4. IVAN
IVAN
I can still hear Iris's breathless laughter ringing in my ears as I pull into the driveway, adrenaline pumping through my veins like we're teenagers who just pulled off the heist of the century.
"Did you see Madison's dad's face when he turned on the lights?" She's doubled over in the passenger seat, curls bouncing wild around her flushed cheeks.
"Pretty sure he thought we were raccoons."
"Giant, six-foot-four raccoons." She wipes at her eyes, and I'm caught by how alive she looks—no uptight walls, no careful composure. Just Iris, glowing and real and right here next to me.
We stumble out of the car, and she's still giggling as we hit the front door. I unlock it, push it open, and she breezes past me into the dim hallway, spinning around to face me with those huge amber eyes sparkling.
"That was insane. Completely insane."
"Told you." I shut the door behind us, and suddenly the house feels too quiet, too still. The air shifts.
She's staring up at me, chest rising and falling too fast, wet curls clinging to her neck from our impromptu swim. A single drop of pool water trails down her throat, disappearing beneath the flannel—my flannel—plastered to her body.
The space between us evaporates.
I cup the back of her neck, fingers threading through damp silk, and pull her mouth to mine.
She freezes—just for a heartbeat—then melts. Her innocence and inexperience show in the tentative way her lips move against mine, uncertain and seeking, but it drives me wild. I kiss her harder, deeper, swallowing the small gasp she makes when I tilt her head back and taste her properly.
Her hands fist in my shirt.
I walk her backward through the hallway, never breaking contact, guiding her with my body until her spine meets the wall. She whimpers into my mouth, and I swallow that sound too, one hand braced beside her head while the other slides down to grip her hip.
"Ivan—"
I capture the word before she can finish it, nipping her bottom lip, and she arches into me. I shift us toward the stairs, then down the hall, maneuvering her through the doorway into my bedroom without letting go.
The door clicks shut behind us.
I pull back just enough to see her face, my chest heaving against hers. Those wide amber eyes lock onto mine—equal parts terrified and wanting—and I hold her gaze as my fingers find the top button of the flannel.
My flannel.
I pop it open. Wait. She doesn't move, doesn't protest, just keeps staring at me like I'm unraveling every defense she's ever built. I undo the second button. Third. Her breathing hitches, but she stays frozen against the wall, pinned by nothing but the weight of what's happening between us.
The flannel slides off her shoulders, pools on the floor.
Her thin cotton shirt comes next. I grip the hem, lift it slowly over her head, and her arms rise on instinct. The fabric catches briefly on those wild curls before falling away, leaving her in just her bra and jeans.
She swallows hard, and I track the movement down her throat.
I reach around her back, find the clasp. Flick it open. The bra loosens, and I ease the straps down her arms, my knuckles brushing against soft skin that makes her shiver. When it drops, her breasts spill free—full and heavy and already beading with milk at the tips.
"Ivan..." Her voice cracks.
I don't answer. Just move to her jeans, thumbing the button open while she watches me with those huge eyes. The zipper hisses down. I hook my fingers into the waistband, taking her panties with them, and tug everything down her hips, her thighs, until she has to step out of them completely.
She's naked.
And immediately her hands fly up to cover herself—one arm crossing over her breasts, the other pressing between her legs.
I catch her wrists. Gentle but firm.
"Don't."
"I—"
"Let me see you."
She trembles under my grip, and for a second I think she'll fight me. But then her arms go slack, and I guide them down to her sides, releasing her wrists so she's fully exposed.
Jesus.
Cream-and-honey skin everywhere. Soft curves that beg to be touched. Dark curls tumbling over her shoulders. And those perfect breasts, nipples pebbled tight, already leaking tiny beads of white that trail down the swell of her chest. I've already seen her naked before, but not like this.
"You're beautiful."
Her face flushes deep pink. "Ivan?—"
I lean in and kiss her before she can say anything else—before she can retreat back into that uptight shell. My hands slide around her waist, pull her flush against me, and she gasps into my mouth when her bare body meets the rough fabric of my still-damp clothes.
I walk her backward, step by step, until the backs of her knees hit the edge of the bed. She wobbles, grips my shoulders, and I lower her down slowly, following her onto the mattress until I'm caging her in with my body.
She stares up at me, curls fanned out like a dark halo against my sheets, chest rising and falling too fast.
"We—"
I silence her with another kiss, deep and possessive, swallowing whatever protest she was about to make.
