And then she takes me again, deeper, her tongue working me with a dedication that leaves me trembling. My grip in her hair tightens, my other hand reaching for her cheek again, desperate to feel every part of her. My breath saws out of me in broken, helpless gasps.
“Clara—Christ—I’m not going to last. I can’t?—”
Her mouth moves on me again, slow and unrelenting, and my entire body trembles. The sound of her breathing, the wet pull of her lips, the heat of her tongue — it’s all too much. My thumb strokes her jaw as if I can soothe myself through her skin, but my hand shakes.
“Clara…Firefly… I can’t—” My voice is a hoarse whisper, every word dragged out of me. “I’m going to…”
She doesn’t stop. If anything, she grows steadier, her hands braced at my hips to keep me still while she takes me deeper. The sight of her like this — eyes closed, hair falling forward, mouth worshiping me — undoes me completely. A sound tears from my throat, half a moan, half a prayer.
“God, Clara. You’re…you’re perfect.” My head tips back, my fingers threading into her hair. “No one’s ever…no one…” The words dissolve into a strangled groan.
I try to hold back, but she pulls me farther into her warmth, and the last of my control shatters. My body jerks, my hips rocking once against her hands. “Clara—oh, fuck—Clara?—”
The world explodes white behind my eyes. Pleasure floods through me in hot, helpless waves, every muscle locking as I spill into her mouth. She stays with me, steady and sure, taking all of me, her hands firm at my hips as if to anchor me while I come apart.
When the tremors ease, I open my eyes and look down at her. She’s still kneeling, lips glistening, her eyes lifting to mine—not shy, but burning, fierce and soft all at once.
A rough sound escapes me. My hand cradles her face, thumb brushing the corner of her mouth. “Firefly…you’ve just…that was amazing.”
She swallows, her lips curve faintly, and leans her cheek into my palm. “Good,” she whispers. “That was the response I was hoping for.”
Her whisper seems to echo through me, soft and lethal. For a heartbeat I can only stare at her, still kneeling at my feet, the flush of her cheeks, the faint sheen at her lips. She looks both holy and unmade, and my chest aches with a kind of gratitude I don’t have words for.
“Come here,” I murmur, my voice still wrecked but steadier now. I slide my hands under her arms and draw her up, slow and careful, until she’s standing. The warmth of her body presses into mine, and I kiss her, tasting myself on her mouth and losing any sense of shame.
Her hands splay over my chest, palms trembling against my heartbeat, and I press my forehead to hers. “You undo me, Clara,” I breathe. “Every time I touch you, every time you look at me, it’s like you’re tearing me open and stitching me back together all at once.”
I bend and scoop her up, her legs instinctively curling around my waist. She gasps, her arms circling my shoulders, and I carry her the few steps to the bed. The mattress dips under her weight as I lay her down, still dressed, her hair fanning against the pillow. I slide my pants off, and climb onto the bed, my body over hers. For a moment, I just hover over her, my chest rising hard, my hands braced beside her head.
Then I smooth her hair back from her face. I kiss her once more, slow and aching, before trailing my lips lower, over her jaw, down the slope of her throat. She sighs, her back arching toward me as if her body has been waiting years for mine.
I let out a shaky laugh, leaning down to brush my lips over her shoulder. “Jeans and a shirt,” I murmur against her skin, voice rough. “You don’t know what a mercy this is, Firefly. Not like back then, with those cursed corsets and a dozen layers between me and you.”
She laughs too, a breathless, broken sound that melts into a gasp as I trail kisses lower. “I remember,” she whispers, herhand tangling in my curls. “You fought every layer like it was the devil himself.”
I smile against her skin, though my throat burns with the tears threatening to spill. “I would’ve spent a lifetime on every button if it meant I could touch you, hold you.”
My fingers find the buttons of her blouse, working them loose one by one. I press a kiss to each patch of skin I reveal, from the hollow of her throat to the soft swell of her chest. She trembles under my mouth, her hands sliding into my hair, urging me on.
“Marcel,” she whispers the word but it echoes through my veins.
I ease the blouse from her shoulders, kissing down the length of her arm before slipping it away. Next, I linger at the waistband of her jeans, my fingers brushing just beneath the fabric as my mouth claims hers again, deep and needy. Only when she nods against me do I unfasten them, pulling them down slowly, my lips following every inch of bare skin revealed.
I throw the jeans to the floor, placing my mouth to the inside of her thigh, she’s bare, her breath uneven, her body trembling beneath my hands. I pause there, looking up the line of her body, into her eyes. “I’ve dreamt of this,” I whisper. “Every night I waited, I imagined undressing you like this. Kissing you like this. Finally touching you the way I wanted to for so long.”
I strip off my shirt in a rush, desperate to feel her against me again, skin to skin. When I lower myself over her, her hands explore me like she’s relearning the map of my body, her touch hesitant, then bold.
“You’re beautiful,” I rasp, kissing her cheeks, her jaw, the corner of her mouth. “God help me, Clara, you’re everything I ever wanted.”
“You still think I’m beautiful? My body isn’t the same as the one you knew, Marcel.”
The words spear me straight through. I lower myself over her, cupping her face in my hand until her eyes meet mine again. “You are still the girl who stole my breath, and the woman who kept my heart alive all these years. Nothing, no change, no time, could ever take that beauty from you.”
Shimmer
Clara 1923
The lampon my bedside table throws a warm glow across the room, making the wallpaper look softer, the corners less sharp. I stand by the bed, my hands won’t stop trembling as I smooth them over my skirt, trying to quiet the storm inside me. Marcel stands just inside the door, his eyes flicking between the lamp, the rug, and me.
