"It has milk in it," Allie insists. "Milk is breakfast."
"That's not how nutrition works."
"Steph, tell her chocolate is breakfast."
I lean against the doorframe, watching them. Mother and daughter, bickering over nothing, alive and safe and here.
"Chocolate is definitely not breakfast," I say.
Allie's betrayed expression is magnificent. "I trusted you."
"Your mother's right. Eat your oatmeal."
"Oatmeal is gross."
"Life is hard."
She huffs and stomps to the table, shooting me wounded looks the entire time. Iris catches my eye and mouthsthank you.
After breakfast, after Allie has been sent off to her lessons, Iris pulls me back into the bedroom. The door clicks shut and she's already working at my shirt buttons.
"Eager?" I catch her wrists, slow her down.
"We have three hours." Her eyes are dark with want. "I plan to use them."
"Is that right?" I back her toward the bed instead, watching her eyes widen. "And here I thought I was in charge. On the bed." I release her wrists. "Now."
She obeys, settling on the mattress, and I take my time stripping off my shirt. Let her watch. Her gaze tracks over my chest, the ink, the scars, before dropping lower to where I'm already half-hard in my jeans.
"Take off your clothes," I tell her.
She pulls her shirt over her head, then reaches back to unhook her bra. The movement makes her breasts lift and I have to adjust myself through my jeans. When she starts on her pants, I stop her.
"Slower."
She does. Unbuttons them one-handed, drags the zipper down with agonizing slowness. Hooks her thumbs in the waistband and pushes them down her hips inch by inch. By the time she's completely naked, I'm rock hard and aching.
I strip off my jeans and join her on the bed, settling between her thighs. The morning light catches on her skin, highlights every curve, and I take a moment just to look. To appreciate what I have.
"I love you," she says softly.
The words hit me square in the chest, like a bullet. We haven't said it yet. Haven't put a name to what this is. But hearing it now,in the morning light, with no adrenaline or fear driving us—it feels real. Permanent.
"Say it again."
"I love you." She reaches up, traces the tattoo over my heart. "I love who you are. Who you're becoming with us."
"I love you too." The words come easier than I expected. "Didn't think I'd get to feel this again."
She pulls me down for a kiss and I take my time with it. Deep and thorough, letting her feel everything I can't quite put into words. When I pull back, her lips are swollen and her eyes are hazy.
I kiss down her throat, her collarbone, the valley between her breasts. Take my time lavishing attention on each nipple until she's squirming beneath me. Then lower, across her stomach, the sharp points of her hips.
When I settle between her thighs, she's already wet. I can see it glistening on her inner thighs, smell her arousal. My mouth waters.
"Stephan, please!"
"We have time." I press a kiss to her inner thigh. "I'm going to take all of it."
