9. Three Weeks Later #2
"It's the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me."
"I'll try to do better."
Becca pulled back just enough to look at her. Her eyes were wet. "You're here."
"I'm here."
"I missed you so much."
"I know. Me too."
They kissed, right there in the arrivals hall, in front of god and everyone. Margot didn't care. Let them stare. Let them judge. She had Becca in her arms for the first time in three weeks, and nothing else mattered.
"Let's go home," Margot said when they broke apart.
Becca's smile was like sunrise. "Yeah. Let's go home."
The apartment looked different with Becca in it.
Margot had spent two days preparing: buying groceries, fluffing pillows, obsessively cleaning surfaces that were already clean.
But it was Becca's presence that transformed the space.
The cooler bags taking up half the kitchen counter.
The suitcase open on the bedroom floor, spilling colorful clothes.
The smell of something baking. Becca had immediately commandeered the kitchen, testing recipes for the event.
"Your oven runs hot," Becca called from the kitchen. "I'm going to have to adjust all my timings."
"I'm sorry?"
"Don't be sorry. I like a challenge." Becca emerged with flour on her apron and a smudge on her cheek. "Come taste this."
She held out a spoon with something that looked like caramel sauce. Margot tasted it obediently.
"Oh," she said. "Oh."
"Good?"
"That's the best thing I've ever tasted."
Becca beamed. "It's for the cocktail hour. Salted caramel drizzle for the tart bases. I've been perfecting the ratio for months."
Margot watched her bustle back to the kitchen, talking about sugar temperatures and flavor profiles. The apartment was a mess, by Margot's standards anyway, and Becca was taking over her space with cheerful disregard for organization. Margot had never felt more at home.
"I could get used to this," she said.
Becca paused. Looked at her. "Yeah?"
"You. Here. Making my kitchen smell like heaven."
"That's just the caramel. Wait until I do the pain au chocolat."
"I mean—" Margot struggled to find the words. "I like this. Having you here. It doesn't feel empty anymore."
Becca's expression gentled. "It doesn't feel empty to me either."
They stood there for a moment, the caramel bubbling on the stove, the evening light slanting through the windows.
"We should talk about this," Margot said. "Eventually. About what happens after this week."
"Yeah. We should."
"I don't want to go back to phone calls and video dates. Not permanently."
"Me neither."
"So we figure it out." Margot crossed to her, took her hands. "Whatever that looks like. However long it takes. We figure it out together."
Becca squeezed her hands. "Together."
The caramel started to smoke.
"Shit!" Becca spun back to the stove, rescuing her sauce, and the moment dissolved into laughter and chaos and the particular joy of building something new.
Later, after the tasting and the cleanup (which had devolved into Becca smearing caramel on Margot's nose and Margot retaliating with a dusting of flour) they stood in Margot's pristine bathroom, washing up side by side.
"I got flour in your hair," Becca said, not sounding remotely sorry.
"You got flour everywhere. My kitchen looks like a crime scene."
"A delicious crime scene."
"That's not the defense you think it is."
Becca grinned and flicked water at her. Margot caught her wrist, and suddenly they were close, and the playful energy turned warm.
"Hi," Becca said softly.
"Hi."
"I'm really here."
"You're really here." Margot's thumb traced circles on her wrist. "I keep expecting to wake up."
"If this is a dream, it's a very realistic one. I can smell your fancy soap."
"It's not fancy. It's practical. Good for sensitive skin."
"Sure. Practical forty-dollar soap."
"How do you know how much it costs?"
"I snooped."
Margot laughed, that real laugh, the one Becca had missed so desperately, and pulled her closer. "You're impossible."
"You love it."
"I do." The admission was soft, unhesitating. No walls. No armor. Margot, open and present, looking at Becca like she was something worth keeping.
Becca kissed her.
It started gentle, a hello kiss, a we-made-it kiss.
But three weeks of video calls and text messages and falling asleep to the sound of each other's voices had built up a hunger that gentle couldn't satisfy.
Within moments, Becca was pressing Margot against the bathroom counter, hands sliding under her shirt, relearning the warm skin she'd been dreaming about.
"Bedroom?" Margot managed between kisses.
"Too far."
"It's fifteen feet away."
"Fifteen feet too many."
Margot laughed into her mouth, and Becca swallowed the sound, greedy for it. She'd missed this. Not just the touching, though god, yes, the touching. But the joy of it. The way Margot relaxed with her, the way seriousness dissolved into something lighter.
