32. Delilah
DELILAH
I keep my hand over Kane's eyes as we climb the stairs to the bakery's second floor.
"Are we almost there?" he asks.
"Almost."
"You know I could just take your hand off."
"You could. But you won't."
"Why not?"
"Because you're humoring me."
He huffs a laugh. "That's true."
We reach the landing. I guide him forward, steering him around the corner into the apartment.
"Keep them closed," I warn.
"They're closed."
"No peeking."
"I'm not peeking."
I step back and look at the space. Everything is just how I wanted it. The furniture arrived yesterday. I spent all morning arranging things and double-checking every detail.
"Okay," I say. "You can look."
Kane opens his eyes.
He stands in the doorway for a moment, taking it all in. The open kitchen with its white subway tile and butcher-block counters. The living area with the lime green couch I found at a vintage shop in Park Slope. The bedroom visible through the open doorway.
"You finished it," he says.
"Last night. Well, mostly. There are still a few things I need to hang up.
But it's done enough." I cross to the kitchen and run my hand along the counter.
"I picked out everything myself. The tile, the cabinets, the fixtures.
Even the hardware." I point to the drawer pulls.
"These are from a salvage yard in Red Hook.
They're original brass from the twenties. "
Kane follows me, studying the space.
I lead him to the living area. "And this couch. I know it's kind of ugly. But it was only three hundred dollars, and it's comfortable, and I liked the color."
"It's not ugly."
"It's a little ugly."
"It's got character."
I smile. "That's a nice way of putting it."
I show him the shelves I installed myself, the lamp I rewired, the rug I haggled down from two hundred to seventy-five because it had a stain in one corner that I managed to cover with furniture.
He listens to all of it. Nods at the right moments. Asks questions about the wiring and the plumbing and whether the landlord—me—approved all these changes.
When I'm done with the living area, I take his hand and pull him toward the bedroom.
"This is my favorite part," I say.
The bed sits against the far wall. Nothing fancy. Just a metal frame and a mattress I bought on sale. But I made it up with new sheets and a quilt I found at a flea market.
Kane's eyes linger on the bed. Then they shift to the wall opposite it.
The closet doors are mirrored. Floor to ceiling. I had them installed last week.
He examines them with rapt attention.
I watch his face. "Do you remember?"
"Yeah."
"I thought about what you said. About watching myself. About seeing what you see." I cross to the bed and sit on the edge. "And I wanted to try it here. In my own space."
Kane says nothing. Just keeps staring at me with an intense look I can't quite place.
"So," I blurt, heat creeping up my cheeks. "What do you think?"
"About the apartment?"
"About all of it. The apartment. The bakery. Everything."
His gaze softens. "It's yours," he says.
"Yeah. It is."
"You built this. All of it. Without anyone's help."
"Well, I had help with the construction—"
"You know what I mean."
I do. And hearing him say it makes something warm bloom in my chest.
"You wanted to know what I think?" Kane crosses to me and cups my face in his hands. "I think you're fucking incredible. I think this place is perfect because you made it what you wanted. And I think—" He pauses. "I think I'm the luckiest man alive because you let me be part of this."
We stand there for a moment, his hands on my face, my hands on his wrists.
Then I pull back and look around the apartment one more time. At the kitchen I designed. The furniture I chose. The bedroom I made for myself.
"I'm proud of it," I say.
"You should be."
I meet his eyes. "I wanted you to see it. Before anyone else."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Because you're—" I stop. Search for the words. "Because you're the person I want to share this with."
Kane pulls me close and kisses me. Slow and deep and full of emotions I can't quite name.
We break apart. I catch my breath against his chest.
Before he can kiss me again, I say, "There's something else I want to show you."
I cross to the bedroom and retrieve the photo album from the nightstand. The one I kept through our breakup. The one I almost threw away a dozen times.
When I return to the living room, Kane is standing near the window, in a square of dying sunlight, hands in his pockets.
He's so beautiful.
I shake myself out of it and hold out the album. "Here."
He takes it carefully, like it might break. Opens it. "You kept this?"
"I did."
"Even after Palm Sunday?"
I manage a nod. "I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. Now I'm glad I didn't."
The first few pages are from New Year's Eve. Kane and me in the coat room. The kiss at midnight. After that, Russian Christmas. My birthday. Valentine's Day. Poconos—my latest addition.
And near the back, the photograph he took of me. Blindfolded. Cuffed. Naked on his bed.
Kane takes it in. "You kept this one too?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because I missed it. I missed feeling like that."
"Like what?"
"Desired. Wanted. Not because I was useful, but because you looked at me and couldn't help yourself."
He closes the album and sets it on the counter. Then he crosses to me and cups my face in his hands. "I still look at you like that."
"I know."
"Do you?"
"Yes."
He kisses me. Slow at first. Then deeper, harder, until I'm breathless and clinging to his shoulders.
"Come here," I say against his mouth.
I take his hand and lead him to the bed. It's freshly made. New sheets. New pillows. Everything smooth and untouched.
And across from the bed, the mirrored walls of the closet.
