Page 37 of Je T'aime, Actually

Chloé was leaving.

As Monroe lay there, Chloé still sleeping beside her, curled around her, Monroe stared at the ceiling, thinking about what could have been.

But she lived here. Her life was here. And Chloé had a life in France.

It was a holiday romance—one she would never forget—and she reminded herself it had pushed her past and over Justine and out the other side of that heartbreak.

Justine could take her non-committal, half-in, half-out, ifs, whats, and maybes, and shove it all where the sun didn’t shine, because Chloé had opened her up again—to possibilities and what-ifs.

Chloé stirred, her warm breath brushing Monroe’s skin. “What time is it?” she murmured.

Monroe smiled sadly. “Too early and too late, all at once.”

“I understand that feeling,” Chloé said as she stretched and sat up. “Come to France with me.”

Monroe blinked. “What do you mean?”

Chloé laughed lightly. “I don’t know. I just know that…” She reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Monroe’s ear. “I don’t want this to be the last time.”

Monroe’s throat tightened. The idea of leaving the safety of her routine, her town, her job—it made her pulse quicken, but not entirely from fear. “I don’t know what to say…or how to make that work.”

“We don’t have to have all the answers right now. We can, as you say, wing it?”

Monroe let out a quiet laugh. “Yes, ‘wing it’ is correct. I’m just…I’m not very good at that. I like structure, and plans, and—”

Chloé pressed a finger to Monroe’s lips. “Then we make a plan. Next time you’re free, come to France. It’s an hour’s flight. I’ll meet you at the airport, and we’ll take it from there.”

Monroe wanted to say yes—wanted to grab hold of this fleeting thing between them and not let it slip through her fingers. But part of her clung to the practicalities, to the fear of hoping for too much. Still, the thought of walking away completely felt worse.

“Okay,” she said, the word was small but full of possibility. “Let’s make a plan.”

Chloé grinned, her eyes flicking to the digital clock on the bedside table. “Now that’s agreed, what time do you need to be at work?” she asked, already inching closer to Monroe.

“I have an hour…” Monroe let herself be kissed, feeling desire start to stir in all the places that had been dormant for months. “Which means…shower sex?”

“I think I can work with that.” Chloé pulled the sheets back. “Because I want a longer memory of this…” Her finger trailed down the centre of Monroe’s torso, sliding between her folds.

Monroe gasped. “Yes. Just like that.”

The bathroom filled with steam as hot water cascaded from the showerhead, fogging up the mirror and softening the early morning light spilling through the frosted glass.

Monroe stepped in first, the water rushing over her skin in a shock of heat that quickly melted into comfort. Chloé followed, closing the glass door behind them with a gentle click that somehow felt final and private all at once.

For a moment, they just stood together under the spray, foreheads touching, breaths mingling, the only sound the water rushing down their bodies.

Then Chloé reached for the shower gel, poured a small amount into her hand, and began to lather Monroe’s shoulders, her back, her breasts—slow, sure movements that were more reverent than rushed.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured, pressing a kiss just below Monroe’s ear.

Monroe let her head fall back slightly, her hands sliding around Chloé’s waist, pulling her close. Skin to skin, water cascading between them, they kissed with the kind of urgency that only comes when time is limited and everything matters.

Chloé’s hands roamed lower, exploring soapy, slick curves, rinsing the suds away before sliding her hand back between Monroe’s thighs. She gasped against Chloé’s lips, hips shifting with instinct and need.

“Touch me,” Monroe whispered. “Don’t stop.”

Chloé didn’t.

Her fingers moved with the same deliberate pace they’d learned the night before—expertly, confident, and full of care. Monroe braced herself against the tiled wall, moaning softly.