31. Claire #2
We make it through the terrace doors.
Barely.
My camera bag stays on the chair outside because apparently I have finally learned not to take it everywhere.
Matteo backs me against the wall just inside the house, then stops before his body pins mine there.
The pause lasts long enough for me to understand what he is asking.
I pull him into me.
“Yes.”
His mouth finds mine again.
This time I am not trying to guess what the kiss means.
We already had the conversation that used to sit behind it.
I know what happened and what it cost.
He knows I came back because I wanted him.
His hands move under my shirt, warm against my skin.
I drag his shirt free of his trousers.
“Bedroom,” he says.
“That sounded like an instruction.”
“It was a desperate suggestion.”
“Accepted.”
We do not make it there neatly.
One sandal comes off in the hallway.
The other survives until the bedroom.
Matteo’s shirt lands on the floor. Mine gets caught around one wrist because I forget I am still wearing my watch.
“Elegant,” I say.
“Hold still.”
“I can fix it.”
“I know.”
He waits.
I untangle myself.
“That was painful for you.”
“Extremely.”
I kiss him because I love him.
The thought does not frighten me this time.
It makes me greedy.
I push him backward onto the bed.
His eyebrows rise.
“Your turn to hold still.”
“I am listening.”
“Good.”
I climb over him and kiss the corner of his mouth, his jaw, then the place below his ear.
I know his body now.
He knows mine.
I already know what makes his hand close hard around my hip. Using that knowledge on purpose feels more intimate than discovery ever did.
Matteo’s fingers trace my spine.
“Tell me what you want.”
“You.”
His eyes darken.
“Specific.”
I laugh softly.
“Still you.”
“Claire.”
I whisper exactly what I want.
His eyes close. When they open, the careful expression is gone.
He rolls us, then stops with his weight braced above me.
“Still yes?”
“Yes.”
The word comes out breathless.
He kisses me while his hand moves between us.
I arch into him.
I want him without caution, and he still listens.
When my breath changes, he waits until I pull him closer.
Then his knee catches in the sheet and the elegant billionaire fantasy nearly ends with him falling off the bed.
“Do not,” he says when I start laughing.
“I am trying.”
“You are failing.”
“Deeply.”
He kisses the laugh out of me.
Later, when he reaches for the drawer beside the bed, I catch his wrist.
His eyes meet mine immediately.
“What?”
“Look at me.”
He does.
“I love you.”
His mouth parts, and for once he has no answer ready.
“I love you too.”
“Good.”
“Was that the entire interruption?”
“Yes.”
“You stopped me for information I already had.”
“I wanted to say it again.”
His mouth curves.
“I support this policy.”
“Inspector.”
“No.”
I kiss him before he can object again.
When we come together, I am not wondering what it means. We already had the harder conversation.
I know exactly what happened, and I am still here. I pull him closer.
Matteo says my name against my mouth.
I answer without words.
The rest becomes heat and laughter and the familiar shock of how good he feels when neither of us is holding anything back.
Afterward, I am sprawled across him with one leg over his and my hair stuck to my face.
Matteo reaches for the water on the bedside table.
I take it before he can hand it to me.
“Agency,” I say.
He stares at me.
Then he laughs so hard I nearly spill it.
“That was terrible.”
“I know.”
“You are abusing serious concepts.”
“I am hydrated.”
“Barely.”
I drink more to annoy him.
He takes the glass when I am done and puts it back.
We lie there without hurrying.
His phone stays somewhere outside the room.
Neither of us turns staying until morning into a question.
It is my last full day at Ginestra.
I trace one finger over Matteo’s chest.
“I leave the cottage tomorrow.”
“I know.”
“My first shoot in Osaka is five days after that.”
“I know that too.”
I lift my head.
“Do you?”
“You told me.”
“Right.”
He gives me a look.
“I am still allowed to remember things.”
“I am adjusting.”
“That may take time.”
“Do not become smug.”
“I would never.”
I put my chin on his chest.
“You have Tokyo next month.”
“Yes.”
“You kept the original schedule.”
His eyes sharpen slightly.
“How do you know that?”
“You mentioned Tokyo before everything happened. I remember things too.”
“That is unsettling.”
“Good.”
His hand moves slowly along my back.
I think about airports, hotel rooms, time zones, and days when one of us will be exhausted and the other will call at the wrong time.
This morning, they feel less like evidence against us and more like things we will probably argue about while exhausted.
Annoying.
Maybe manageable.
“I do not want you appearing in Osaka because we happen to be in the same country,” I say.
“I will not.”
“But I do want to see you.”
Matteo’s hand stops.
“When?”
He does not fill in the answer for me.
I think about my schedule.
“After Kyoto.”
“Do you want me to come to you?”
“Yes.”
His face changes.
I smile.
“My last shoot is on a Friday. Come Saturday.”
“Saturday.”
“Yes.”
“What time?”
I start laughing.
“Do not ruin it.”
“I need a flight.”
“You own calendars. Be creative.”
“Claire.”
“Afternoon.”
“Thank you.”
I settle back against him.
He kisses the top of my head.
I could tell him I will stay. I could give him something enormous and vague because this feels enormous. Instead I give him Saturday afternoon.
He holds me a little tighter. Apparently that is enough.