CHAPTER 16: MIRA SLEPT HERE AND I’M NEVER WASHING THE AIR
The weeks unfolded and Fall well and truly arrived.
Harper and Mira barely saw each other. Their schedules were packed and their calendars were bursting at the seams. But the texts they sent and received grew deeper.
And then, increasingly filthy.
Harper’s messages swung wildly. They were flirty one moment, and reverent the next. She sent Mira pictures of herself. Never full nudes, but subtle glimpses designed to unravel Mira slowly.
And, Mira had continued to teach Harper phrases in French and Arabic. Words and phrases you wouldn’t find in a textbook, but ones that mattered to them.
Words for longing and possession, and of devotion. Harper repeated them, mouth moving slowly around each syllable, and stumbling in ways that filled Mira with fond amusement.
On one occasion, Mira’s phone lit with a new voice note. She was between calls in her office and pressed play.
The first thing she heard was giggling. Harper’s unmistakable, breathy, but cheeky laugh.
“Okay, hang on. I’m gonna get this right. I wrote them down, so, don’t laugh at me. Okay, you’re gonna laugh, but don’t.”
There was a rustle of paper, and the sound of Harper clearing her throat. Then, in a careful, stumbling attempt at trying to be seductive in French:
“Je veux que tu… uh, tu me laisses haletante. Même après avoir fini de-de moi?”
Harper breathed. “Was that right? Oh, God, that sounded wrong. Okay, take two.”
She inhaled, then switched languages, slower, more hesitant:
“Ij’alni ad’af… ḥatta min lamsatik faqaṭ.”
There was another pause where she clearly wasn’t sure if she’d nailed it.
“Ohhh. That one felt sexier. Wait. No, I think I messed up ‘weak’. Ugh.”
She laughed again, quieter this time. “I really wanted this to be hot. Like, filthy-hot. But, I think I just sounded like a student trying to order a croissant and a spanking at the same time.”
Mira was smiling helplessly as Harper continued:
“Anyway. I’ll try again later. Maybe in person. You can, uh, correct me however you want to.”
The message clicked off. Mira sat there a moment longer than necessary, the sound of Harper’s voice still in her ear, and the grin on her face was entirely unguarded.
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Then, finally, the weekend arrived and, with it, Mira’s first visit to Harper’s loft. So, Harper may or may not have vacuumed the ceiling. Twice.
Harper opened the door barefoot, in a stretched sweater that fell off one shoulder, and frayed denim shorts that showed off her long bare legs to Mira’s approval.
“Hey, Bright Eyes.” She let the endearment breathe out like a disbelieving sigh. The kind that said, You’re here. Thank God.
The relief of Mira’s presence loosened every line of Harper’s body as she leaned on the doorframe.
Her hair was piled in a loose knot, a few rebellious strands curling against the flush of her cheeks.
She looked every bit like comfort incarnate. Slightly chaotic, easy, and beautiful in the way only someone fully at home in their own space could be.
Behind her, the loft opened all at once. There were no hallways or a careful sequence of rooms. Just a wide, open sprawl of space that was unabashedly lived in.
Tall leafy plants reached toward the light, stretching in lazy arcs toward exposed ceiling beams. The tall, slightly warped windows glowed amber from the streetlights below. And a giant wooden desk sat under them, cluttered with open notebooks and old coffee mugs.
A cozy old couch had landed in front of a low, deep coffee table and looked like it hadn’t budged since.
From a corner speaker, The Lumineers hummed low, mingling with the faint scent of rosemary drifting from the kitchen.
And, in the middle of it all—not tucked in a corner, not dignified by separation—was Harper’s bed.
It lay under a deep green quilt, rumpled but warm-looking, and half-covered by a patterned throw that didn’t match anything else. And there were a few mismatched pillows leaning against the headboard as though they’d been cuddled recently.
Beside the bed, a crate served as a nightstand, balancing Harper’s glasses, a half-full water glass, and a well-worn notebook with a pen tucked in its spiral.
Her gaze moved downward to the wide, fraying kilim under the bed. The reds and blues had softened with time, and the edges were curling just slightly.
