine to ache as it's pressed harder into the wall.

Massimo's hand slides around the front of my neck, bruising my jaw with how tightly he holds me there, like he suddenly needs to make sure I can't escape. I nip at his bottom lip, pulling back on a soundless gasp as I feel him immediately hardening against my hip. I can literally feel the pulse of his desire despite the fabric between us.

Good fuck. How big is he?

And why is my mouth suddenly fucking watering at the thought of sucking him off?

I pull back. The trembling ache, the fierceness I need him with, is utterly terrifying. If I don't take a breath, I'm afraid I'll be lost to it forever.

He blinks at me with an indecipherable expression and for a moment, I'm horrified that he's going to shut down. But something settles over his countenance then—and it's an entirely new expression that transforms his face.

His hands cup both my cheeks, and I don't even dare to breathe as he brushes his thumbs softly over my cheekbones. Yet he looks as if he's the one being touched and in turn experiencing some great, powerful feeling.

"Viv? That you? What the hell is going on?"

Jason's voice tears the moment into shreds. Massimo braces an arm on the wall, moving to cover me at the unexpected interruption. I squint past his shoulder at the image of my manager standing at the other end of the hallway, looking for me in the darkness. 

"I'll be right there!" My voice isn't even recognizable to my own ears.

Fuck.

I don't expect Massimo to say anything. But the look on his face? It tells me everything I need to know.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

I've made my choice. And he's not going to let me go back on it.

For the rest of my shift, Massimo sits in the center of my bar. Numerous patrons approach him, annoyed that he's taking up the prime spot and never ordering one drink. But he doesn't say a word, warding them off with that signature stone cold look.

He never takes his eyes off me. Not once for the remaining four hours.

And I try really hard to not let myself acknowledge the fact that the kiss just fucking changed everything.  

♛

Screaming. Not me living vicariously through Viv and wishing I had my own insane, hot neighbor who's obsessed with me. Thank you all for reading and living vicariously with me!

- G