I pull back just enough to see her face—eyes glazed, lips swollen from my mouth, cheeks flushed that perfect shade of pink.
"If you want me to stop, tell me now."
She stares up at me, confusion flickering across those amber eyes. Her mouth opens. Closes. Nothing comes out.
Good.
I push off the bed, stand at the foot of it where she can see everything. Her gaze tracks my movement, locked on me like I'm the only thing in the world that exists.
I reach for the hem of my still-damp shirt, peel it up and over my head in one slow drag. The fabric clings, releases, and I toss it aside. Her eyes widen, roaming over my chest—the baroque ink sprawling across my pecs, down my left arm, the faint scar cutting through it all.
She swallows hard.
I hook my thumbs into the waistband of my jeans. Pop the button. Drag the zipper down tooth by tooth, never breaking eye contact. Her breathing picks up, chest rising and falling faster as I shove the denim down my hips, taking my boxer briefs with them in one smooth motion.
They hit the floor with a wet thump.
Her gaze drops—shy, hesitant—then snaps back up to my face like she got caught doing something forbidden. But it slides down again anyway, tracing over my abs, the V-cut of my hips, lower, lower, until she's staring straight at my cock.
She'd glimpsed my physique during our pool encounter, but had never seen me fully like this.
Her eyes go huge.
I watch the exact moment fear and fascination collide in her expression—the way her lips part on a sharp inhale, how her thighs press together on instinct. She's trying to look away, trying so damn hard, but her gaze keeps drifting back like she can't help herself.
"Scared?"
"I—" Her voice cracks. She clears her throat, tries again. "I'm not scared."
"Liar."
Pink floods her cheeks, spreads down her neck, across her chest. She shifts on the bed, curls tumbling over one shoulder, and I catch the way her fingers twist in my sheets.
"You're just... really..."
"Really what?"
"Big." The word comes out barely above a whisper, and she immediately looks mortified that she said it out loud.
I bite back a grin. "Problem?"
"No. I mean—" She shakes her head, curls bouncing. "I don't know. Maybe?"
"Maybe." I step closer, knee hitting the edge of the mattress, and she tilts her head back to keep eye contact. "You've never seen one before, have you?"
"Of course I have." Defensive. Immediate. Exactly what I expected.
I arch an eyebrow.
"Shut up."
I lean down, brace one hand beside her head, cage her in again with my body hovering just above hers. "You're impressed though."
"I didn't say that."
"Didn't have to." I brush my thumb over her bottom lip, watch her eyes flutter. "Your face said it for you."
She makes this small sound—half protest, half something else—and I capture her mouth again, swallowing it whole.
Her hands come up to my shoulders, tentative at first, then gripping harder when I deepen the kiss.
I settle my weight over her, skin against skin, and she gasps into my mouth at the contact.
I break from her mouth, trail my lips down the line of her jaw. She tilts her head back on instinct, exposing that long stretch of throat, and I drag my teeth over the delicate skin there. She shudders beneath me.
I work lower—across her collarbone, down the slope of her shoulder—and her breathing turns ragged, fingers digging into my back like she's trying to anchor herself to something solid.
When I reach her chest, I pause. Look up at her through my lashes.
Those amber eyes are wide and dark, pupils blown, lips parted on shallow gasps. She's trembling. Waiting.
I lower my mouth to her right breast.
She arches off the bed with a sharp cry when I seal my lips around her nipple and suck—hard. Milk floods my mouth instantly, warm and sweet and so fucking good I groan against her skin. I swallow, pull harder, and more spills across my tongue in a steady stream.
"Oh god—" Her voice breaks, hands flying to my hair, tangling in the strands. She doesn't know whether to push me away or pull me closer, fingers flexing uncertainly.
I knead her breast with one hand, coaxing more milk from her swollen flesh while I drink deep.
The taste is rich, almost honey-sweet with an underlying warmth that's purely her.
I can't get enough. I suck harder, tongue flicking over her nipple, and she whimpers—this high, desperate sound that shoots straight to my cock.
Her hips buck up involuntarily, seeking friction, and I press my thigh between her legs to give her something to grind against. She does, shamelessly, rocking against me while I drain her breast.
When the flow slows, I release her with a wet pop and immediately move to the left. Seal my mouth over that nipple before she can catch her breath. She cries out again, back bowing, and I lap up the milk that's already beading at the tip before sucking hard.
"Ivan—fuck—I can't?—"