Mira took it all in slowly. There didn’t seem to be any plan or symmetry to the place. It was the kind of home someone might sit cross-legged in, anywhere on the floor, with a mug of coffee. Or just curl up after a long day without thinking twice about what they were wearing.
On the far wall, a haphazard collage sprawled out: sketches, scraps of paper, and old photographs.
It was chaos. But, somehow, it felt intentional in its own, Harper way.
Harper watched as Mira’s eyes wandered. It was so different from her luxurious, modern sky-rise apartment.
Her mouth tugged in a self-deprecating smile. “It’s a little, ah, chaotic, but it’s mine.”
Mira’s lips curved affectionately. “It’s very you.”
“Messy?” Harper grinned, clearly expecting the jab.
Mira stepped further in, her heels clicking lightly against the old floorboards. “Alive,” she said simply, scanning the room once more before her gaze settled on Harper again. “And open.” She raised a hand and stroked Harper’s cheek with her fingers. “Just like you.”
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Dinner came from Little Pizza Parlor on Duffield Street. One of those unpretentious, cash-only joints Harper swore by.
Mira let Harper guide her toward the couch but claimed the corner seat, where she could take in the full sweep of the loft. Without a word, she slipped off her coat and folded it neatly over the armrest. It was a quiet, deliberate claiming of space.
Harper poured a glass of wine for her first, passing it over with a smile before filling her own and curling into the other end of the couch, one knee brushing against Mira’s thigh. She flipped open the pizza box and handed Mira a slice on a small plate, before taking one for herself.
They sat with the pizza box between them. Harper was cross-legged, already mid-rant about how emotional the betrayal of lost socks was. And Mira had her legs tucked to one side, ankles crossed, graceful and composed as she listened with a mixed expression of amusement and adoration.
“They’re the unsung heroes of everyday life, Mira.” Harper was saying, “And then one vanishes like it never loved you at all.”
Mira laughed quietly, watching the earnest flush on Harper’s cheeks. And then she leaned in and brushed some sauce from her lower lip with her thumb. It was a small thing. But for them, it was a reminder that Mira could reach for Harper whenever she wished.
“Thanks,” Harper murmured, her face turning even more red.
“Mm, bien sûr.” Mira’s voice was low and full of fondness. Of course.
By the time the pizza box had been nudged aside, Harper was folded into Mira. Her bare leg was hooked over Mira’s knee, and Mira’s arm rested lazily around Harper, her fingers tracing the delicate line of Harper’s neck.
Her other hand had drifted, as it always did, to land high on Harper’s thigh, a steady, unspoken tether.
“You’re comfortable here,” Mira observed.
“Yeah,” Harper said, with a small, genuine smile. “And I like you being here and seeing it.”
Mira’s fingers slid from Harper’s neck to her jaw, guiding her face upward. Their lips brushing, “I like knowing where you keep yourself.” She whispered and then kissed her tenderly.
When she drew back, she didn’t release Harper completely. Instead, she took her hand and rose, tugging her gently to follow. “Now, ma tendre, show me your world properly.”
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They moved through the loft together, and Harper pointed out various things to Mira. Some that she was proud of, others that she was slightly embarrassed by, but still thought they might make Mira laugh.
Mira made no commentary, but her gaze catalogued each detail: in the way her fingers trailed over the edge of Harper’s desk, the quiet glance at the stack of notebooks, and the slow nod at the warped-shade lamp.
The loft glowed in the low amber light of string bulbs, and Harper moved, finally, to stand near her bed.
And as Mira turned toward and moved toward her, her gaze fell to the crate-nightstand where a small, weathered tin sat. It was the kind that might once have held mints or sewing needles, but now, the paint was chipped, and the old lid was dented on one corner.
Mira reached out, her fingers brushing the metal. “May I?”
Harper hesitated, then nodded, “Oh yeah. Just, the hinge is hanging on for dear life.”
Mira nodded and opened it gently. Inside, pressed neatly into the base, were a few folded scraps of paper: a Polaroid photo of a woman with the same blue eyes as Harper’s, and a thin chain with a flat, oval pendant. The metal was dulled from years of skin and time, and the engraving was worn almost smooth.