Kane finally realizes where we're standing. "Lilah."
"I want to look at us," I say. "Together. The way we used to."
He turns to me. "Are you sure?"
"Yes."
He kisses me again, backing me toward the bed. His hands are everywhere—my waist, my hips, the zipper at the back of my dress. The fabric pools at my feet.
I reach for his belt. He catches my wrist.
"Let me," he says.
I step back and watch as he undresses, unable to look away. First the suit jacket, slipping from his shoulders and draped carefully over the chair. Then the tie, loosened and pulled free in one smooth motion.
His shirt comes next, button by button, revealing the hard planes of his chest, the ridged muscle of his abdomen. Each piece is removed with deliberate slowness, his eyes never leaving mine, as if he's performing for me. And maybe he is.
By the time he's naked, I'm already wet and aching.
He sits at the foot of the bed and pulls me into his lap, my back to his chest. We're both facing the mirror.
"Look," he says.
I do.
His hands glide up my thighs, parting them. One hand cups my breast. The other dips between my legs.
I gasp and arch into his touch.
"Keep your eyes open," he says.
I nod.
He circles my clit, slow and maddening, then pinches. Not enough to hurt, but more than enough to make me gasp.
In the mirror, I watch my hips shift restlessly against his hand, seeking more friction, more pressure. My throat opens and small sounds escape—soft whimpers, breathy moans I don't recognize as my own.
I've never seen myself like this.
Is this how he sees me too?
"You're so fucking beautiful," he murmurs against my neck. "Do you see it?"
"Yes."
"Say it."
"I'm beautiful."
"Again."
"I'm beautiful."
His fingers slip inside me, and I cry out.
"That's it," he says. "Let me hear you."
I watch as he fucks me with his hand. As my body responds, as he holds me open and vulnerable and completely his.
"Kane—"
"Not yet."
"Please—"
"Not. Yet."
He withdraws his hand and I whimper at the loss. But then he's lifting me, positioning me over him, and I feel the head of his cock pressing against my entrance.
"Look at me," he says.
I meet his eyes in the mirror.
"I want you to watch," he says. "Watch yourself take me."
He lowers me slowly onto him, and I gasp as he fills me.
"Good girl," he murmurs. "Now look."
I do. I watch as he grips my hips and guides me up and down. Watch as my breasts bounce with every thrust and his hands roam my body, claiming every inch.
"Do you see how perfect we are together?" he asks.
"Yes."
"Say it."
"We're perfect together."
"Again."
"We're perfect."
He thrusts harder, deeper, and I moan.
"Tell me what you want," he says.
"I want you."
"You have me. What else?"
"I want to come."
"Then come. But keep your eyes open."
His hand dips between my legs again, circling my clit in tight, relentless circles. I'm so close I could cry.
"Look at yourself," he commands. "Look at how beautiful you are when you come."
I do. I watch as my body tenses. As pleasure crashes through me and I fall apart in his arms.
"That's it," he says. "That's my girl."
He thrusts harder, chasing his own release. I feel him swell inside me. Hear the hitch in his breath.
"Look at me," he says.
We lock eyes in the mirror.
He comes with a groan, his grip tightening on my hips as he spills inside me.
For a moment, we just sit there, both of us breathing hard, staring at our reflection.
Then he kisses my shoulder and pulls me back against his chest.
"I love you," I whisper.
"I love you too."
I turn in his arms and kiss him until we both forget how to breathe.
When we finally pull apart, I rest my forehead against his. "I'm scared."
"Of what?"
"Of this. Of loving you so much that the thought of losing you makes me panic."
"You're not going to lose me."
"You don't know that."
"I do."
I close my eyes. "We still haven't figured out what happens next."
"I know."
"We can't just keep saying we'll figure it out."
"Then what do you want me to say?"
"I don't know." I pull back and look at him. "I just know that loving you has made everything more complicated. And more frightening."
He cups my face. "Loving you is the simplest thing I've ever done. Everything else is noise."
"But the noise matters."
"Not as much as you think."
I want to believe him. But Vetrov's words are still echoing in my head. And the fight about the Poconos trip is still fresh. And I still don't know what our lives look like when he goes back to work full-time.
"We're going to have to make decisions," I say. "Beyond who sleeps where."
"I know."
"When?"
"Soon. But not tonight."
I want to push. To demand answers. But I'm tired. And he's here. And for now, that's enough.
"Will you stay?" I ask.
"As long as you want me to."
"Will you come back?"
"Every time you ask."
I bite my lip. "Then leave a toothbrush."
He blinks. "What?"
"Next time you come here. Leave a toothbrush. So you don't have to bring one every time."
His mouth curves into a slow, satisfied smile. "You want me to keep a toothbrush here."
"Yes."
"That's very domestic of you."
"Don't make it weird."
"I'm not." He kisses me. "I'll bring one tomorrow."
"Good."
He pulls me close again, and I rest my head on his shoulder.
Outside, the street is quiet. The construction below has stopped for the day. It's just us and the apartment and the bed we just christened.
I close my eyes and let myself enjoy this moment. Let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, we can figure out the rest.