Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Claire
Claire basked in the warmth of Mirela’s lips.
They were softer than she ever imagined, plump and malleable under the exploration of her own.
They trembled hopefully, not in fear but with want.
Her breath was warm, sweet, and so inviting, Claire couldn’t help but move over her, slotting her mouth with hers.
Mirela squeezed her waist, earning a soft gasp from her. Claire pulled back just enough to see her face. Mirela’s eyes were half-open, her lips parted, her breath quick and shallow. As Mirela stared at her, there was nothing in her eyes resembling regret, only wonder and a flash of need.
“Mirela?”
“I’ve…” she shook her head, as if trying to dissipate the fog keeping her from thinking straight. “I’ve never kissed anyone…”
Claire wasn’t surprised; she was actually relieved and truly enjoyed being Mirela’s first.
Mirela’s hands inched up her waist, her face a mixture of embarrassment and disappointment. “I am sorry—“
“Don’t be.” She smiled again, her stomach clenching. She wiped Mirela’s lower lip with her thumb before moving closer. “Do what you think feels right.”
“But what if you don’t like it?”
“I will let you know, as you will let me know if you don’t like what I do, right?”
Mirela nodded effusively. Claire leaned forward and kissed her again, her hands gripping her red, unruly hair, drinking her in like blessed holy wine.
Her heart beat loudly inside her chest and head.
Mirela’s grip on her waist tightened, almost bruising, but Claire didn’t mind it.
She liked the way she held her. Her grip was firm, grounding, like if the world crumbled, Mirela was all that would keep her standing.
Claire’s hands slid down to her shoulders, feeling the coiled strength beneath her skin, the heat that radiated through her clothes.
She pressed harder. The faint gasp between their mouths became a sigh when Claire’s tongue brushed against hers. Mirela’s lips parted hesitantly, and Claire deepened the kiss, tasting her. The most delicious sound escaped Mirela, and Claire decided she wanted to hear it again and again.
The kiss wasn’t perfect. It was clumsy, hungry, uncertain, but God… it was so freeing. Mirela tasted of wine and heat, and Claire decided right there that she couldn’t get enough. Claire shuddered. She hadn’t meant to moan, but the sound escaped her anyway.
When she finally drew back, her lips were tingling, her heart hammering so loudly it echoed in her ears. Mirela’s hands now clung to her hips, as if letting go would make her disappear. Her eyes were half-closed, her lashes trembling against flushed cheeks.
Claire smiled breathlessly. “Are you sure you’ve never kissed someone before?” she whispered.
Mirela’s chest rose and fell. She shook her head slowly, her voice barely a breath. “No.”
Claire’s thumb brushed the corner of her mouth, tracing the trembling curve of her lip. “Do you like it?”
Mirela swallowed, her voice rough as she whispered, “Yes… but I like it even more because it’s you.”
Something in Claire’s chest broke open. She carefully took in the marred skin on one side of Mirela’s face, then the other side, she rubbed her thumb over both cheeks, watching how the other woman sighed contently and leaned against the subtle caress, as if she had been craving such attention all her life.
Before she could think, she leaned in and kissed her again.
This time, Mirela didn’t hesitate. She met her halfway, her lips urgent, desperate, as if she were trying to learn every secret from Claire’s mouth.
And Claire wanted her to know all of them.
She wanted Mirela, wanted to do so much more than just kiss her.
Pulling away, Claire looked at her neck, and her mouth watered as her eyes trailed lower, she could make out the swell of her breast, her cleavage parting just enough of her green blouse.
Heat spread even further through Claire.
She swallowed as her grasp on Mirela tightened before her lips brushed over the exposed skin of her neck.
Mirela made that delicious sound again and leaned to expose even more skin to her hungry mouth. The column of her slender neck called for Claire to slide her tongue over it, to taste her in a way that was impossible right there and then.
She wanted to run her mouth all over Mirela’s body, over the hidden skin under her clothes, her legs, her stomach. Did her scars move down to her breast and stomach? Did they reach part of her hips and legs?
Not that she cared; she simply wanted to see Mirela completely bare for her to take in.
Claire’s hands moved to her shoulders again, feeling the solid muscle beneath her palms. She hadn’t realized just how strong Mirela was until now. Of course she would be, she thought dimly; she was the one who tolled the bells. Those ropes, those weights, no wonder her arms felt carved from stone.
