He fingers the wave into her hair every morning, pinching and pressing and holding and waiting just long enough. The lotion feels good on his fingers, and nothing feels better than her hair. Their hair. It’s just the same as his, after all, and sometimes he wonders how he’d look if he did this to himself. If I were a woman, I’d be Cersei.
For her part, she leans back into his arms and lets him do it, sheet wrapped round her waist as the sun creeps in through the blinds, her skin like hot ivory. She glances back at him over the crest of one bare shoulder. “I’m going to have to do it, you know,” she says. Her voice is low and ashy with morning, and he can taste last night’s cigarettes on each syllable she utters. “I’m going to have to marry him. The studio’s insisting, tying it into our contracts under the table. If I want to stay at Paramount, I’ve got to go along with it.”
“Damn the studio,” Jaime says, pressing his lips against the back of her neck. “Just talk to Father, he’ll—”
“Father thinks they’re right.” She sits up, turns around, unashamed of her nakedness — Cersei was never ashamed of anything — and looks at him, really looks. A long look, like she’s taking stock. “Sometimes I think he knows. About us.”
“Maybe he should know. Maybe you should marry me.” It’s a breathless whisper, a ludicrous hope, and Jaime knows it.
Cersei just laughs, a low husky laugh that sets his skin to quivering. “I don’t think that’d go over too well in the press.”
“And is that what you want? To go over well? Since when have you cared what people think of you?” Jaime thumbs his own neck, worries the spot where her teeth left marks.
Cersei gets out of bed and walks to the window, stands in front of the blinds. Peers out through them into the bright lights beyond. “Since it made me a star,” she says. “Can you make me a star, Jaime? Can you give me the sky?”
He says nothing.
“I thought not.”