“You’re only six lines in, Kitt.”
He found his place and continued to read, and Iris savored the sound of his voice. She closed her eyes, his rich baritone turning the once silent words into living, breathing images. She had always wondered what Carver looked like, and now she saw him. Long fingers dancing over the keys, eyes blue as a midsummer sky, black tousled hair, a pointed chin, a teasing smile.
Roman’s voice faltered. Iris opened her eyes, gazing into the sultry haze of late morning. Slowly, he continued, “I’ve wanted to get it right for weeks now, but the truth is I didn’t know how and I’m worried what you might think. It’s odd, how quickly life can change, isn’t it? How one little thing like typing a letter can open a door you never saw. A transcendent connection. A divine threshold. But if there’s anything I should say in this moment—when my heart is beating wildly in my chest and I would beg you to come and tame it…”
He paused.
Iris looked at him. His eyes were still fastened to his typed words until she rose from the dirt, drawing his gaze.
“Is this,” he whispered as she closed the distance between them. “Your letters have been a light for me to follow. Your words? A sublime feast that fed me on days when I was starving. I love you, Iris.”
Iris took the paper from him, folding it back into her pocket. She knew what she wanted, and yet if she thought about it too much, she might ruin everything. The fear that this might shatter was nearly overwhelming.
As if sensing her thoughts, Roman reached out, guiding her to straddle his lap.
She was wonderfully, unbearably close to him. Their faces were level, their gazes aligned. His heat seeped into her and she shifted on his thighs. She gripped his sleeves, as if the world was spinning around them. He made a sound—a slip of breath—that made her heart race.
“I’ll hurt you, Kitt!” She started to lean back, but he touched her hips, holding her steady.
“You’re not going to hurt my leg,” he said with a smile. “Don’t worry about hurting me.” He drew her closer, closer until she gasped. “Now, before we can proceed with anything else, I have a very important question for you.”
“Go on,” Iris said. This must be the moment. He was about to propose again.
Mirth shone in his eyes. “Were you serious when you told the nurse that you wouldn’t snog me again?”
Iris gaped, and then she laughed. “Is that what you’re most worried about?”
Roman’s hands tightened on her hips. “I fear that once you taste something like that … you don’t forget it, Iris. And now I must see if your words from three days ago hold, or if you will rewrite them with me here, in this moment.”
She was quiet, full of heady thoughts as Roman’s statement sank in. She had never wanted someone so fiercely—it nearly felt like she was falling ill—and she caressed his hair. The black strands were soft between her fingers, and Roman shut his eyes, wholly captive to her touch. She took that moment to study his face, the slant of his mouth as his breaths skipped.
“I suppose I can be persuaded to rewrite those words,” she whispered in a teasing cadence, and he opened his eyes to regard her. His pupils were large and dark, like new moons. Iris could nearly see herself within them. “But only with you, Kitt.”
“Because I excel at writing?” he countered.
Iris smiled. “That, among other things.”
She kissed him—a light brushing of her lips against his—and he was still, as if she had enchanted him. But soon his mouth eagerly opened beneath hers, his hands tracing the curve of her spine. It sent a shiver through her, to feel his fingertips memorize her, to feel his teeth nip at her bottom lip as they began to explore each other.
She touched him in return, learning the broad slope of his shoulders and the dip of his collarbone and the sharp cut of his jaw. She felt like she was drowning; she felt like she had run up the bluff. There was a pleasant ache within her—bright and vibrant and molten—and she realized that she wanted to feel his skin against hers.
He broke their kiss, his eyes glazed as they briefly met hers. He pressed his mouth to her neck, as if drinking in the scent of her skin. His fingers were splayed over her back, holding her close against him, and his breath was warm on her throat.
“Marry me, Iris Elizabeth Winnow,” Roman whispered, drawing back to look at her. “I want to spend all my days and all my nights with you. Marry me.”
Iris, heart full of fire, framed his face with her hands. She had never been this close to someone, but she felt safe with Roman. And she had not felt such safety in a long time.
“Iris … Iris, say something,” he begged.
“Yes, I’ll marry you, Roman Carver Kitt.”
Roman’s confidence returned, a flicker of a smile. She watched it in his eyes, like stars burning at eventide; she felt it in his body as the tension melted. He wove his fingers into her long, unruly hair and said, “I thought you’d never say yes, Winnow.”
It had only been a matter of seconds.
She laughed again.
His mouth found hers, swallowing the sound.
When her blood was coursing, she ended their kiss to ask, “When are we getting married?”
“This afternoon,” Roman replied without hesitation. “You said it earlier: at any moment, a bomb could drop. We don’t know what tomorrow might bring.”
She nodded, agreeing. But her thoughts bent to dusk. If they exchanged vows today, they would be sharing a bed together tonight. And while she had imagined being with him before … she was a virgin.
“Kitt, I’ve never slept with anyone before.”
“Neither have I.” He tucked a loose tendril of hair behind her ear. “But if that’s something you’re not ready for, then we can wait.”
She could hardly speak as she caressed his face. “I don’t want to wait. I want to experience this with you.”
She leaned down to kiss him again.
“Do you think I need to ask Marisol for permission to marry you?” he eventually asked against her lips.
Iris smiled. “I don’t know. Should you?”
“I think so. I also need Attie’s approval.”
They were really doing this, then. As soon as Marisol and Attie returned from the infirmary, she was going to marry Roman. She was about to say something more when the tree boughs rustled overhead. She heard the yard gate swing open, its rusty hinges whining. She heard the chimes Marisol had hanging at the terrace, a tangle of silver notes.
Iris knew it was the western wind, a surprising burst of power, blowing from the front lines.
A sense of unease came over her. It almost felt as if she and Roman were being watched, and Iris frowned, glancing around the garden.
“What is it?” Roman asked, and she heard a thread of worry in his voice.
“I just have a lot on my mind,” she said, her attention returning to him. “There’s so much happening right now. And I haven’t even begun to work on my article.”
Roman laughed. She loved the sound of it and nearly stole it from his mouth but resisted, playfully scowling at him.