Page 103 of Je T'aime, Actually

Monroe turned towards her fully now, eyes searching hers, finding only patience and something deeper: Desire wrapped in love.

Chloé’s hand found the small of her back and gently drew her in, their bodies aligning like they’d done this a thousand times, yet somehow it still felt new. Their kisses turned hungrier; Monroe’s hands finding skin beneath Chloé’s shirt and Chloé’s mouth teasing a path along Monroe’s collarbone.

Clothes slipped away without urgency. It wasn’t rushed or frantic—just two women reclaiming the space between them, rediscovering the shape of each other.

Monroe’s fingers curled in the sheets as Chloé kissed her way lower, every movement slow, reverent, easing tension from places Monroe hadn’t even realised were wound tight.

Monroe’s breath hitched. Then softened.

She sank into the mattress with Chloé’s warmth covering her, grounding her. In this moment, there was no hospital, no worry, just the hush of breath, the press of skin, and the quiet rethreading of connection where it had frayed.

Chloé moved aware she knew every inch of Monroe’s body by heart—and still wanted to relearn it, slowly. Her hands explored with intention; not to take, but to give, each touch taking Monroe out of her head and into the moment.

Monroe’s breath trembled as Chloé trailed kisses along her ribs, her waist, the dip of her hip. “God, I’ve missed you,” she murmured, fingers threading through Chloé’s hair.

“I’m right here,” Chloé whispered, lips brushing lower now, teasing, coaxing Monroe to let go, to feel.

And Monroe did. She let her head fall back, eyes closed, the world narrowing to the pull of Chloé’s mouth, the weight of her hand on Monroe’s thigh, and the heat unfurling low in her belly.

She arched, a soft sound escaping her lips, not from need alone, but from release—of fear, of exhaustion, of being strong all the time.

Chloé came back up to kiss her, their mouths meeting, open and honest. Monroe tasted herself on Chloé’s lips and deepened the kiss, drawing her close, rolling them over until Chloé was beneath her.

“My turn,” Monroe whispered against her skin as she slid down the bed, smiling as Chloé’s breath hitched when she moved into position.

She took her time, hands sliding over Chloé’s thighs, her waist, her breasts, learning again what made her gasp, what made her melt.

It wasn’t hurried or hungry now. It was something more tender, more certain.

When Chloé came undone beneath her, Monroe held her close, bodies slick with warmth, hearts still racing.

For a long moment, they didn’t move, but eventually Monroe slid into the space beside Chloé, their hands meeting.

Then Chloé’s fingers curled lightly around Monroe’s, their hands resting between them on the tangle of sheets.

“That was…” Chloé exhaled. “Exactly what I didn’t know I needed.”

Monroe smiled. “Yeah. Me too.”

Chloé smiled into a kiss. “Still tired?”

“Exhausted,” Monroe breathed, rolling to pull Chloé with her, both of them tangled in sheets and warmth. “But not enough to stop.”

Their laughter was low and quiet; a secret in the dark, while children slept and friends healed.

eighty-eight

Monroe had coffee brewing and smiled as Chloé stepped into the kitchen looking like she hadn’t slept a wink—which, in truth, was almost accurate. They’d managed only a few hours once their lovemaking had finally ebbed, their spent bodies too tired to be coaxed into anything more.

“Good morning,” Monroe said softly.

Chloé muttered something in French, low, indecipherable. She smirked as Monroe placed a mug of coffee into her hands.

“You can nap later,” Monroe whispered, just as Benji and Kitty came tearing into the kitchen, already washed and dressed, without needing to be chased around the house for once.

Benji skidded to a halt beside the fridge. “Can we go see Dad again today?”

Kitty was already halfway up on a stool, trying to peer into the bread bin. “We made a card!”