21. Chapter 21
twenty-one
“ S o, what’s the verdict?” Monroe asked, stacking Chloé’s empty plate neatly on top of her own. The plate was clean, which she took as a good sign.
Chloé smiled and dabbed at her mouth with the napkin. “All in all, I think it was actually very nice.” She reached out and let her fingers rest lightly on Monroe’s hand. “And so was the company. I needed this.”
Monroe’s smile widened, genuine and a little bashful. “Me too.”
Monroe carried the plates into the kitchen, the faint clink of china interrupting the soft quiet of the evening. Chloé followed with the tea cups, setting them carefully beside the sink.
“I could get used to this,” Chloé said, leaning against the counter, watching Monroe scrape the remnants into the compost bin. “Cosy dinners in countryside cottages.”
Monroe smirked over her shoulder. “You mean bubble and squeak and teabags strong enough to revive the dead?”
“Exactly. Total luxury.” Chloé glanced around at the tidy space with overflowing shelves. “I love your kitchen. It’s very you.”
“That’s a polite way of saying ‘chaotic but functional’,” Monroe said, switching the tap on to rinse the dishes.
Chloé laughed. “No, I mean it. It feels…lived-in. Like someone actually cooks here, rather than just fills it with copper pans and matching jars for show.”
“I’ll have you know my mismatched jars are vintage.” Monroe shot her a mock glare.
“Even better,” Chloé said, grinning. “I like places that feel like someone’s put their life into them. You can tell, you know. When something’s been loved.”
Monroe slowed a little at that, her hand resting on the dishcloth. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Her mind went to Justine, who constantly complained about mess before she’d even had the chance to tidy up, even though she never lifted a finger to help.
“I don’t think anyone’s said that about my home before,” she said eventually. “That it feels loved.”
“Well…it does.”
There was something gentle in the way Chloé said it, as if she hadn’t meant to be profound, just honest.
Monroe passed her a tea towel. “Dry?”
“Gladly.” Chloé took it, brushing their hands as she did. “Though, I should warn you, I can be clumsy with wet stuff.”
“I’ll live dangerously.”
They worked in quiet rhythm for a while, side by side at the sink—comfortably close, without trying too hard. The kind of closeness that didn’t need defining. Just existing.
“I was never much good at this,” Monroe said, after a moment.
“At what?”
“This.” She gestured between them with a soapy spoon. “The...easy stuff. Letting someone in. The quiet bits.”
Chloé looked at her, soft but sure. “Maybe it just never felt like this before.”
Monroe glanced at her, the corner of her mouth lifting. “Maybe not.”
And with that, she turned back to the sink, shoulder brushing lightly against Chloé’s. It was just dishes—just an ordinary moment.
But for Monroe, it felt like something new was unfolding—quietly, gently, and for once, without resistance.
The last dish was dried, the tea towel folded and draped over the oven handle. Monroe clicked off the kitchen light, following Chloé as they moved back into the lounge.
Monroe settled onto the sofa and Chloé followed, their knees brushing as they turned to face one another. The wine glasses had been abandoned on the coffee table, the warmth between them now coming from something entirely different.
Chloé reached out, her fingers tracing a light path along Monroe’s forearm. “You know…these past few days have been… I didn’t expect them.”
“I know what you mean,” Monroe said, her voice lower now, something huskier in it. “It’s been surprising?”
Chloé leant in slightly as she nodded in agreement. “But I feel like there could be worse things to do.”
Monroe arched an eyebrow, amused. “Worse?”
“Uh huh…like not kiss you,” Chloé murmured, closing the distance between them.
Their lips met slowly this time—no rush, just the steady, certain heat of knowing they’d both been waiting for this moment all evening. Monroe shifted, angling herself closer, and Chloé’s hand moved to her waist, fingers curving over the soft cotton of her jumper.
The kiss deepened, mouths parting, breath catching. Monroe’s hand slipped up to cradle the side of Chloé’s face, her thumb grazing the sharp line of her cheekbone. It was a tender moment, but the pulse in Monroe’s throat betrayed something hungrier beneath the surface.
Chloé gently eased Monroe back into the cushions, their bodies aligning with quiet precision, her leg sliding between Monroe’s as she braced herself on one arm. The weight of her was light, deliberate, teasing more than demanding. Chloé’s free hand found Monroe’s hip.
Monroe let out a quiet sigh, her fingers sliding under the hem of Chloé’s shirt, just enough to touch warm skin, to feel the slow rise and fall of breath beneath her palm.
“I like this,” Chloé whispered, brushing her lips over Monroe’s jaw and along her neck. “You.”
Monroe’s hand tightened slightly, grounding them both. “You should…stay just like this.”
Chloé pulled back just enough to meet her eyes. “I wasn’t planning on moving.”
Their foreheads pressed together, the mood between them thick and steady, equal parts restraint and promise. The fire had been lit. It was enough for now to feel the shape of each other in the dark, and to know what they’d started wasn’t burning out anytime soon.
It was a battle.
Monroe’s body wanted Chloé to stay all night—wanted her lips, her hands, her mouth exploring every inch with that reverent hunger. She wanted to be undone, to give in and feel what it meant to be wanted like that.
But her head? Her head told her it was too soon. That desire could be deceiving. That if this really had a chance to become something lasting, she needed to let it breathe. Let herself breathe.
And then there was her heart—loud, aching, confused—caught in the pull of a woman who felt like comfort and risk all at once.
They made out for what felt like hours, shifting and tangling slowly on the sofa as evening turned to night.
Monroe’s skin still burned where Chloé’s fingers had brushed, where her lips had lingered.
Her clit throbbed, sensitised and desperate after the slow tease of Chloé’s thigh, the way it had brushed between hers again and again as they moved.
It had taken everything not to pull her closer and beg for more.
French kissing would never be the same again. How could it be, now she’d experienced it like this? Not just lips and tongues, but heat and meaning, and the way Chloé made it feel like every kiss mattered.
Monroe exhaled softly, still curled beside her, their legs tangled loosely now. One of Chloé’s hands rested just above her hip, her thumb drawing lazy circles that made Monroe’s breath catch each time.
“I should probably let you go,” Monroe said quietly, though it sounded more like a question than a decision.
Chloé didn’t move. “Probably,” she murmured, nuzzling a little closer instead.
Neither of them moved. The clock ticked somewhere out of sight. Outside, the trees swayed in the breeze. And Monroe’s whole body screamed for her to say ‘screw it’—to let Chloé stay and press her down into the mattress and feel her way into morning.
But instead, she closed her eyes and whispered, “Next time…”
And Chloé nodded, pressing one last kiss to her jaw. “Next time.”