“Let me get this straight. You puked on him, then he bathed you, clothed you, and babied you for a day and a half, even calling in sick to work so he could hand-feed you soup and take your temperature every hour?”

“Um, yes.”

Claire screeches into the phone, “Why are you ignoring his calls, you dummy?”

“Because!” With a grunt of aggravation, I flop onto my couch. “Claire, I don’t know how to do this.”

Something in my voice softens her outrage. “Honey, I know it’s scary. You’ve never tackled a relationship-ready man before. But you’re also the bravest woman I know. It’s obvious Beckett is nuts about you. He sprayed his dog’s toy with your perfume, for fuck’s sake!”

Back to outrage.

“It was my t-shirt,” I mumble.

“Exactly!”

“But I puked on him! Bits of cheese and pepperoni all over his lap! His coffee table! His rug! Bathroom! Sheets!”

“And he loved it!” she hollers back. “Iris, seriously, don’t make me get on a plane. I will haul you to his house and throw you naked into his front yard.”

I frown. “Geez, Claire. That’s a little extreme.”

“Yeah,” she agrees in a normal tone. “What can I say, I felt inspired. Besides, I don’t have any more letters to send him.”

“Bitch,” I say tiredly.

“Whatever, you forgave me because it was awesome.” She pauses. “What are you really afraid of? He knows almost as much about you as I do and he’s not running.”

I stare out my living room window at the steady rain. “I don’t really know,” I murmur. “It’s kind of this amorphous feeling of dread, like any second the other shoe is going to drop. I’m scared.”

“Can I give you my professional two-cents?” she asks hesitantly.

“Yeah.”

“Beckett’s a poet and a writer. He calls you his muse. Does that remind you of anyone?”

I close my eyes. “My parents.”

She hums in agreement. “I think you need to find out the truth about what happened between them. You need to talk to your mom.”

The feeling of dread inside me grows, triggering goosebumps along my arms. “I don’t want to,” I whisper.

She sighs. “I know, honey, but you have to, or you’re never going to be able to go all-in with Beckett. Or anyone else, for that matter. Regardless of what your mom says, you’ll have to make a decision. But at least you’ll be making one with all the facts.”

“You’re right.” I sigh. “I think some part of me has always known that was the issue. I’ll go see my mom next weekend.”

“What about Beckett? And don’t say you can’t face him because of puke. Griffen took a shit with the bathroom door open the other day. This isn’t the minor leagues of relationships anymore, when we pretended people didn’t fart. We’re in the majors now.”

I laugh in spite of myself. “Ignoring that gross fact, did you really just use a baseball analogy?”

“Ugh, I know. You wouldn’t believe how crazy Texans are about sports. It’s rubbing off on me.” A door opens and closes. “Gotta go, my client’s here. Love you, Iris.”

“Love you, too.”

I lower my phone to my lap. Seconds later it buzzes with a new text message. From James.

Open your goddamn door

“Iris!” shouts James from the other side of the wood. “I know you’re in there. I swear on the Queen of England I’ll break this door down if you don’t open it!”

I don’t give myself time to think—I follow the soaring of my heart and run to the door. When I swing it open, James’ fist halts mid-flight.

I clear my throat. “Hi.”

He sighs heavily, lowering his arm. “Christ, woman. You’re going to put me in an early grave. Why haven’t you answered your phone?”

I open my mouth but nothing comes out. Standing before me windblown and worried, he’s so beautiful that my breath is taken away. His hair is damp from the rain, plastered against his temples. Beneath furrowed brows, his eyes are dark, forest green.

I find my voice. “Would you accept it if I say I can’t talk about it right now, but I’ll tell you soon?”

His brow clears even as his eyes narrow. “On one condition. You invite me inside and feed me dinner and let me hold your hand while we watch whatever ridiculous action movie you want.”

Warmth surges through me, bright and encompassing.

“Okay, but I have one more condition.”

“Yes?”

“Before dinner and a movie, you take off my clothes.”

The last of his worry dissolves as his eyes brighten. “Sex before a date? You modern woman, you.”

Laughing, I grab the lapel of his coat. “Get in the house.”

* * *

We don’t watch a movie. We barely eat dinner, too hungry for each other to notice. We christen my new couch, the kitchen table, and end up listless and replete on the soft rug in front of the fireplace.

“Someday we’ll make it to a bed, right?” I ask sleepily.

He kisses my shoulder. “Beds are for ordinary lovers. And we’re anything but ordinary.”

Rolling onto my back, I look up at him. “Inflated ego, much?”

A soft smile curls his lips. “Whenever will you learn, little muse? In every way, you’re extraordinary.”

His eyes and fingertips trail lightly between my breasts and down my stomach. I’m too blissed-out to mind when he begins tracing the various scars on my torso. Some are smooth and thin, some thicker and slightly raised, having been deep enough to need stitches. When his attention shifts to my right side, where the skin is thicker and whorled from burns, his eyes come back to mine.

The intimacy of being emotionally and physically bare hits me hard. And while I know I’m safe with him—the desire in his eyes tells me as much—it’s still a battle not to reach for the nearby blanket and cover myself.

“Iris,” he whispers. “So aptly named. Complex and radiant, deceptively delicate. Did you know why your parents named you that?”

I nod. “Not the flower, the Greek goddess.”

He smiles as his hand travels south, flirting over my belly button and teasing the apex of my thighs. “And did you know the goddess was considered a link between heaven and earth, that she guided souls to paradise?”

I roll my eyes. “Please tell me you’re not going to say my vagina is a link to heaven.”

He chuckles, because that’s exactly what he was going to do. Lowering his head, he places a soft kiss on my breast as his fingers sink between my legs.

Arousal trips through my system, bringing my back off the floor in a languid stretch of desire.

“Heaven,” he whispers as he shifts above me.

As he settles between my legs, I lock my ankles around his waist. I don’t have to tell him how sore I am; he knows, entering me one slow inch at a time. As the delicious feeling of fullness intensifies, for the third time tonight I thank God for IUDs. Nothing in my life has prepared me for the soul-wrenching sensation of nothing between us.

James drops his forehead to mine. “Give me words, little muse. I need them. I need to know you feel what I feel.”

I arch beneath him, striving to pull him deeper. “I’m yours, James,” I whisper against his lips. “For better or worse, I’ve always been yours.”

His mouth veers to my neck as he draws back, then sinks inside me again. “God, I hope you mean that. I’m not letting you go again. You’re mine.”

For how long?

I ignore the fearful whisper in the back of my mind, locking it beneath the here and now—the steady, swirling thrusts of his hips, the sweet, stretching burn, the way our bodies move together so effortlessly.

It’s poetry. Pure and perfect.

I cling to it, memorizing each small sensation. The whisper of his stomach against mine. His scent, surrounding me. Our sweat, mingling. Our tasting tongues and sighs. The skillful press of his thumb on my clitoris as he drives me to yet another shattering peak.

All the wordless languages of our love.

And I pray they will be enough.