“That’s my mom,” Harper said, her voice lighter than the weight in her eyes. She leaned her head on Mira’s shoulder as they looked at the picture.
“She left when I was thirteen. Took off with a guy she met at an art fair in Vermont. I think he did pottery.” She gave a short, humorless laugh. “We don’t really talk.”
Mira’s gaze lingered on the pendant. “And this?”
Harper lifted her head, and Mira felt the loss of it. “She gave it to me before she left. Said it was ‘so I’d remember she was real.'” Harper said, her mouth twitched, caught somewhere between a smirk and a wince.
“Kind of a shitty thing to say to your kid, but I guess I’ve kept it.” Harper sighed.
“She gave one to Ellie, too, but I think she threw it away, or drowned it in a lake. I’m not sure.”
Mira closed the tin carefully and set it back where it belonged, her fingers lingering for a moment on the lid.
“It isn’t shitty to keep it, though,” she said softly, the casual curse sounding faintly out of place in her otherwise refined voice. “It’s human.” She said continued gently.
Harper tilted her head, studying her. “You always talk like that, you know. Like you’re trying to give my messy little life a poetic spine.”
“Only because it has one,” Mira replied. Leading them to sit close together on the bed, their thighs brushing.
She looked into Harper’s eyes, “I see it.”
Harper blinked at her, the playful retort she’d been reaching for dissolving somewhere under the weight of that gaze.
She let her gaze follow the line of Mira’s own necklace from her mother—the way the tiny turquoise beads caught the lamplight, the way the chain disappeared beneath the soft drape of her shirt before reappearing again.
“I like that you wear that all the time,” Harper said quietly. “It’s kind of like a thread between you and her. Even when you’re halfway across the world from where she’s buried, she’s right there, resting against your skin.”
It was Mira’s turn to be affected. She stilled, her eyes fixed on Harper with an intensity that felt almost like a touch. “That is exactly what it is,” she murmured, her accent thickening with emotion.
The confession sat between them for a moment, fragile but unashamed.
Mira reached for Harper’s hand and took a breath. “I’m glad you didn’t let that anger toward your mother make you harder,” she said. “I don’t know if I would have found you if you had.”
It was ridiculous, the way a single sentence could sink into Harper’s ribs and sit there, heavy and warm at the same time. She could feel the pulse in her fingertips where Mira’s hand held them.
Harper’s heart was loud in her ears, but her voice was certain. “I’m so glad you found me,” she whispered.
And Mira smiled.
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She continued to hold Harper’s gaze as if she were reading something written there. Perhaps a secret she’d already guessed but wanted Harper to admit to it without speaking.
Her fingers rested lightly at Harper’s wrist, the steady pulse beneath her touch like a quiet metronome. She could feel it begin to quicken.
Harper tried to meet her eyes confidently, but Mira saw the way her throat moved as she swallowed. That small, almost imperceptible tremor stirred something deep in Mira: this quirky, endearing woman before her wanted her, trusted her, and didn’t yet know how far she’d fall.
She tilted her head, letting her gaze drop to Harper’s mouth. She wanted to memorize the soft shape of it. Her approach wasn’t a straight line. Instead, she closed the space in a slow arc.
Harper felt the faintest brush of a loose strand of Mira’s hair against her cheek and the warmth of her breath ghosting over her lips before they brushed. Mira’s nose grazed hers, a light, teasing pass that made Harper inhale sharply.
When Mira’s lips finally met hers, it was so light it was almost a question. Not a kiss, yet, but a first note. She stayed there, lips barely moving, letting Harper feel the exact point where restraint began to fray.
Harper’s breath faltered, and Mira deepened the contact by a fraction. The most subtle increase in pressure, as though to say, Yes, this is happening.
Her fingers slid from Harper’s wrist and rose to cup her jaw, fingertips brushing along the hollow just beneath her ear. Goosebumps rose on Harper’s neck; the little hairs there stood on end. And Harper leaned in without thinking, with a hungry sigh.
