Page 36 of Je T'aime, Actually
“We wander downstairs and find something to eat, rehydrate, and then I make good on my side of the bargain.”
“This is indeed a very difficult choice to make,” Chloé said, leaning across to kiss her. When the kiss deepened immediately, she pulled back, eyes wide with mock concern. “I think the choice has been made…”
Monroe grinned. “So be it.” She laughed and sat up. On the bedside cabinet, she grabbed a hair tie and reached up, pulling her locks into some semblance of a ponytail.
Chloé sat, completely enthralled, watching her every movement.
“So…” Monroe said, turning to face her again, her voice low and full of intent, “tell me what you want.”
Chloé met her gaze, eyes dark with want.
“J’ai besoin de ta bouche sur moi.” Then, in English, just as quiet, just as devastatingly seductive, she whispered, “I need your mouth on me.”
Chloé’s words lingered in the space between them, breathy and urgent. Her voice, low and full of want, was all the permission Monroe needed.
She moved with purpose, her lips finding Chloé’s collarbone first, tasting salt and skin. Slowly kissing a trail lower, over the swell of a breast, then across her stomach, pausing only to feel the way Chloé tensed in anticipation. Hands skimmed over thighs that parted without a word, welcoming her.
Monroe settled between them like she belonged there.
She kissed the inside of one knee, then the other…softly…playfully. Chloé’s fingers twisted in the sheets.
“Don’t tease,” she whispered.
Monroe looked up through hooded eyes, her breath warm against Chloé’s skin. “Don’t spoil my fun.” She smirked as her tongue traced a slow line down the inside of Chloé’s thigh.
Chloé let out a breathy laugh—half warning, half surrender—as her fingers further tightened in the bedding.
Monroe continued to tease, lingering, letting the tension build until it ached. Chloé’s legs shifted, hips rising, needing more.
And finally—finally—Monroe gave in, sliding back lower. Her mouth pressed against Chloé, tongue slid through slick heat, slow and deliberate.
Chloé gasped, a sound from deep in her chest, her body jolting, unprepared for just how good Monroe would feel. One hand released the sheet and found Monroe’s hair; not to guide, just to hold, anchoring herself.
Monroe worked her with careful precision—circling, sucking, tasting. Her rhythm was steady, relentless, her own arousal thrumming beneath her skin again as she listened to Chloé fall apart.
“Merde…” Chloé whispered, barely audible.
Her thighs trembled as Monroe quickened the pace, adjusting pressure, reading every shift of breath and muscle. When she slid a finger inside, then another, Chloé’s back arched, a desperate moan breaking loose.
“Don’t stop,” she said, voice ragged.
And Monroe didn’t.
She kept going, mouth and hand working in unison, until Chloé tensed, every part of her tight and shaking. Her release hit hard, beautiful, breath stolen from her lungs, as she cried out Monroe’s name in a voice that broke.
Monroe held her through it, slow and gentle now, easing her down with soft kisses and the lightest strokes of her fingers. There was no rush. She stayed until the tension eased; until Chloé’s body settled under her touch.
Eventually, Monroe crawled up beside her, kissing the corner of her mouth, the curve of her jaw.
Chloé blinked at the ceiling, chest rising and falling in an uneven rhythm.
“That…” she said finally, voice hoarse, “was…”
“Not prudish at all.” Monroe grinned.
twenty-nine
In the early morning light, it felt too soon. As though all their moments had come, and now they were going away.
