Vivienne Valentine stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror. Her heart hammered against her ribs like it wanted to escape. Her burgundy lipstick, perfectly reapplied, couldn't hide the fact that her lips felt swollen. Raw. Like they belonged to someone else now.
She pressed her thighs together, trying to ignore the unfamiliar heat pooling between them. Each breath came shallow and quick. Her hands wouldn't stop trembling.
"Get it together," she whispered to her reflection. "You're Vivienne Valentine."
But that was exactly the problem, wasn't it? Vivienne Valentine didn't lose control in bathroom stalls. She didn't kiss employees. She didn't fantasize about what might happen if they were alone in her bedroom instead of here, minutes before the most important speech of her career.
God. Her bedroom. With that massive four-poster bed and its ridiculous thread count sheets. With the door that locked. With no speeches or mothers or photographers.
