But she's right—I've made her wait long enough. I press a kiss directly to her center and she gasps, hips jerking off the couch. I grip her thighs, hold her steady, and do it again.
She's perfect like this. Head thrown back, one hand fisted in my hair, the other gripping the couch cushion. Trying desperately to stay quiet while I take her apart with my mouth.
I've missed this. Missedher. The taste of her, the sounds she makes, the way her thighs tremble against my shoulders when I find the right spot and focus there. Years of nothing and now I'm drowning in her and it's not enough, will never be enough.
My hands roam over her—up her ribs, across her stomach, back down to grip her hips. I can't stop touching her, can't get enough of the feeling of her skin under my palms, warm and alive andhere.
She's close, I can tell by the way her breathing's changed, the way she's pulling at my hair hard enough to hurt. I double down, use everything I remember about what she likes, and she comes apart on my tongue with a muffled cry that she buries against her own arm.
I work her through it, gentle now, until she's pushing at my head in oversensitivity. Then I press soft kisses to her inner thighs again, to her hip bones, her stomach where her shirt's ridden up.
I'm painfully hard, have been since she asked me to touch her, and feeling her come nearly pushed me over the edge. But this isn't about me—this is about her, about showing her what it means when I say I'm here for her.
I kiss my way back down, press my lips to her knee one more time before standing. She's sprawled on the couch, boneless and looking thoroughly wrecked in the best way.
I lean down, press a kiss to her forehead. "I'll see you tomorrow."
"Wait—" She's struggling to sit up, one hand reaching for me. "You're leaving?"
"Starting slow, remember?" I brush a thumb over her cheek, gentle. "This was an apology, not an expectation."
"But you—" Her eyes drop to the obvious evidence of my arousal. "You didn't?—"
"Doesn't matter." I kiss her forehead again because I can't help myself. "This was about making you feel good. Showing you I meant what I said about being here for you."
"Declan—"
"Tomorrow." I force myself to step back, to move toward the door before I change my mind. "I'll be here tomorrow. With breakfast and whatever else you need."
She's still staring at me, looking confused and satisfied and slightly dazed. I memorize the image—Zola on her couch, beautiful andminein a way she hasn't been in eight years—and make myself leave before I do something stupid like beg to stay.
21
ZOLA
Iwake up alone in the morning, which shouldn't surprise me. Declan left. Said he'd see me tomorrow and then walked out the door like he hadn't just made me fall apart on my own couch.
Maeve's still asleep—actual miracle—so I let myself lie there and stare at the ceiling, trying to process what happened last night. The way he apologized. The way he touched me like I was something precious. The way he left before I could even reciprocate.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. Text from Naomi.
Naomi:Coffee at 10? I can help with inventory but also want to check on you
I respond quickly.
Zola:Yes please. Bring food
She shows up right on time with coffee and pastries from the Italian bakery on Passyunk, and more importantly, with the kind of expression that says she knows something happened.
"Spill." She settles into the armchair, coffee in hand, while Maeve plays with her elephant on the floor. "You look different."
"Different how?" I'm deflecting, which we both know.
"Like someone who got some last night." She takes a sip, watching me over the rim. "Or at least got something."
Heat floods my face. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Uh huh." She sets down her cup. "So Declan hasn't come by again?"
