Cat pulls back just enough to look at me. Her eyes are dark, her breathing ragged. "Iris—"
"Don't." I shake my head. "Don't say it was a mistake. Please."
"I wasn't going to say that."
"What were you going to say?"
She smiles—a slow, wondering smile that makes my stomach flip. "I was going to say finally."
Then she kisses me again.
This time there's nothing tentative about it. She walks me backward until my shoulders hit the stone wall of the church, her body pressed along the length of mine, her hands in my hair, on my waist, everywhere. I grip her shoulders and hold on for dear life, feeling like I'm falling and flying at the same time.
She kisses like she cooks—with confidence and care, paying attention to every detail, adjusting and responding to what I'm giving her. When I gasp, she softens. When I press closer, she deepens the kiss, her tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes heat pool in my belly.
I have never in my life been kissed like this—like every nerve ending is awake and singing, like my body is an instrument she's learning to play.
"Cat," I manage against her lips. "God, Cat—"
"I know." She pulls back, breathing hard, resting her forehead against mine. "I know."
We stand there for a long moment, tangled together against the church wall, trying to catch our breath. The fête carries on around the corner—I can hear laughter, music, the clink of glasses—but it feels miles away. Like we're in our own little world, a bubble of heat and darkness and this new, terrifying, wonderful thing between us.
"I should probably tell you," I say, "that I have no idea what I'm doing."
Cat laughs, low and breathless. "You seem to be figuring it out pretty well."
"I mean in general. With—this. With women. With you." I meet her eyes, and the vulnerability of the admission makes me want to look away. "This is all new for me."
"I know."
"And I might mess it up."
"You might." She kisses the corner of my mouth, gentle. "I might too. That's kind of how it works."
"But you'll—" I stop, not sure what I'm asking.
"I'll be patient," she finishes. "I'll communicate. I'll tell you what I like and ask what you like. And if either of us needs to slow down, we slow down." She pulls back enough to really look at me. "There's no script, Iris. We just figure it out as we go."
"That's terrifying."
"I know." She grins. "But also kind of exciting?"
I laugh despite myself. "You're impossible."
"And yet here you are, kissing me against a church."
"The irony isn't lost on me, believe me."
She takes my hand, threading her fingers through mine. "We should probably go back. Before they send a search party."
"Probably."
Neither of us moves.
"Cat?"
"Yeah?"
