Chapter 13 #3
“Now?” she begged, voice ragged.
I wanted to give it to her. I really did. But I said, “Not yet.” I held still, buried inside, feeling every twitch and flutter. She tried to grind up into me, but I pinned her, one hand at her hip, the other trapping her wrist above her head.
She thrashed, desperate, then just collapsed under me, turning her face aside to gasp for air.
I kissed her cheek, her temple, then her mouth again, slow this time. She looked at me, eyes glassy, and nodded, like she understood.
I started moving, slow and gentle, building her up all over again. When I felt her start to shake, I whispered, “Now. Come for me, Angela. Show me.”
She did. She came apart underneath me, crying out my name, her body clenching and shaking. I felt it, every spasm, every shiver, and it pulled my own orgasm out of me so hard it left me blind for a second. I lost it, hips jerking, spilling inside her, biting out her name against her throat.
Not Angela. Mia.
“Mine.”
She heard it. She answered, voice shredded, “Yours. Yours. Yours.”
I collapsed on her, drenched and shaking, both of us fused together, neither willing to let go. Her arms locked around my neck, legs still tight at my waist. I felt her heartbeat, wild and frantic, matching my own.
We stayed there, tangled, wet, neither moving except to breathe. When I finally rolled to my side, I took her with me, wouldn’t let her go. She clung to me, face buried in my neck, hands fisted in my hair, like she was afraid I’d vanish if she loosened her grip.
I stroked her back, slow. Kissed the hollow behind her ear. I listened to her breathing, the little shudders that wouldn’t stop, and thought: This is what it feels like. This is what it means when someone belongs to you.
She didn’t talk, just pressed closer, skin to skin, soaking me up like she’d never had enough before. I held her until our bodies cooled, until the sweat dried and the room felt cold. Even then, she kept her legs tangled with mine, her hands flat against my chest, her head under my chin.
I wanted to say something. I wanted to tell her she was safe, that nothing could touch her here. But it felt too small, too ordinary.
Instead, I just held her, and waited for her to breathe the world back in.
She was the first one to move. She opened her eyes, blinked up at me, and smiled. Not coy, not fake. Real. Like she’d just discovered something new inside herself.
She brushed her hand across my jaw, thumb on my lips. “You okay?” she asked.
I nodded, kissed her palm. “Better than okay.”
She laughed, soft and sleepy. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this before.”
“Me neither,” I said, which was the truth.
She studied me for a second, then snuggled in closer. “I meant what I said, you know.”
I stroked her hair, fingers slow at her scalp. “Which part?”
“That I see you. All the way through. Even the parts you try to hide.”
I didn’t argue. I didn’t try to deflect it. I just let her say it, and let it be.
Night closed in around us, the house quiet except for our breathing. I could have stayed like that forever.
She fell asleep on my chest, the duvet wrapped around us both, her hair a tangle over my heart.
Every five minutes or so she’d stir and make a small, happy sound, like a child curling deeper into a favorite blanket.
I watched the shadows move on the ceiling, counted the streetlights outside the window, measured each slow exhale from her nose against the heat of her cheek on my skin.
I could have stayed like that all night. I wanted to. But the problem with perfect moments is that they don’t leave space for the things you’ve hidden. They just shine a light on the shape of what’s wrong.
After a while, I felt it. The first prickle of guilt, the sour note at the base of my throat. I tried to ignore it. I told myself I’d tell her in the morning, let her sleep, let her have a few more hours of peace before I ruined everything. She deserved that much.
But it didn’t work. The lie sat in my chest, heavy as a stone. The longer I lay there, the sharper it got. I ran my fingers through her hair, slow, hoping the rhythm would calm me down. It didn’t.
I remembered the line in our contract—her handwriting, all spiky and determined, underlined three times: Must be honest at all times. No games.
And then the thing I’d said to her in the Fern Room, like it was gospel: After Catania, I promised myself I would never lie to someone I loved again.
I looked at her, curled up like a question mark, and knew I couldn’t hold both things in my body—the lie, and her. The body can’t do it. It has to choose.
So I held her a minute longer. I stroked her hair, kissed the crown of her head, listened to her breath even out.
Then, in the dark, I said, “Angela.”
Her body tensed, just a little.
I said, “There is something I have to tell you.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t say a word. But her breathing changed, and her whole self went perfectly, terribly still against my chest.
That was the only answer I needed.
Tomorrow morning. I would tell her everything.