Mira heard Harper’s plea and responded. She opened her mouth and pressed in.
Her tongue traced the barest edge of Harper’s lower lip, a slow, wet sweep that made Harper’s pulse jump.
And she answered with a small tilt of her head, parting her mouth for her. And Mira took her time, sliding her tongue past Harper’s lips with the patience of someone unwrapping a precious gift.
Harper’s tongue met hers, tentative at first, a cautious stroke against Mira’s, then suddenly more bold, as the taste of Mira’s mouth captured her.
She followed where Mira led, meeting her movements with a soft, yielding pressure. The contact grew richer, slower, like the deepening notes of a song that neither wanted to end.
For Mira, Harper’s responses were intoxicating: the way she trembled slightly but still met her, the way she pressed closer, and moaned so sweetly. Harper longed to give Mira everything, and Mira knew and understood it.
Mira adjusted the angle, drawing Harper in deeper, her thumb pressing lightly under her chin to keep her exactly where she wanted her. Harper’s hand was at Mira’s side, fingers clenching and curling lightly into her blouse.
Their tongues danced in a slow, deliberate rhythm—a kiss that had nothing to prove and no reason to rush.
They knew each other now. Knew how to move and what made the other sigh. It was a sensual tasting, stroke by long stroke, as if they were relearning each other with reverence.
Eventually, Harper’s breathing grew uneven, and Mira pulled back slightly, but stayed close, wet lips still brushing against Harper’s.
And Harper let Mira feel the want in her, and Mira rewarded her with another slow, wet slide of her tongue against hers before retreating again.
The world outside the kiss was gone. There was only the warmth of mouths meeting, parting, and meeting again. Mira’s fingers slowly drifted into Harper’s hair, curling there as if they’d always belonged.
Mira’s voice, when it came again, was barely above a whisper, low and sure.
“You taste as good as you smell.”
And Harper, still trying to find her voice, could only suck softly on her lower lip, as if she could keep that kiss inside her a little longer.
She sat still, even though every part of her body was screaming to move, to close the last breath of space between them again, and pull Mira in until there was no knowing where one ended and the other began.
And Mira saw it. She could feel Harper’s restraint like a live current between them. Her barely-contained need, held tight.
It flattered her, but more than that, it satisfied something private and powerful inside her: the knowledge that she could take Harper apart with so little.
She tilted her head slightly, studying Harper like a sculptor looking at a piece mid-creation.
“You want me to kiss you again,” she murmured. Her exotic accent pulling Harper’s strings.
Harper’s mouth twitched, and she swallowed, but she didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Mira’s smile was intimate and dangerous. “I can feel it,” she added softly, raising her hand and tracing Harper’s shining lips with her finger.
Harper exhaled, long and quiet. She wanted to give in. She wanted Mira to take it from her, to make her surrender without asking.
Then Mira moved in, bringing her mouth close enough that Harper could feel the warmth of it against her skin, “Patience,” she whispered, as if it were both a command and a promise.
Harper shut her eyes. It wasn’t fair how much power Mira could hold with a single word. And yet, deep down, Harper knew, she didn’t want fair. She wanted exactly this: to be held on the edge, wanting so badly that her brain, which usually worked overtime, became mush.
When she opened her eyes again, Mira was still watching her, and the look in those green-flecked irises was a quiet confession in itself. I enjoy you like this.
They stayed like that for a long moment, before Mira spoke again.
“You feel everything, don’t you?”
Harper swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “When it’s you? Yeah, I do.”
That earned her the faintest tilt of Mira’s head. A silent, good.
Mira held her like that, with a quiet firmness that said: You’re here because I want you here. And, even in your own home, you answer to me.
=====
Finally, Mira decided it was time. She spoke again, her voice low and certain.
“Stand up and undress for me, My Harper.”
The words landed like heat in Harper’s chest. But she didn’t question it. She’d already done this before, so she moved in obedience, her body a quiet offering.
She stood up, and her hands went to the hem of her sweater. She peeled it off and then her t-shirt, baring her breasts. She wasn’t wearing a bra.