The thought vanished when Mirela pulled her closer, and Claire let herself fall forward, slipping into her lap.
Mirela’s breath hitched sharply. A soft gasp—almost a moan—escaped her, and Claire felt it vibrate through her chest. She knew they should stop. Every instinct told her this was too much, too dangerous. But she couldn’t. She didn’t want to.
She kissed her again, deeper, holding Mirela’s face between her hands as though she could imprint the feeling forever.
Her stomach coiled, her body tightening, heat pooling low between her thighs.
Mirela’s hands trembled at her hips, not from fear but from restraint, from the effort of not pulling her closer still.
Claire broke the kiss only to breathe, her lips brushing Mirela’s as she whispered, “We should—“
The sound of soft groaning wood came before she could finish. The door creaked open as both women froze.
A gasp broke the silence. Sister Margaret stood in the doorway, her hand clutched around a rosary, eyes wide in horror.
“Mother above…” she whispered.
Claire jolted to her feet, her heart pounding in her throat. “No—no! Wait, Margaret!” she cried, stepping forward. She spread her arms instinctively, placing herself between the nun and Mirela. Not out of shame, but protection.
But Sister Margaret’s expression only twisted into shock, fear, then disgust before she turned and fled down the corridor, her footsteps echoing against the stone floor.
“Margaret!” Claire shouted, her voice breaking.
She turned back to Mirela, as panic clawed at her chest. “She’s going to tell the others. I—God, I don’t know what to do.” Her breathing quickened. “We have to leave—we have to go, but I have nowhere to go!”
Her hands shook. Claire couldn’t go back to her home; she wouldn’t go back!
She would rather be out in the streets than go back to face them.
She couldn’t even think of the shame they would throw on her if she went back.
Her father’s disgust already plagued her mind as her mother’s angered glare, her brother’s confusion…
Claire tried to swallow down the sob pushing through her chest. She shook her head, walking out of the room.
Squeezing her hands, she tried to steady herself until someone reached for her.
Mirela took Claire’s face between her calloused palms, forcing her to meet her gaze. Claire hadn’t forgotten about her, but right now she needed to think of something—anything—to keep them both safe.
“Let us go back to the cathedral,” Mirela said softly, her voice steady, grounding. “It’s sanctuary. No one will touch you there. You can hide until we figure out what to do.”
Claire’s breath came fast and shallow, her heart pounding so hard it hurt. “But…” she whispered. “What if—“
“Nothing will happen to you,” Mirela said firmly, her voice cutting through the panic. She leaned down and pressed her lips gently against Claire’s forehead. “Not while I’m here.”
Something inside Claire steadied at that. The trembling in her hands slowed, and the ache in her chest loosened. She nodded, swallowing hard. She pulled Mirela’s hands away from her face before stepping back.
“I’ll meet you outside,” she said. “Wait for me.”
Mirela’s nodded before she turned and slipped out into the night. Claire stood there for only a second, breathing hard, then spun and ran down the corridor.
She burst into the room she shared with the other nuns, her heart racing. The echo of her footsteps stirred the silence of the convent, waking the others.
“Claire?” a voice called sleepily from behind one of the doors.
Another creaked open. Questions followed her down the hall.
Half-asleep, confused voices asked what was happening, but she didn’t answer.
She grabbed her father’s coat, her clothes and keepsakes hidden beneath her cot, and piled them onto her bedsheet before tying it into a makeshift bundle.
Her hands froze when her gaze fell on the drawing atop her table.
Mirela’s sketch. Someone must’ve been snooping around if it was on the table next to her bed.
She picked it up with trembling hands and pressed it against her chest, holding it there for a heartbeat before tucking it carefully into the folds of the bundle with the new drawings Mirela had gifted her back in the cathedral.
Somewhere in the distance, voices rose. There were footsteps and Sister Margaret shouting as Mother Beatrice’s voice came in a frightening and sharp yell. “Sister Claire! Come back!”
Claire ignored them. She ran. Down the corridor, past the doors, through the main hall where candlelight flickered against the walls. The sound of her own heartbeat drowned out everything else.
When she reached the heavy convent doors, she pushed them open with both hands as cold night air rushed in. Standing at the edge of the courtyard, cloaked in moonlight, was Mirela, waiting for her.
Claire didn’t look back as she ran toward her.