They made it to the bedroom anyway, stumbling, refusing to stop kissing, Becca's shirt disappearing somewhere in the hallway. Margot's bed was enormous, all crisp white sheets and approximately seventeen pillows, and Becca tumbled onto it with no grace.
"Elegant," Margot observed from above her.
"Get down here and I'll show you elegant."
"That doesn't even make sense."
"It'll make sense in a minute."
Margot climbed onto the bed, and Becca pulled her down, rolling them so she was on top. From this angle, with the city lights filtering through the windows and Margot's hair fanned across the pillow, everything felt golden. Precious. Worth every mile.
"I thought about this constantly," Becca confessed, working on the buttons of Margot's blouse. "During video calls. When you'd be telling me about some boring contract thing and I'd be thinking about getting you naked."
"My merger analysis is not boring."
"It's extremely boring. You're lucky you're hot."
"I'm going to remember you said that."
"I'm counting on it."
The blouse fell open. Becca traced her fingers along Margot's collarbone, down between her breasts, watching goosebumps rise in her wake. Margot's breathing changed, quickened, her careful composure starting to crack.
"You're doing that on purpose," Margot accused.
"Doing what?"
"Going slow. Making me wait."
"Mmm." Becca pressed a kiss to her sternum. "Am I? That doesn't sound like me."
"Becca."
"Yes?"
"If you don't touch me properly in the next thirty seconds—"
"What? You'll sue me?"
Margot grabbed her face and kissed her, hard, and Becca laughed against her mouth. This was what she'd needed. Not just the heat, though her whole body was thrumming with it. But the play. The way they could be ridiculous together, even in the middle of wanting each other desperately.
She unhooked Margot's bra with one hand, a skill she was unreasonably proud of, and Margot made a small sound of approval.
"Impressive."
"I've been practicing."
"On what?"
"Wouldn't you like to know."
"I would, actually. I'm very competitive about this."
Becca grinned and lowered her mouth to Margot's breast. The sound Margot made was deeply satisfying: surprise and pleasure and a quiet "oh" that Becca wanted to hear on repeat for the rest of her life.
She took her time. There was no rush now, no wedding schedule, no flights to catch.
Just the two of them in this ridiculously nice apartment, with the whole night ahead.
She mapped Margot's body with her mouth, relearning the places that made her gasp (the curve below her ribs), the places that made her shiver (her inner wrist, her hip bone), the places that made her grip Becca's hair and pull (lower, always lower).
"Please," Margot breathed when Becca finally settled between her legs.
"Please what? Be specific."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
"No, I don't. Please."
Becca pressed a kiss to her inner thigh. "I love it when you ask nicely."
"Becca, I swear to god—"
She stopped swearing when Becca's mouth found her.
This part was familiar now, which made it even better.
Becca knew exactly how Margot liked to be touched: slow circles at first, building pressure, two fingers sliding inside when she started to shake.
She knew the sounds Margot made when she was close: the caught breath, the bitten-off moans, the way her thighs tensed.
"Right there," Margot gasped, and Becca doubled down, curling her fingers just so, feeling Margot tighten around her. "Don't stop, don't—"
She came with a cry that she didn't try to muffle, back arching, hands fisting in the expensive sheets. Becca stayed with her, easing off in slow degrees, lips brushing the inside of her thigh until Margot tugged at her shoulder.
"Come here."
Becca kissed her way back up—thigh, hip, ribs, collarbone—and Margot pulled her into a kiss before she even settled. She didn't flinch at her own taste on Becca's mouth. That self-consciousness had vanished somewhere between their first night together and now.
"Come here," Margot said against her mouth. "I've been thinking about this for three weeks." Her hand was already sliding down Becca's stomach, and Becca's brain short-circuited. "Every time you sent me a photo of yourself in that apron—"
"The croissant apron?"
"The croissant apron." Margot's fingers found the waistband of Becca's underwear, the only clothing she still had on. "I had extremely unprofessional thoughts."
"About an apron?"
"About what was under it."
"I'm going to wear that apron a lot more often."
"Please do."
The underwear disappeared. Margot's hand traced down Becca's side, over the curve of her hip, and then she did something unexpected. She pressed gently on Becca's hip, turning her.
"Roll over."
Becca's pulse spiked. "What?"
"Trust me." Margot's voice had dropped low, confident in a way she hadn't been at the wedding. Three weeks of wanting had burned away the last of her hesitation. "On your stomach."