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And I didn’t realize until the very moment of telling Iris I love you that I only loved the idea of a happy ending, not her.
“You tinsel-bombed the St. Patrick’s Day Prince,” he says. “I have never been more proud of you in my life.”
Woah there, let’s not get ahead of ourselves with that kind of positivity. I might sprain something.
“You’re lucky I do na make you get down on your knees and beg. Though you did call me hot, so would you enjoy that, hm?”
“Fuck me,” I groan to my plate. Loch doesn’t hesitate. “Only if you say please.”
A sweep of caustic awareness washes over me: relief. I don’t want anyone else holding me like this.
“You’re all I’ve been able to think about for weeks. The only thought in my head is what your face will look like when I take you apart—like this, like this right now, you’re perfect.”
I know that his kiss tasted like all the dreams I waxed on about in the writing I don’t do anymore, the words I wove while trying to imagine Iris but all I imagined was a fantasy, an ending. He tasted like those fantasies. He felt like those endings. It’s him.
“You aren’t an awakening,” I whisper. “You’re the whole dawn. And I can’t believe I ever thought I’d seen the sun before you.”
Coal hugs me. No warning. Just his solid presence and a too-brief moment of peace. “You’ll believe me someday,” he tells me. I cling to him. “And I’ll keep reminding you of how brave you are until you do.”
“Go get your guy in a sweeping, event-crashing declaration of how much you want to fuck his brains out.” “God, Iris.” But it yanks a laugh out of me.