Two fingers under her wrist. I take it from her face and put it on the granite beside her.
"I want to see you."
She looks at me.
"All of it."
She lets her arm stay where I have placed it.
I go back to what I was doing. Two fingers into her without taking my mouth off her clit. She is wet — for me, for this, for the kitchen and the morning and the choice.
"Sì. Lì. Sean. Lì."
I do not need a translation. She knows I do not need a translation. She gives it to me anyway.
She comes with both hands in my hair and her eyes on mine because she has decided not to close them.
I let her have it.
She pulls me up by the hair and kisses me with the taste of herself on my mouth and does not flinch from it.
"I want you inside me," she says. Low. The voice she does not use in rooms.
I push inside her slowly.
So wet that there is no resistance. So tight my hand goes to the granite to brace. I go deep and stay there.
She stops moving.
She puts both hands flat on my chest and looks at me, and for the first time since the warehouse, she is not doing anything with her face. Not the consigliera. Not the operator.
Just her face.
"I do not do this."
"I know."
"There has been no one. Not like this. Not close."
"I know."
"I am very good at knowing what to do. I am not good at this."
"Neither am I."
She looks at me for a long second. The eyes of a woman who has been deciding, for a very long time, whether to let the door open.
She has decided.
"I am yours."
Something moves through me that is not gentle.
"Mine," I say against her throat. "Mine only. And I am not letting you go."
I press my forehead to hers. I start to move. Slowly. The slow she has not let me have until now. The slow the alley did not have and the cabin did not get to finish.
Her legs lock around me.
