Chapter 15 – Iris
I woke up to the sound of chirping birds outside my window, the rising sun casting its warm glow on my face.
The backs of my fingers rubbed my eyes as the memories of last night slowly crept back into my head. I couldn’t believe it happened. We’d had sex, and it was good.
He was gentle with me, his strong arms claiming every inch of my body as if he owned me. A faint flutter rose in my chest as I recalled how he’d kissed me so fervently, how I’d lost control and moaned at his touch.
My thighs still felt tender, and between my legs, a dull throb reminded me of his relentless strokes.
I drew in the scent of him lingering on the tangled sheets as I lay still, staring at the ceiling. The sound of my own voice begging him to fuck me harder echoed in my head.
I knew that I was going to regret everything I’d said to him in the heat of the moment, but I didn’t care. I’d been too horny to think straight.
The man knew how to please a woman. His tongue was impressive, so impressive that he actually made me come without penetration. It was my first time, and yet, he managed to make me squirt all over the sheets.
Ilya took his time to explore every curve of my body. He paid close attention to my needs and moved according to my rhythm. Last night wasn’t about him. It was about pleasing the woman he was attracted to.
The more I tried not to think about the incident, the more my mind kept returning to it.
I shifted carefully. The bed was empty beside me, but the air still carried his heat. I turned my head and found him on the floor, back against the wall, one knee bent, the other leg stretched out.
His head had tipped sideways against the plaster. One hand rested on the edge of the mattress, fingers loose, close enough that if I reached I could touch them.
I expected him to have left in the middle of the night. But here he was, still around and sleeping peacefully on the floor.
Something in my chest pulled tight as I watched him in silence, tugging the hem of the sheets over my breasts. He looked so harmless. Handsome.
I watched the rise and fall of his chest for a long time. The cut on his forearm from the slope had been cleaned; a thin dark line crossed the muscle.
I remembered the way he’d shoved me out of the path of the spikes, the weight of him covering me as we tumbled. I remembered the fear in his voice afterward, when he shouted at me. I’d never heard him raise his voice before.
The longer I looked at him, the more images from last night flooded my mind. The way he lifted me onto the table by the window. The fervent kiss.
The way he’d stared up from between my legs, eyes dark, chin wet, and said nothing—just kept going until I came so hard the room blurred.
Then the careful way he’d pushed inside me when I told him I was a virgin. The stretch that burned, then slowly turned into something else.
My pussy tingled just from recalling the details of the incident.
I’d told him I belonged to him, that he owned me. And now, all I felt was shame. I was embarrassed by what I’d said, and it made my face heat.
A part of me regretted ever letting this happen because now I’d crossed a line I was never supposed to cross. Another part of me, however, was glad that he made a woman out of me.
Every cell in my body had come alive at his touch, kisses, and caresses. I hadn’t known what I was missing until he gave it to me.
There was a problem, though—and that was my growing attachment to him. We’d connected on more than one level. It was as though there were a piece of him in me and a piece of me in him.
I’d given him my innocence, and although I hadn’t admitted it yet, I knew deep down that I would do that over and over again. And that was the problem.
The line between captor and prisoner was now blurred, and I had no idea what we were to each other.
***
The house felt too large and too quiet, and the day seemed to stretch on forever. Every time a door closed somewhere downstairs, my stomach tightened, waiting for his voice or his shadow in the doorway. Neither came.
By afternoon, the silence had turned heavy, mostly because there was no sign of him anywhere.
I told myself he was busy. Maybe he had meetings that needed his attention or business deals to close. Besides, his kind of work required him to be away from home most of the time.
Unfortunately, that explanation didn’t stick. My mind kept circling back to the way he’d looked at me while he was inside me—intense, almost stunned—and then to the empty space beside the bed this morning.
Why did he leave me alone on the bed anyway? Sure, he stayed until morning. But why did he choose to lie on the floor?
My heart sank at the possibility of this being a sign of rejection. Maybe he’d gotten what he wanted, and that was the end of it. He’d fucked me, and now I no longer mattered to him.
The thought landed harder than I expected.
I sat on the edge of the bed with my hands clasped between my knees and tried to breathe through it. I had no right to feel discarded.
I was the one who’d been taken. I was the one who’d been locked inside this house. Wanting him to stay after what happened last night only proved how far I’d already slipped.
Still, the hollow feeling stayed.
I tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate on anything else that wasn’t related to him. I paced the length of the room, anxious, as though my anxiety would solve anything.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt his mouth between my legs, the slow drag of his tongue, the way my own hips had lifted to meet him.
I let out a frustrated groan, unable to get him out of my head. The memory of him made my skin prickle, and I hated how easily my body remembered every single detail.
Later that evening, I sat by the window, gazing at the twinkling stars when a knock on my door startled me. I recognized the pattern. It was him.
Before my brain could even register what was happening, I was already on my feet.
The door opened, and he walked inside, dressed in a tailored black suit that fit him perfectly. His polished shoes clicked on the floor as he crossed the room with his usual calmness.
My pulse raced as I held his gaze, expecting to hear a speech about how what happened was a mistake that wouldn’t happen again.
He halted in front of me, his cologne filling the air around me.
“I’m sure you have questions,” he said, one hand in his pocket. “One of them being…what exactly are we now?”
He wasn’t wrong.
But I didn’t tell him that. I just stood, heart hammering in anticipation.
“Allow me to clear the air,” he said, his eyes latched on me. “I’m going to marry you. And you’re going to be my wife.”
It wasn’t just the words that raised my brows; it was also the finality of his tone that left no room for further debate.
My lips parted, but before I could make a sound, he interrupted me.
“It’s not up for discussion, Iris.” His voice was low and even. “It’s been decided.”
The room felt smaller, and my pulse was beating so hard I was sure he could see it in my neck.
“I’m going to marry you,” he repeated, his tone final.