Chapter 37 Iris #2
“I’m not faring better,” I admit.
Marcus’s gaze wanders around the studio, taking in the canvases. “Yet you’re still creating.”
“Pain has a way of keeping artists busy.”
He nods, something unspoken moving behind his eyes. “I heard you were looking for me.”
“I was.”
“It hasn’t been easy, Iris. Coming here.”
“You don’t have to stay. I just need to tell you how sorry I am.” My voice wavers despite my effort to keep it even. He isn’t here for my feelings, and I know that. “I know I hurt you.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, too.” He turns toward the door.
“Marcus…” I move after him.
He halts mid-step, his head dipping.
Something in me gives, and I place myself between him and the door. Up close, he feels broader than I remembered, still solid, even when not at his best. The Marcus I knew wore cologne. This time, it’s only his scent, inevitably more Wolf.
It complicates things. But one thing remains. This man is safe, whether he’s Wolf or Marcus.
“I missed you,” I say, trusting that safety won’t turn on me. “I handled everything wrong. I pushed you away when I shouldn’t have.”
He doesn’t give me anything, except that he angles one foot toward me, just a little.
I continue, bracing as I take half a step closer. “I don’t expect you to want this now. But I want you. And I didn’t understand that until you were gone.”
“I’m done playing games, Iris.”
“I’m not playing,” I say. “I’m done pretending I don’t want you.”
He nods, accepting it without triumph. “Okay.”
I wait, but nothing more comes out. So, just…okay?
“You don’t have to take me,” I say, almost concluding. “Just tell me that you forgive me.”
He meets me head-on. The blue in his eyes has never been so bright, edging out the gray, though the weight in them hasn’t lifted.
“You hurt me, Iris. But I never blamed you.”
“Marcus, just give it to me.”
He makes a small smile. “Okay, apologies accepted.”
“Thank you.”
“But I made mistakes too. I didn’t fight for you enough,” he says. “I was too busy fighting myself. And I’m sorry for the danger I brought into your life.”
“I’m past that,” I state.
His palms find my elbow, tentative but warm.
“Start again?” he asks. His Wolf scent changes, comforting somehow, less myth and more man.
I search his face. “You’d give me another chance?”
“Us,” he corrects.
His arms settle around me, firmer now. Then, he continues, “We’re not safe from getting it wrong again. But if you want to try, I’m here, and I’d choose us. Out in the open.”
It’s what I wanted to hear, what I’d let myself hope for. But the question presses on. “Aren’t you seeing someone?”
He lets out a short breath. “Mary Peters? She’s a friend.”
“She looks like your type.”
He tilts his head. “And what’s my type, Iris?”
I gesture vaguely. “Her.”
He throws me a lopsided smile. Son of a…I think he’s enjoying my jealousy.
“Nothing happened,” he says.
“I don’t need details,” I reply quickly. “I just need to know you’re not here with me while someone else is waiting.”
“I’m not,” he says. “Iris, you’re still my place. Being apart didn’t put anyone else there.”
His sincerity draws a nod from me, and a tear I barely manage to contain.
He adds, “Nothing happened with Mary Peters. We shared a bungalow, separate rooms. She worked while I read.”
I smile. “Reading what? How to outbid powerful men at art auctions?”
“Something like that.”
“Did you know?” I say lightly. “You just went head-to-head with one of Manhattan’s wealthiest investors over your…pubic hair.”
He barks out a startled laugh. “My what?”
“You don’t believe me?”
“Please,” he says, mortified. “I do not want to know where that is.”
“Oh, you really do.”
“Iris, I’m serious.” He groans. “The painting stays with you, but technically, I own it now, don’t I?”
“Yes, but—”
He pulls me closer. “Just shut up and kiss me.”
I follow through. Whether it was an invitation or an order, I don’t care.
Our mouths crash. And God, I remember. These are the lips I ached for, the taste I missed in my bones. Our tongues duel, waking every part of me that’s been dormant for far too long, deprived of him.
Our foreheads meet, and our noses brush. There’s nothing between us now.
We break for air, barely, and I search his face. The mystery’s gone, and the mask is off. For the first time, I really look into his eyes.
Light moves through them, framed by lashes too thick for someone who rarely sleeps. There’s a fierceness in them, but it’s tempered by the way they open up when they settle on me. Eyes that could command, but tonight, they offer.
With that, what’s left is real. His hunger, yes, but also the bare truth behind it. The gentleness, longing, and a fragile plea not to hurt him again.
So I kiss him in return, and he wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me in tighter.
