Page 95 of Ladybirds

She’ll decide later.

Preferably when Seth’s arms aren’t pulling her against him—palms open and warm against her back as he presses in, chasing the emptiness away with himself.

When she doesn’t have his every panted breath whispering encouragements and endearments against her skin; when her lips aren’t busy shaping words like “please” and “more” while her nails decorate his shoulders in crescent moons.

When Time and Space isn’t condensing, revolving around the way their sweat-slicked bodies push and pull, pressure building. Ecstasy disguised as a spring. With every turn of his hips and every brush of his fingers, her body coils tighter, tighter. It’s too much and not enough and her name is a tattoo on her heart for how many times he murmurs it against her parted, gasping mouth.

He shifts, or maybe the world does—she can’t be sure—but the pressure snaps and she is spinning. Suspended in the moment, his name on her tongue and his eyes—deep and dark in ways she knows will haunt her in the best of ways—holding her own as his grip tightens and he shudders against her.

His fingers trail over her skin, tracing the curve of her hip, the line of her spine. Languid and so gentle the touches are borderline ticklish, but it’s the look on his face—the adoration she sees there—that makes her melt.

“I don’t think it was the kiss,” she murmurs, voice quiet between them.

“Oh?” His fingers push a piece of hair away from her face, his eyes dark and sated in ways that make her heart thrum. Beneath the covers, their ankles tangle together, knees knocking.

“Well, maybe not just the kiss,” she amends, gaze dropping. She traces the line of his collarbone before laying her palm flat over his heart. The scars are like braille under her palm. She wonders what it would say, if she could read it. “I think, maybe, it’s been breaking a little bit at a time.” Sara’s brow furrows, chewing her bottom lip. “I hated you. I thought—I really thought—you were evil. The villain in my own screwed up story. But then you weren’t. And I…”

She takes a breath, lets the words sit on her tongue until she’s certain they’re the right ones. “I realized, the miracle you gave me was a curse, but you weren’t. You weren’t the monster you pretended to be.” Her eyes lift, pulse quickening at the absolute reverence in his expression. She swallows, wets her lips as she searches his eyes—struggling to put it in a way he can understand. “I forgave you.”

His exhale is a sigh against her lips, shaky and brimming with emotion. His mouth parts, throat working around the words he can’t find. He kisses her, instead. Softly. Lovingly. The hand tangled in her hair trembles. “You should have turned me down,” he breathes, lips whispering over hers with every syllable. “I’ll be impossible to be rid of now.”

Sara smiles. “Good, because you kind of already threatened me with forever.” She can feel his mouth curling, his eyes bright with the force of his smile.

“Forever then,” he whispers, a promise sealed with a kiss to her forehead.

Sara curls into him, rests her cheek over his chest and listens to his heartbeat. It feels like the future is rolled out in front of them, inviting and warm with promises.

One of these days, sometime soon, she’ll set her alarm and drive out to her favorite hilltop and wait—camera in hand—until the light spills into the valley. It’s time for her to capture a sunrise.

EPILOGUE

Twelve years later, and he’s still the most physical person she’s ever met.

It feels natural to her now—the hand resting at the small of her back while they’re maneuvering through a crowd, his fingertips tracing invisible patterns on her calves while watching TV on the couch. When her days at work are particularly long, she feels the absence keenly—an itch under her skin—and knows he’s at home feeling it three times worse.

On those days, she usually comes home to more food than either of them can eat and a mess in the kitchen. Or, if he’s feeling particularly anxious, the house will be spotless, but his stomach empty—the whole day gone by in a flurry of detergents and sprays. It’s easier, he tells her, when there’s something for his hands to do. To touch. The pen dragging over paper and the clicking of his keyboard isn’t enough, no matter how many words are dancing in his head or how many writing deadlines he has to meet.

There are laugh lines around his eyes now. When she points them out, a strange expression softens his face. Sara has never known anyone to be happy about wrinkles, but he admires them in the mirror with a giddiness that leaves her baffled. “It will be wonderful,” he says, gaze warm, “Growing old with you.”

He still manages to steal her breath with just a handful of words. Of course, words have always been his to mold—a weapon and a shield, a lure and a deterrent. After centuries of having nothing but his voice, Sara can’t say she’s surprised at how well he’s honed this skill. That she’s still so affected by it, over a decade later, is another story.

She shivers in response to his whispers, burns when his voice dips low. He knows her weaknesses, her strengths, more than anyone; plays her body like an instrument with nothing but gentle, teasing touches and sing-song promises. Never does he leave her wanting.

It’s not the perfect arrangement—nothing ever is—but they’ve made it work. Her photography career keeps them both busy traveling from place to place, but Seth hardly seems to mind. If anything, he’s thrilled to show her the parts of the world he’s familiar with, and eager to experience the new ones by her side. Sometimes they spend weeks living out of their suitcases. Home is wherever they’re together; where they can lay their heads and whisper to each other in the dark.

Though, that’s all about to change now.

Washing the dishes, she feels his arms slide around her waist from behind—his lips smiling into the bare skin of her shoulder in a way that makes her body hum. “Damn the dishes,” he murmurs. “They’ll still be there in the morning.”

“Yeah, except even grosser.”

He sighs, his hands sliding over the swell of her stomach. She gives him credit for not correcting her grammar even though she can tell the temptation’s there. “This is an unfortunate truth.” His palms rest over the taut skin, a patient pressure. “How are my favorite girls this evening?”

Sara shakes her head, an exasperated smile pulling at her lips. “What if you’re wrong?”

He places a kiss along her jaw, his words a soft but firm murmur in her ear. “I’m not.”

“But if you are?”

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