Blooming Romance

Mae Milano is stretched on the couch, half-naked, when the bell cuts through the quiet. Bare feet on cool marble, she opens the door and finds Kimora Quin on the step, arms full of roses. “Surprise,” Kimora smiles. Mae frowns. “I never ordered these.” Kimora’s grin falters. She checks the slip. “You did. Three months back. Anniversary.” Mae’s breath leaves her in a rush. The breakup feels new all over again. “We’re done. I should have canceled.” Heat climbs Kimora’s neck. “Shit. I’m sorry.” Mae lifts a hand, soft. “It’s fine.” But Kimora’s already fishing a pen from her shirt pocket. She rewrites the card in swift strokes: From Kimora, with a heart instead of a name. “Take them,” she says, pushing the bouquet into Mae’s arms. “Someone should give you flowers for once.” Mae tries to refuse. Kimora insists. Their fingers brush; the moment stretches. Eyes hold. Breath shortens. Kimora steps closer. Mae’s lips part. Then the flowers hit the floor and two mouths collide, hungry, urgent. Kimora’s tongue slides hot against Mae’s, her hands already cupping bare hips while Mae tugs Kimora’s blouse loose. The foyer fills with the soft, wet sound of want and the sharp breath of two women letting months of ache crash into each other.