Mira’s teeth caught lightly on her lower lip, the smallest tell of her appreciation.
Harper loved that her body caused that reaction in Mira. Using it to boost her confidence, she unbuttoned her denim shorts, sliding them down over her hips, the fabric catching briefly at her thighs before falling away.
Next, her fingers hooked into the waistband of her panties. She hesitated, then, from a sharp, almost aching instinct that she should offer them up.
Sure enough, Mira’s gaze stayed fixed on her eyes as she spoke in Arabic, her tone like warm silk wrapped around a command:
“ʾAʿṭīnī ʾiyyāhā.” Give them to me.
The words felt like a physical touch. Harper’s breath caught. She could feel the dampness clinging to the cotton.
She peeled them down, the fabric whispering over her skin. When they reached her ankles, she stepped out and bent to retrieve them, and then placed the soft bundle into Mira’s waiting hand.
Mira’s lashes lowered as she brought them to her face. She inhaled deeply, and her lips fell apart. And the quiet sound she made as Harper’s scent filled her was one Harper had never heard from her before: something low, possessive. More than that—territorial.
Her eyes stayed closed for a long moment as she breathed Harper in again. Then she stood and extended the panties toward Harper.
“Smell what you’ve given me,” she murmured.
Was this weird? Was this strange? Harper didn’t ask those questions. Mira had told her to do something. And so, without hesitation, she leaned in and inhaled.
Her own scent flooded her senses, heady, intimate, and unmistakably hers. And the heat that spread through her from the smell was dizzying.
“That’s mine now,” Mira said softly, drawing the fabric back to her own mouth. She brushed them over her lower lip, not kissing, but tasting the air through them, as if she could draw Harper in molecule by molecule.
Then, she slipped two fingers into the dampest part of the fabric, pressing until they emerged slick with the truth of her.
Without looking away, she brought those fingers to her nose and breathed her in again. And then she raised them toward Harper’s lips.
“Open,” she said.
And, again, Harper’s lips parted instantly, and Mira slid her fingers inside and rested them warmly against Harper’s tongue.
“Close.”
Harper did, her mouth sealing around them. She could taste herself: warm mineral and faintly sweet—like weak peaches and a pinch of salt.
Harper had tasted herself before and knew what she smelled like, but those experiences were nothing like this.
Her tongue curled, sliding over Mira’s fingers.
“You’re tasting for me,” Mira murmured, low and even.
Harper was feeling weaker by the second. The whole world had narrowed to Mira’s gaze and the fullness of her fingers on her tongue.
It was almost unbearable when Mira finally drew her fingers out, slow enough for Harper’s lips to follow them an inch, reluctant to let them go.
Mira’s palm smoothed over Harper’s cheek for a moment, grounding her.
“Kneel.” Mira said it so calmly and tenderly that the command of it was nearly a shock.
But, yet again, Harper dropped smoothly to her knees without hesitation. She sank to the floor of her own loft, beside her own bed, naked. Heat climbed her throat as the cool wood kissed her knees.
“Look at you,” Mira murmured, almost to herself. Her thumb brushed lazily over the silk in her hand, still warm from Harper’s body. “My Harper.”
Harper’s pulse hammered. She didn’t move. She wanted Mira to see her like this, and to know her like this.
And Mira did. Slowly, indulgently, letting Harper feel the weight of being both possessed and adored.
Her gaze followed the line of Harper’s neck, down to her collarbones, over the swell of her breasts, to the soft plane of her stomach, and below that, to the lush triangle of hair she loved so much. So womanly. So entirely Harper.
Then, Mira leaned forward, and her hand came to Harper’s jaw, cupping it. Her thumb traced the delicate edge of Harper’s cheekbone, skimming toward her mouth.
“Mon trésor,” The French dropped like velvet between them. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
Harper’s breath stuttered.
“You kneel for me,” Mira murmured, “and every part of you tells me that you’re mine.”
Harper’s knees pressed harder into the floor, the ache there a muted echo of the ache curling low in her belly.
“I could keep you like this all night,” Mira said softly, “and watch you unravel inch by inch.”
