Possession. That’s it. This is the first time I’ve really ever felt like she wasmine. And for the life of me, I can’t see how I’m just going to let her go. Not yet.
She lets me go and steps back, turning around and leaving. I trail after her, trying to get a firm hold on what I’m feeling. But of course, she doesn’t give me the chance.
She walks into the kitchen, bites her lower lip, and gives me a once over. “You don’t really want to hear about my background, do you?”
I stop a few inches away from her, looking at her sweetly curved face. “I meant what I said.”
Margot wrinkles her nose and presses up on her tiptoes to kiss me. Then she takes a seat at the kitchen bar and inhales slowly. “Okay.” She grabs her mug of coffee, running a finger around the rim. “I was born in Brooklyn. Which sounds like it was hip and funky… but it wasn’t. My mom was a stripper for most of my childhood, and that job… well, I don’t know if it led her to drugs or if drugs led to her stripping. Either way, my mom was too busy living her life to give me much thought.”
She smiles sadly at her coffee mug. “Yeah. It’s always been just my mom and me, no dad in the picture. As soon as I was out of diapers, she stopped paying for a babysitter. She just left me for days on end. So I found ways to keep myself busy… like the story I told you about discovering my passion for journalism at the library.” She sucks in a deep breath. “But there were other things that I did, too. Bad things. I ran with a really awful crowd for a while.”
My eyebrows lift. “I was wondering where you got your sense of style.”
She looks up at me, smiling sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess Ialways idolized the punks of the 1980s. They just seemed so cool. Like they were living their grubby little lives out loud and not shutting up about how miserable and downtrodden they were.” She makes a face. “Plus their music was just noisy and riotous and fun to dance to.”
“No disagreement here.” I slide my mug of coffee across the counter, taking a sip. It’s tepid, but it’s still coffee. “So… your mother didn’t always take care of you.”
“She did what she could do, I guess.” Margot shrugs a shoulder. “I was in and out of foster care, usually in group homes. I did really well in school, but I was an outcast for sure. Nobody wanted to be friend with the weird kid who wore the same clothes all the time and never brought any cake on their birthday.”
I nod. “Yeah, children can be cruel-hearted.”
She sighs. “Yeah. Luckily, I got myself into NYU. And that’s where I met Pippa.” She drums her fingers against the counter. “That was a huge turning point for me. She was also into journalism and she sort of opened a doorway to that world.”
Tilting my head, I try to imagine Pippa and Margot back then. Margot looks at my expression and laughs.
“What?” she asks.
“Nothing. I’m just trying to imagine a world without this rebellious, punk rock-loving version of you in it.” I shake my head. “I think I’m glad that you are you.”
Her lips curve upward and she rolls her eyes a little. “Thanks, I guess.”
Standing up, I drag her chair towards me. Then I bend down and kiss her. Margot turns her head up, digging her fingers into the short hair at the back of my head.
When I pull back, I lean my forehead against hers. I whisper lulling words to Margot. “Thank you for opening up to me.”
Her smile turns into a slow grin. “Of course.” She twists and pushes the chair she is sitting on away and leans her small frame against mine, hips touching hips, her breasts against the hardness of my chest. “Take me to bed, Stellan.”
I’ve never wanted anything more. I sweep her up in my arms and carry her toward the bedroom, my lips on her lips, my heart beating in time with hers.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Stellan
Irise early, the habit ingrained from my time in the military. After I shower and dress myself, Margot is still soundly asleep. I sit down on the bed beside her, looking down at her. Some women I’ve spent the night with have been like sleeping beauty in their slumber; placid and peaceful, unresisting and serene.
Margot isn’t like that. She hugs a pillow to her bare chest, a tiny pucker of emotion creasing her brow, her mouth set in the echo of a frown. Her cotton candy curls spill backwards from her head like a dash of ink spilled in water. Her hands are tight little fists, looking like she’s ready to fight.
And yet, I still find her incredibly beautiful. Not despite.
Because she is rebellious to her very core. Even in sleep, she doesn’t lose her edge.
But the best thing is when I lean over, dropping a kiss to her bare shoulder. She stirs, opening her sapphire eyes a crack. And then she smiles at me. Big and bright, sleepy but all the more meaningfulfor it.
“Hey,” she rasps.
One corner of my mouth lifts. “Haj.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Were you watching me sleep?”
