She likes this the most, Kate thought, the tiles biting into her knees as she wiped water from her eyes and brought Tilly’s leg over her shoulder.

Tilly was quieter than usual as Kate carved her release. In desperate craving, Tilly’s nails scratched her scalp. It was slower, less intense than earlier. When Kate stood, Tilly breathed hard against her lips, searched Kate’s stare with hooded eyes. Kate pinned Tilly against the wall, relishing in the feeling of their heartbeats slipping into sync. “What does it taste like?” Tilly whispered, her eyes trained on Kate’s mouth.

Kate’s heart soared. She slid her hand between the shower wall and the curve of Tilly’s lower back. “It tastes like I want to do that for the rest of my life.”

Tilly’s eyes widened slightly.

It was the second time she’d made a comment like that, and the enormity of the declaration echoed off the ancient floral tiles, swept about them in the steam. Dropping her head to Tilly’s neck in embarrassment, Kate’s hands slipped low and she brought Tilly hard against her, palmed her behind, hands kneading roughly. Tilly groaned.

Kate’s declaration had brought a certain melancholy that both eased the ache between her thighs and set her heart to a dangerous rhythm. This was all new to Tilly, but it was new for her too. She’d shared intense, intimate experiences with other women, nights much wilder than a midnight rendezvous in the shower, and yet, just the feeling of Tilly’s wet, flushed body against her own brought her body alive like never before. She needed and wanted and yearned for more and more, for something unknown and intangible. What was it that she was searching for? That she needed so badly? An answer, her mind drawled.

You want an answer.

“You’re so beautiful,” Kate gasped. It was impossible to stop the roll of her hips against Tilly’s when Tilly was keeping her so close. She wrapped her lips around the pulse in Tilly’s neck and sucked.

Tilly’s nails left her sides, her hand slipping between their bodies. Suddenly, Tilly’s mouth was at her ear. “Don’t distract me this time,” she said firmly.

Knees threatening to buckle, Kate planted her hands on the tiles above Tilly’s shoulders. Warm water slipped over her lower back, down her legs. Even though she was the one looming over Tilly, pinning Tilly to the wall, vulnerability hit her like a charge of homesickness. “Are you going to ask me what I like again?” she murmured against Tilly’s chin, the waver of her voice betraying her confidence.

Tilly’s fingers danced low. Her green eyes blazed with intent. “I don’t think I need to.”

Chapter Twenty-One

When Kate was eight years old—before St. Joan of Arc, before Tilly—her best friend at Mary MacKillop Primary School was Meredith Elson. During the summer between fourth and fifth grade, Meredith went west to stay with her grandparents in the country for the entire holiday break. Before school returned at the end of January, Kate’s mother sat her down and explained that there was a reason Meredith wasn’t returning her phone calls. There had been an accident in the country—Meredith had gone swimming with her cousins in her grandparents’ dam, got her foot stuck in a yabby trap and drowned. She’d been dead for thirty seconds before her uncle had been able to resuscitate her.