Harper made a sound, somewhere between a sigh and a whimper. And Mira smiled in satisfaction, tilting Harper’s chin up with two fingers, so their eyes were locked on to each other.
“Do you know,” Mira asked quietly, “how rare it is for me to want to slow down and take my time?”
Harper didn’t answer at first, but her breath softened, and her shoulders eased a little. Whatever she’d been holding herself together with loosened and fell away, and she went still beneath Mira’s gaze.
Her eyes lifted to Mira’s, and she basked in the way she had to look up.
When she finally spoke, it was barely a sound. “Take your time, my Queen,” she whispered.
Then again, more softly, “Take your time with me. I’m here.”
And in that quiet moment, Mira understood, and her smile deepened with a fondness she could barely contain.
“Sit on the edge of your bed for me.”
Harper’s mind had to catch up with the shift. She’d been told to do something. Right, the bed. Sit on it. Yes.
She crossed the short distance, her knees still tingling from the floor, and lowered herself until she was seated on the edge.
Before she could take a breath, Mira moved, sinking down in front of her. Harper was suddenly confused, and her blue eyes widened.
Mira Laurent, still fully clothed, had lowered herself to her knees. Before her?
Mira’s lips smiled as she placed her hands on Harper’s bare thighs and gently parted them.
She leaned in, her mouth finding the inside of Harper’s knee. One kiss. Then another, higher up. Each press of her lips was a reverent claiming.
When she reached the damp heat between Harper’s thighs, she paused. Their eyes locked again, and Mira inhaled.
“You’ve been mine,” Mira murmured as she exhaled, “since the moment I first smelled you here.”
Harper’s breath caught, but her voice was steady. “I was yours from the very first moment I saw you at the bar, Mira. And you know it.” A pause. “And don’t you dare give me back.”
“Never,” she said, low and sure. “I don’t return what I’ve decided is mine.”
Then she spoke again, her voice muffled slightly by the press of her mouth to Harper’s thigh, heavy with confession.
“Do you know what it does to me when I smell you?”
The intimacy of it ached.
Harper held her there, hands gently cradling her head. Mira’s lips brushing her thighs softly with every breath.
This woman who ruled boardrooms, who moved through the world like something untouchable, was undone by her?
And yet, Harper could feel it. All of it. Mira’s own kind of surrender. The need rolling off her was like a tide she no longer seemed to care to hold back.
A shiver moved through Harper as she looked down into Mira’s eyes. She curled her fingers deeper into her hair. A surge of heat unfurled at the base of her spine.
“I think I do. But I need to hear you to say it. Please, my Queen.”
“It stays with me,” Mira murmured. “All day. It makes me impatient to come back to you. To taste you again.”
Harper’s fingers flexed against her scalp, and she opened her thighs even wider. “You’re here now,” she breathed. “You don’t have to wait.”
Mira didn’t respond with words. The tilt of her head was the only warning as she lowered herself fully between Harper’s thighs. And Harper kept them open wide for her.
Mira’s mouth moved with certainty. She found the slick heat of her, already softened, and pulsing with need. Mira’s tongue slid in slow, deliberate strokes, tasting deeply and drinking in every shuddered gasp Harper gave her.
Mira moaned into her humid core, and the sound vibrated through Harper’s body, causing her to throw her head back and moan in pleasure.
The sound gradually unravelled into broken cries as each slow wave of sensation built and rolled, and broke her open. She whimpered Mira’s name again, and again. And each time she sounded slightly more feral, until finally, Harper came with a strangled gasp. Her body went rigid, and she closed her legs around Mira’s head as she tried to control her body through the convulsions.
And Mira took everything she gave, receiving it with desperate, reverent hunger.
When the trembling finally eased, and Harper’s breathing began to steady, Mira pressed one last lingering kiss to her, low and tender, before rising.
Then she guided them down together until they lay side by side, Mira’s arm curling possessively around Harper’s waist. And Harper curled tightly into her Queen’s loving embrace and care.
“Mmm,” Mira whispered, her voice both vow and promise. “I’ll always come back for this.”
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