Chapter 120.2

Chapter 120.2

Moonlight, pale as a giant pearl, struck the clear Caribbean Sea and shattered into tiny pearly fragments that shimmered between the waves.

Soaked in warm water, Miran sat with her bare shoulders rising above a cloud of bubbles that filled the deep tub. A faint blush tinted her cheeks as she sipped pink champagne. It was already her second glass of the sweet, bitter rosé.

“Don’t drink too much.”

“You’re the one who handed it to me, so why are you telling me that?”

When Miran muttered under her breath, André let out a soft laugh and began unbuttoning his linen shirt one button at a time. The moment he tossed it onto the floor, there was a startled yelp and a loud splash.

André lunged forward and hauled Miran up as she flailed. With half her face hidden under wet hair, she still somehow clung to the champagne glass while coughing and pushing the hair off her face in a frenzy. Then she pointed at his side.

“Cough… w-wait, what is that…?”

After settling her back against the tub, André glanced down at his left side and smiled. By now the ink felt natural to him, but it was Miran’s first time seeing it.

He slid into the tub across from her, and her gaze didn’t budge from his ribcage. Her lips trembled like she was about to cry.

“Wh-why would you put something on your body that you can’t even erase! In Korea you can’t even go into a bathhouse if you have a tattoo…”

Miran crawled closer, swept aside the bubbles covering the tattoo, and pressed her hand to his side.

“Lift your arm.”

She lifted his arm, tilted her head, and traced along his ribs.

“M… I… R…”

Reading the line of letters linked like a heartbeat monitor, she covered her face with both hands and groaned.

“I can’t live like this, seriously.”

Her cheeks flared red as she pressed the backs of her hands against them, then glared at him.

“André de Lafayette has really lost his mind.”

He gave a lazy smile and pulled her into his arms.

“That’s right.”

Leaning against André’s chest at a slight angle, Miran traced the tattoo with trembling fingers, tears glimmering in her eyes.

“Did it hurt a lot?”

Her delicate fingers brushed his name over his ribs. André’s throat bobbed hard.

“No. The pain was sweet. Like you.”

His caramel-colored eyes, warm and molten, shimmered like the moonlit sea, then overflowed as tears slipped down his cheeks.

Miran wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him with all the passion she had. As the kiss deepened, she pulled away, rose to her knees, and lowered her upper body to press her lips to the beginning of the tattoo. Her mouth followed the line slowly, teasingly, brushing up and down.

Letting out a sound torn from deep in his throat, André lifted her and crushed his lips to hers. Behind them, a wide trail of water soaked into the wooden floor.

Pinned beneath him, Miran arched and writhed as André drove into her at her deepest point, holding her as if he would never let go. Even as he pushed into her over and over, shaking her from within until she felt half out of her mind, he kissed her hungrily, tasting the inside of her mouth and stealing every breath she gasped.

The two of them tangled together like a single body, pouring pleasure into each other until it bordered on pain. Still held in his arms, Miran’s eyes fluttered shut, and she slipped into sleep as if she had fainted.

André cradled her sleeping form and pressed kisses across her face. Then he brought his lips to her delicate temple and whispered softly:

[Ego te amo.]

—

Miran dreamed.

The woman in the mirror wore an opulent gown like an aristocratic lady of the eighteenth century, seated in the drawing room of the Lafayette residence. André entered the room wearing a European-style military uniform heavy with medals, carrying a silver tray topped with a round, white plate like a full moon.

On it lay a single lavishly bloomed pink peony.

Miran picked up individual peony petals with chopsticks and ate them along with her afternoon tea. The petals melted softly on her tongue, unbelievably sweet.

“André, try one of these petals. They’re so sweet.”

André tilted his head, brushed a kiss over her lips, and swept the remaining petal from her tongue with his own.

In that instant, Miran woke from the dream. She blinked into the darkness, taking in the unfamiliar wooden ceiling and the chandelier with a fan attached. As she shifted, André’s arm—loosely draped over her shoulder—tightened and pulled her against his chest.

“Can’t sleep?”

His low, drowsy voice asked.

“I had a funny dream.”

“What kind of dream.”

Resting her cheek against his bare chest, she traced his side with her fingers. His name had been engraved somewhere around there.

“You came in holding a plate with a pretty flower on it, and I ate the petals with chopsticks. They were sweet and tasty, but then you kissed me and stole the petal right out of my mouth.”

He chuckled and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head.

“Go back to sleep.”

Miran smiled and closed her eyes. After a moment, she lifted her head slightly and murmured the line that had popped into her mind.

“Ego te amo, André.”

[Scio, Idem.]

The deep, quiet voice whispered a sentiment only she could understand.

“What does that mean? I’ve always wondered.”

“I know. I love you too.”

The first time he’d said that phrase to her, André himself had been startled. It had burst out without thought, his unconscious speaking his truth.

Miran suddenly lifted her head and stared at him through the darkness.

“That’s what it meant? You should have told me earlier. I had no idea—”

When she began to fuss, André opened one eye and looked up at her.

“Can’t sleep? Want me to make you sleepy again.”

It sounded like a threat, but his hand rubbing her back was unbelievably gentle.

“How? Ah—”

In a blink, Miran found herself pinned beneath him. He nuzzled her neck with the bridge of his nose and his lips, tickling her skin.

Laughter broke through the still night air, mingling with the soft sound of waves. Before long, the laughter dissolved into breathless gasps.

Waves surged and retreated over the white sand blooming beneath the moonlight, and the perfectly round moon watched in silence until the red sun rose and swallowed it whole.

Fin

—

Afterword from the Author

My heartfelt thanks to all readers for your constant interest and love.

To all the Miran-Cs out there who still hold a piece of their brilliant, extraordinary youth from the 1990s in their hearts, I dedicate Deviant 1995.

Deviant 1995