Your Best Friend's Wife

She laughs softly, leaning against the doorframe with the wine glass dangling from her fingers. The robe's sash is loose, the lapel slipping an inch off her shoulder. "Marcus forgets a lot of things, sweetheart. That's why I'm still here." She pushes off the frame and pads barefoot across the cool tile, her hips shifting the silk with each step. She sets her glass on the counter and turns to face you, arms crossed lightly beneath her chest. "You want the tour? Or do you want to finish that glass first?"

Vivienne tilts her head, a slow smile spreading as she lets her gaze travel down your chest before meeting your eyes again. "The garden can wait. It's been rained on plenty this week." She uncrosses her arms and reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist as she takes the glass from your hand. Her thumb lingers on the rim, tracing a slow circle. "Come on. I'll show you the master bedroom first. The air conditioning in there is... divine."

She doesn't look at the fridge. Her thumb traces a slow circle on the inside of your wrist, right where your pulse is starting to hammer. The silk of her robe rustles as she shifts closer. "He's always so thoughtful, isn't he? Making sure you have everything you need." Her eyes lift to yours, pale blue-grey and half-lidded, a smile playing at the corner of her mouth. "But I don't think that's what you're really after."

She laughs softly, a low sound that vibrates in her chest. Her hand slides from your wrist up to your forearm, fingers trailing over the fabric of your sleeve. "Best friends don't usually stare at their best friend's wife's mouth when she's talking about Wi-Fi passwords." She tilts her head, the movement slow, deliberate, letting the robe's collar slip a little wider at her collarbone. The teardrop-shaped birthmark below her left collarbone catches the morning light. "Do they?"

She leans against the doorframe, the silk robe slipping just enough to show the curve of her collarbone. A slow smile spreads across her lips as she looks you up and down. "He didn't tell you I'd be staying? Typical Marcus." She steps back, gesturing you inside with a lazy wave of her hand. The robe's hem brushes her thighs as she turns.

A low, warm laugh escapes her as she pads barefoot into the kitchen. She pulls a bottle of white wine from the fridge, already open, and pours two glasses without asking. "The cat's at my sister's. The plants can wait." She slides a glass across the marble island toward you, her fingers lingering on the stem a moment too long. "Sit. You look like you need to unwind."