Page 16 of Shadows in Bloom

I startle at the feel of her hand on my face, tugging my chin up. When our eyes meet, I take in her deep irises, my skin tingling at the point of connection. “Good.” Her thumb brushes over my lips, and I pucker them against her touch. “Do you regret it?” Her dark eyes are narrowed with inquiry, searching my own for an answer that’s so fucking obvious. Her knee presses against my thigh from where she’s crouching beside me.

I focus on that as I answer, “No, I don’t.” A second passes. Then another.

“Ask me, Jamie,” she demands.

Fuck. What if she says yes? What will I do then?

But I’ve already fucking jumped. I… I finally fucking kissed a woman. Touched her. Felt her on me, and in me, and everywhere. But it wasn’t just any woman… It was Fiona. The only one who has ever made me feel like I can be who I am.

Who has made every single moment I spent repressing and doubting myself feel so vastly unimportant—like those years don’t define me, but who I am now does. The one who understands my vulnerability and didn’t—doesn’t—make me feel ashamed.

But I still have to look away as I ask, “Do you… regret it?”

I don’t expect her to laugh, so when the rough chime reaches my ears, I start, brows knitted. Fiona pulls my bottom lip out, exposing my teeth as she smears my saliva across my mouth.

“I could never regret you, little one.” The heat in her gaze knocks the breath from my lungs—as does the reminder of the pet name she coined for me. But the relief is overwhelming—because even if it was messy and all sorts of wrong, we still ended up on the other side better off.

Hopefully.

At least for now.

“Still don’t understand that nickname,” I mutter, trying to look away, but Fiona keeps my chin clamped between her fingers, effectively keeping me pinned exactly where she wants me. I find I don’t mind much… or at all.

It’s actually quite nice letting her do what she wants. I don’t have to think quite so hard about what I should probably be doing.

One of her eyes is covered by a lock of dark purple hair. My fingers twitch with the desire to brush it away.

“I told you, babe. It suits you.”

I frown. “But why? I’m older than you. And taller than you.”

That makes Fiona release her hold on me to push to her feet, and my eyes rake over her body eagerly, to see her in the light without the haze of alcohol distorting my vision. I follow the line of her long legs, up her exposed midriff and the belly button ring in her navel. Over each arm and up her throat, over every visible, colorful tattoo.

Just as I part my lips to ask about them, about which are her favorites and why—because I’ve always wanted to—Fiona smirks, eyelids heavy as her bottom lip slips between her teeth. “Well, that’s why.”

“What?” I blurt without thinking, but even as the word leaves my mouth, understanding dawns.

I’m below her, looking up at her. Willing and waiting for her to tell me what to do. How to make it good for her because it’s already so good for me.

Because fuck. Last night was perfect.

I ruminate on the facts. Pair it with what I already know about sex, about likes and dislikes and kinks.

So, does this mean I’m… submissive? Does Fiona like to have the control? Or did she just take the reins last night because I am completely and utterly oblivious when it comes to women… Maybe because I was a little drunk?...

Even if I wasn’t, I’m pretty sure I would’ve humiliated us both by my utter lack of… skills… if I would’ve had to…

Fuck. I want this to be good for her too, but I just don’t know how.

“I can see the cogs in your detective brain going into overdrive.”

I roll my eyes, even as I force a laugh. “Sorry. I…” I swallow. “I see what you mean… I just don’t know what that suggests about me.”

Fiona pauses for a moment. “It doesn’t have to mean anything if you don’t want it to, Jamie. You can just be.” Sincere words—serious words—meant for a time when I don’t feel like I’m going to throw up just from breathing. From trying to think about what… all of this means.

I don’t have to have it all figured out today—I know that—but the part of me that needs to solve open-ended things is already spinning with the influx of all I didn’t know about myself.

I can’t look at her. “I know.” I hold the blanket a bit tighter as I swing my legs over the side of the couch, eyes trained on the soft, dark carpet beneath my bare feet. “I should get dressed.”

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