"I want to stay," she whispers. "Not just for the ninety days. Not just for the inheritance. I want to stay forever."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She reaches up to touch my face, her wet fingers cool against my cheek. "I want to run this farm with you. I want to watch the seasons change. I want to grow old in this house, the way Grand-mère and Hélène did."
"That's a big commitment."
"I know. I'm making it anyway." She smiles, and there's no fear in it, no hesitation. "I choose you, Cat. I choose this life. I choose all of it."
I kiss her before she can say anything else. The water sloshes around us as I pull her close, as her arms wrap around my neck, as the kiss deepens into something hungry and urgent. She tastes like lavender and sunshine and everything I've ever wanted.
"Bedroom," I manage against her lips. "Now."
We barely make it. We stumble out of the tub, dripping everywhere, too desperate to bother with towels. I push her down onto the bed—our bed now, really ours—and cover her body with mine, and the sound she makes is better than any symphony.
This time is different from our first. There's no nervousness, no hesitation, no careful checking in every few moments. We know each other's bodies now—know what makes the other gasp, what makes us moan, what pushes us over the edge. I use that knowledge ruthlessly, drawing it out, building her up, bringing her to the brink and then backing off just to hear her beg.
"Cat, please—"
"Please what?"
"Please, I need—"
"Tell me what you need."
She does. In hot, desperate detail. And then I give her exactly what she asked for, watching her face as she falls apart, feeling her body shudder against mine, hearing my name torn from her throat like a prayer.
When she recovers enough to move, she flips us over with surprising strength, pinning me to the mattress with a look in her eyes that makes my stomach flip.
"My turn," she says.
And then she proceeds to take me apart piece by piece, her hands and mouth learning every inch of me, finding places I didn't know were sensitive, drawing sounds from me that I've never made before. She's thorough and relentless and surprisingly creative for someone who claimed to have no idea what she was doing.
"Where did you—" I gasp as she does something particularly devastating with her fingers. "Where did you learn—"
"Research," she says against my hip. "I like to be prepared."
"God, I love you."
"I know. Now stop talking."
I stop talking. I stop thinking. I stop everything except feeling—her hands on my body, her mouth following the trail of her fingers, the slow inexorable build toward something I can feel gathering at the base of my spine.
When it breaks, it breaks hard. I cry out—her name, or maybe just a sound that doesn't have words—and she holds me through it, her body pressed against mine, her voice murmuring soft things I can't quite hear.
Afterward, we lie tangled together in the fading light, the sheets a disaster, our bodies still humming with aftershocks.
"I meant it," Iris says quietly. "About staying."
"I know."
She shifts to look at me, propping herself on one elbow. "I've never chosen anything before. Not really. I just did what was expected."
"And now?"
"Now I'm choosing what makes me happy." She traces a finger along my collarbone. "You make me happy. This place makes me happy. The life we're building—it's the first thing that's ever felt like mine."
"It is yours. Ours." I catch her hand and bring it to my lips. "And no one is taking it away."
