Page 35 of Je T'aime, Actually

Chloé’s hands were already on her, sliding beneath the hem of her shirt, palms flat against bare skin. “Monroe…” Her voice was thick with want, accent curling around the name like velvet.

Monroe turned, eyes wide and dark with need. She didn’t speak—there wasn’t time, wasn’t breath enough. She kissed her instead, hard, open-mouthed, hungry. Chloé responded, pushing her gently against the wall as their mouths danced and gasped and demanded.

“You’re going to ruin me,” Monroe whispered, lips brushing Chloé’s.

Chloé smiled, fingers tracing the curve of Monroe’s waist. “That’s the plan.”

Monroe's head fell back as Chloé’s mouth travelled to her jaw, down her throat, each kiss lower, more deliberate.

“Bedroom?” Chloé murmured.

“Upstairs. Second on the left,” Monroe managed, already pulling her shirt over her head as they all but ran up the stairs and stumbled down the hallway, laughing between kisses, touching like they couldn’t bear not to.

This wasn’t just chemistry—it was combustion.

They reached the bedroom, barely making it through the door before Monroe pulled Chloé in by the front of her shirt, kissing her like they had all the time in the world and none at all.

Clothes were shed in between touches—buttons undone blindly, fabric sliding from skin with soft, breathy gasps. The late-afternoon light poured in through the window, catching the fine edge of Chloé’s hair, the curve of Monroe’s shoulder, the flush rising on both their cheeks.

Chloé’s hands moved slowly, reverently, at first. Her fingers brushed the side of Monroe’s breast, the dip of her waist, down the swell of her hip. “You’re so beautiful,” she whispered in French.

Monroe felt the words, even if she didn’t understand them fully. They landed low in her belly, abundant with promise.

When Chloé’s mouth found her skin, it was like heaven. Kisses were placed with intention—down Monroe’s neck, across her collarbone, between her breasts.

She arched instinctively, offering more.

There was no rush now, just hands, mouths, breath. Monroe’s body purred under Chloé’s touch, every inch of her kissed or stroked or gently bitten until she was trembling, holding on, aching.

When Chloé finally settled a hand between Monroe’s thighs, Monroe let out a sound she didn’t know she could make—raw, desperate, entirely undone.

“Tell me what you want.” Chloé’s fingers teasing, circling.

“I want everything.”

She got it. Chloé’s fingers eased inside her, coaxing every moan and gasp from her lungs with care and intention.

Each movement…slow, deliberate, until Monroe wasn’t sure where she ended and Chloé began. Her body responded on instinct, arching and falling in time with every thrust, each one pulling her closer to something just out of reach.

And then, Chloé shifted lower, her mouth closing over Monroe’s clit, fingers still deep inside. The rhythm was perfect, Monroe’s body trembling as pleasure built fast and hot, no longer something she was approaching, but something crashing through her, full and consuming.

“Jouis pour moi,” Chloé whispered, and somehow, Monroe didn’t need a translation. The words melted through her, and as her climax surged and spread, she cried out, every nerve alight.

twenty-eight

In the afterglow, Monroe breathed deeply, her chest rising and falling. Chloé chuckled softly, her lips tracing a warm, teasing path back up Monroe’s still tingling skin. The small, involuntary spasms of pleasure continued as her climax lingered, reluctant to fade.

“What just happened?” Monroe asked, voice breathless and raw.

Chloé grinned, pressing a gentle kiss to Monroe’s mouth. “La petite mort.” She paused, her lips brushing Monroe’s again. “The little death.”

Monroe tasted herself on Chloé’s lips—something she’d noticed with previous partners and not particularly enjoyed. Yet now, shared like a secret between them, it felt different; somehow softer, sweeter, and far more intoxicating.

The sun had gone down, but it wasn’t late.

“You have a choice…” Monroe said, rolling onto her side. “I can either reciprocate now, and do my best to prove the Englishare not quite as prudish as the world would have everyone believe, or…”

Chloé touched Monroe’s cheek and brushed away a lock of hair. “Or?”