Page 56 of Make Room for Love

Isabel closed her eyes and exhaled shakily, then opened them, looking more composed. “Do you want to go again? I’d rather do that for you first.”

“Well, um, I do,” Mira said. “But?—”

“How do you want it?” Isabel asked, her mouth close to Mira’s ear—a deliberate distraction. “I can eat you out. Or you can have my strap.”

Mira flushed, her pulse pounding everywhere. She wanted to make Isabel feel just as good, but apparently she’d have to wait, and of course she’d respect that. And she desperately wanted what Isabel was offering. If that was Isabel’s answer, so be it.

If Mira wanted it so badly, she was going to have to ask for it. Her face burned. “Um, I don’t know. I think I want your strap.”

Isabel grinned. “You can have it.”

She got out of bed and pulled her boxer briefs off. Mira propped herself up, taking in the thick dark curls between Isabel’s legs, the incredible curves of her hips and ass and thighs in the soft light. Mira’s mouth watered. She was a mess, roiling with arousal again, needing Isabel’s comforting weight on top of her. Needing to be filled up. “I want you so much.”

“You can have me however you want.” Isabel reached down and caressed Mira’s face, and Mira leaned into the touch. Then Isabel bent over her nightstand, and took out a black leather harness, a bottle of lube, and…a substantial dildo. Mira squirmed. She was going to die before Isabel even got inside her.

Isabel stepped into the harness, put the dildo into the ring, and tightened the straps with a few practiced motions. “Lie back, sweetheart,” she said. “Let me take care of you.”

25

Isabel’s heartwas full to bursting as she closed the bedroom door behind her, with Mira sleeping peacefully inside. The earliest rays of sun filtered through the window as she started the coffee maker.

She couldn’t stop smiling as she drank her coffee. Taking Mira to bed had been beyond her wildest dreams—the way she’d arched and trembled and writhed in Isabel’s hands, the way she’d gasped and cried out like she was astonished by her own pleasure. Her scent, her taste, her softness. Most of all, the way she’d snuggled against Isabel after coming a third time, and cried a little and reassured Isabel that they were happy tears, and asked, “Could I sleep here tonight?”

It was precious to receive Mira’s trust, precious to see her unwound and open, precious to be with her at all. Isabel’s throat was lumpy as she sliced the loaf of challah on the counter. Being with Mira was the best thing that had happened to her in years. She wanted to wake up next to a beautiful, naked, sleeping Mira every morning, her dark curls spilling over Isabel’s pillow, and fall asleep next to her every night.

Isabel absolutely couldn’t fuck this up. After so much loss, it was terrifying to have something she desperately wanted to holdon to again. She had worried so much about hurting Mira that she hadn’t thought about how badly she could be hurt, too.

And she could be hurt very, very badly. Because she didn’t want Mira to leave.

She took a shuddering breath. If she wanted Mira to stay, if she wanted a chance at all, she’d have to be worth staying for. She had to be better than the partner she’d been—silent, walled-off, destroyed by her grief—when Reina had packed up and vanished.

Things were better now. Isabel was stronger, and life was more bearable. She just had to hope she would be good enough.

She cracked a few eggs into a bowl, added milk, sugar, and cinnamon, and distractedly stirred.

Even after months of longing for Mira, she’d been afraid to let Mira really touch her. She had come while fucking Mira with her strap for a second time, which was more than fine. She wasn’t a stone butch, and she didn’t always have to top, but falling apart under Mira’s attentions would have been too much last night. She would have to ease into it and hope that Mira was willing to wait.

She put a generous pat of butter in the cast-iron pan, turned the stove on, and dredged the slices of stale bread in the egg mixture. When they’d gone limp, she put them in the pan and let them sizzle. The sweet fried scent filled the kitchen.

The door to her bedroom opened behind her. Isabel turned around.

Mira stood in the doorway, her hair tousled and wild, wearing one of Isabel’s old T-shirts that hung off her small, perfect breasts like drapery on a statue. It wasbarelylong enough to cover her. Was she wearing anything underneath? Isabel swallowed hard. Those legs had been wrapped around her hips last night, heels digging into her lower back?—

“Good morning,” Mira said, looking at Isabel from under those long eyelashes. There were faint bruises on her neck.

Isabel’s knees went weak. She clutched the counter. “Morning.”

“Sorry I took one of your shirts.” For once, Mira didn’t actually seem sorry. “I was going to my room to get dressed.”

“Don’t,” Isabel blurted out. She flushed.

Mira laughed. “Okay, I won’t. That smells good.” She walked to Isabel, stood on tiptoes, and kissed Isabel on the lips gently. A second kiss followed, not nearly as gentle.

The scent of sizzling French toast became insistent. Isabel pulled away reluctantly. “Sorry. I need to…”

She flipped over the pieces in the pan. Behind her, Mira said, “It’s all right if it gets crispy. I like that.”

“Good to know.” Isabel turned down the heat, pushed Mira against the fridge, and kissed her again. There was nothing like slipping her hand up under her own T-shirt worn by a beautiful girl in her own kitchen. And…no, Mira was not wearing anything underneath, and she was just as sensitive as she’d been last night.

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