My hands find his collar as I unbutton his shirt. His scent clings to him, all him, heady and clean and masculine.
Underneath, hard abs meet my palms like muscle layered over steel. He hasn’t shaved, but somehow, it fits him better.
Soon, I’ve reduced him to nothing but bare skin and heated eyes.
“Let’s skip the paint this time,” he murmurs. “That red stayed for days, and the gold glitter wouldn’t leave my hair even after three washes. Unless…” He hesitates. “Unless you want it.”
He looks so damn sincere, and still ready to give me what I want, even if he dreads it.
I laugh. “You’re just scared of leaving another piece of DNA on my canvas.”
“I want to leave my DNA on you,” he murmurs, and his voice is incredibly husky.
He pushes me back onto the futon, pinning my wrists above my head with one hand. The other makes quick work of my clothes, stripping me with the kind of focus that says he’s been starving. But once I’m bare beneath him, the urgency turns.
He starts with my arms, kisses trailing from my inner elbows to the tips of my fingers. Then his palms skim back down, taking in every curve, every dip, and every inch of skin he once had memorized and needs to relearn. His touch is everywhere, kneading, stroking, circling.
I arch beneath him. It’s not just physical. It’s an internal reaction.
And then he moves lower.
He parts my thighs with unhurried confidence, settles between them, and drags his mouth across the inside of my knee. By the time his tongue finds my center, I’m already shaking.
“Marcus…” It escapes in a breath as his lips close over my clit, his tongue circling with maddening precision. I try to move, but he plants his palms, one flat against my stomach, the other cupping my breast.
He groans against me, like the taste of me does something to him. His tongue flattens, then flicks, then plunges.
He’s not just trying to please me. He’s devouring me.
And it works. God, it works. The pleasure builds fast, like a wildfire in my veins. My hips buck despite his strength, and my legs start to tremble. I’m close, so close…
But maddeningly, he stops.
I gasp, blinking through the haze. “Marcus, I’m begging you. Don’t leave me hanging.”
He rises slowly, his chest brushing mine as he props himself up on his forearms, his hands sliding beneath my pillow. Then, his brow lifts.
Shit.
“What’s this?” he asks, fishing out the small vibrator.
My body burns with embarrassment. Mr. Purple.
“For emergencies,” I mumble.
He draws in a breath as though I’ve just fed him something illicit. “I can see it,” he murmurs. “You, alone here and needing it. You’d wait until you couldn’t anymore. Then finally, you’d give in.” His eyes sharpen. “Who were you thinking of?”
My core twitches. “You,” I confess.
The teasing vanishes, and he goes still, serious.
“Do you want it?” he asks, but his gaze drops lower, and I know he’s not talking about the toy.
“Yes, I want you. Not that.”
“That’s not the question. This,” His hand closes around my throat. “Just because Wolf has been unmasked doesn’t mean your fantasy has to end.”
I inhale in anticipation.
“I want to come with you,” I say. “That hasn’t changed.”
His grip tightens just enough to be felt. “We’ll do that,” he says. “But first, I want to watch how you do it when you’re imagining me.”
He brings the vibrator to my entrance, and I jolt.
The touch is foreign in his presence, too vulnerable, but his hand stays on my throat. His mouth hovers over my chest, murmuring praise with such warmth.
“It’s just us, Iris,” he says softly. “Give it to me.”
He knows exactly when to adjust the strength of the vibration, when to change angles, and how to coax every sound out of me.
The tension builds faster than I expect.
It’s him. The way he watches, and the way he wants me to feel good.
It’s in the press of his hand and the way his thumb strokes my throat, keeping me on the edge of surrender.
And then, when I’m nearly there, he presses firmly at my neck.
That’s all it takes.
I gasp.
The universe explodes behind my eyes. My whole body stiffens as the climax weaves into my unconsciousness. I’m floating and breaking and blooming all at once, straining against him.
Then his hand eases, and I suck in air like it’s the first breath of my life.
“Iris?”
I follow his voice.
When I open my eyes, he’s there.
“I’m okay,” I whisper. The way he looks at me makes the idea of ever leaving him again feel unthinkable.
“Welcome back.” He kisses me, his mouth greedy, his hands cupping my face. There’s no sign of the toy. Just him.
“What’s your favorite position?” he asks, still offering himself to serve me better.
My brain short-circuits. I should have an answer. Something bold, dirty. But the truth is simpler.
“With you,” I say, then clarify with a half-smile, “I heard the missionary position is good for…starting again. You know, eye to eye.”
He doesn’t mock me for it.