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“Yeah,” Luca manages, which might be a lie. “You?”

“I think so.”

“Thank God,” Toni mutters. “Good night.”

“Night,” Miray echoes sleepily. “Love you, guys.”

“Love you too,” says Izzy, half-muffled by her pillow.

The room falls silent. Luca tries to breathe like a normal person. Florence’s hair is tickling her face. Between the blanket and Florence’s body heat, she feels unbearably warm within minutes. She would rather die than move, though—not when Florence’s breathing is evening out, some of the tension finally seeping out of her.

Luca closes her eyes and lets her forehead rest against the top of Florence’s spine. Florence’s words from earlier echo in her head again: It’s the worst at the start. Your body gets used to it.

It’s a long while before she finally drifts off.

I’m not good at being gentle

But I’ll try for you

I’ll get rid of my claws

And dull all my teeth

I’ll make sure that when you touch me

You won’t cut yourself on me

22

Luca’s hair looks like molten copper in the sunlight. It’s late in the morning, or maybe early afternoon. When Florence enters her room, Luca is lying on the bed, her hands resting, palms-up, next to her head. Her shirt has ridden up to expose a sliver of her soft tummy and the faint smattering of golden hair disappearing beneath the waistband of her jeans.

Her eyes track Florence as she walks toward the bed.

“Hey,” Florence says, crawling onto the mattress. Her dress inches up as she straddles Luca’s thighs. “Were you waiting for me?”

Luca nods. The smile she gives Florence is warm and languid. Florence wants to bite it. “Yeah.”

“You look so pretty,” Florence tells her. Sliding a hand to the back of Luca’s neck makes Luca’s eyelids flutter shut. It’s so easy to lean down, her hair falling like a curtain around them, and press her lips to Luca’s. She tastes like tangerines, or maybe peaches, something summer-ripe and sweet. “What do you want?” Florence asks when she leans back.

Already, Luca’s eyes are glazed. Her hands are resting on Florence’s thighs, just shy of dipping under her dress. “Anything,” she says.

“Anything?” Florence echoes. She runs her thumb along Luca’s temple, sweeping the hair from her forehead. “Are you going to let me take care of you, sweet thing?”

Luca’s hazel eyes shine like gold in the spill of sunlight she’s lying in. “Yeah,” she breathes.

Florence leans down again. As she kisses her, there’s a nagging voice in her head that says she’s not supposed to be doing this. But that’s ridiculous. Luca is right here, flushed and wanting, and Florence can’t fathom a reason why she shouldn’t give her everything she needs.

Anything anything anything.

Slowly, she kisses her way down Luca’s neck. Luca tilts her head to give her better access, her breathing shaky in Florence’s ear.

Right, Florence remembers fondly. Quiet.

As she nips Luca’s collarbone with her teeth, the voice returns, insistent enough to make her pause. She’s not supposed to be doing this. People aren’t supposed to know. She knows she can’t leave any bruises, can’t mark her up. She just can’t remember why.

“Florence?” Luca asks softly.

Shaking herself, Florence looks down at her again. God, but she’s beautiful. It feels too good to be true. Nothing Florence craves is ever so easily won.