When I can move again, I push up onto an elbow and look down at her—flushed, tousled, gone soft around the edges—and something fierce and hungry rises in me.
"Your turn," I say.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to." I put my hand on her stomach and feel it jump. "I want to learn you. Tell me what you like."
Her breath goes ragged. "Yeah. Okay. Yes."
I'm clumsy at first. I lose my rhythm, and once I hesitate so long she opens her eyes and says, "Iris, I swear to God"—but then I find it. I find the exact place, the exact pressure, the sound she makes when I get it right, and after that I stop being nervous and start beingruthless.
I learn that she goes quiet before she comes. That her hand will find my hair and hold on. That she says my name like it costs her something.
And when she finally breaks apart under my mouth—thighs tightening, spine bowing, my name coming out of her in pieces—it is, without question, the most powerful thing I have ever done.
Afterward we lie tangled together, catching our breath. The room is fully dark now. The only light is starlight through the open window.
"I can't believe we waited so long," I say.
Cat laughs, wrecked and happy. "We didn't wait that long. It's been—what, six weeks?"
"It felt like longer."
"Yeah." She presses a kiss to my hair. "It did."
Silence settles, warm and easy. I feel like I should say something profound—something about what this means, about the size of what just happened. But every word I reach for is too small.
"Cat?"
"Mmm?"
"I'm glad I'm here. I'm glad you're here. I'm just—glad."
Her arm tightens around me. "There's nowhere else I want to be."
We fall asleep like that, the night air cool on damp skin, lavender drifting through the window. My last coherent thought is that this—this moment, this woman, this feeling—is worth every fight ahead of us.
Jean-Pierre. My mother. The uncertain future.
None of it matters as much as her.
20
CAT
I wake up to sunlight streaming through the windows and the weight of Iris's head on my shoulder.
For a long moment, I don't move. I just lie there, cataloguing the sensation of her body pressed against mine, the soft rhythm of her breathing, the way her hand rests on my stomach like it belongs there. Like it's always belonged there.
This is real. This is actually happening.
She stirs against me, making a small sound of protest at the light. "What time is it?"
"Early. Go back to sleep."
"Can't." She shifts, propping herself up on one elbow to look at me. Her hair is a disaster, there's a crease on her cheek from my shoulder, and she's never been more beautiful. "We have that meeting with the lawyer at ten."
Right. The lawyer. Jean-Pierre. The legal battle that's hanging over us like a storm cloud.
