9. IVAN #2
My hands frame her face, thumbs brushing away the dampness on her cheeks as I lean down to kiss the top of her head.
The familiar scent of her vanilla shampoo mingles with the cool night air drifting through the open balcony doors, grounding me in this moment—in her safety, her presence, the solid reality that she's here in my arms where she belongs.
"Dance with me."
She blinks up at me, amber eyes still wet. "What?"
"Dance." I step back, extend my hand like some prince from one of those romance novels she devours. "Proper prom experience requires at least one dance."
A small, fragile smile tugs at her lips. "Ivan, you don't dance."
"Never have." I wiggle my fingers. "First time for everything."
She places her hand in mine, lets me pull her close. The music shifts to something slow and romantic, strings and piano weaving through the night. I slide my arm around her waist, press our joined hands against my chest.
Then I move.
Or try to.
My feet tangle immediately, stepping on her toes. I overcorrect, nearly trip us both. When I try to lead, I go left while pulling her right, our bodies colliding awkwardly.
"You weren't kidding." Iris's voice wavers between a laugh and a sob. "You really can't dance."
"Shut up." I count under my breath—one-two-three, one-two-three—but my feet don't cooperate. I look down, trying to figure out the pattern, and nearly headbutt her in the process.
She giggles. Actually giggles.
"Are you laughing at me?" I spin her—too fast, too jerky—and she stumbles into my chest.
"Yes." The smile reaches her eyes now, genuine and bright. "You're terrible at this."
"I'm a lawyer, not a ballroom dancer." I attempt a dip. Almost drop her. She shrieks, clutching my shoulders as I haul her back up. "Okay, that was close."
"Close?" She's laughing for real now, the sound washing away the shadows in her face. "You nearly dumped me on the balcony."
"Would've caught you." I pull her flush against me, give up on any pretense of proper dancing and just sway, rocking us side to side. "Eventually."
She rests her head on my chest, still smiling. We move together under the fairy lights, nothing graceful or practiced, just us. Her body relaxes against mine degree by degree, tension bleeding out with each breath.
Then she looks up. Those amber eyes lock onto mine, pupils dark and wide in the candlelight. Something shifts in her expression—heated, wanting, vulnerable.
"Make love to me."
My brain stutters. "What?"
"I want you." Her voice comes out soft but steady. "I need to feel you, your skin on mine. Make me forget what could have happened."
This sweet, innocent girl asking me to take her, right here, right now. My Iris, who blushes when I look at her too long, who fiddles with her sleeves when nervous—initiating.
"Baby." I cup her face, thumb stroking her cheekbone. "Are you sure? After what just—after tonight?—"
"Yes." She presses closer, fingers curling into my shirt. "I'm sure. I don't want to think about him, about what almost... I just want you. Only you."
I capture her mouth with mine, swallowing whatever else she was going to say.
The kiss explodes between us—desperate, consuming, like we're drowning and each other's breath is the only thing keeping us alive.
Her lips part under mine, and I take everything she offers, claiming her with my tongue while my hands slide into that massive tumble of dark curls.
She tastes like tears and determination, sweetness and fire. Her fingers claw at my shirt, tugging the fabric up and over my chest. We break apart just long enough for her to yank it over my head, then our mouths crash together again, harder this time.
I work the zipper at the back of her dress, the tiny metal teeth separating under my fingers.
The fabric loosens, gaping at her shoulders, and I peel it down her arms without breaking the kiss.
She shimmies, helping me push the material past her hips until it pools at her feet in a whisper of silk and tulle.
Cool night air kisses bare skin. She gasps against my mouth, and I use the moment to trace the seam of her lips with my tongue before diving back in. My hands map the curve of her waist, the dip of her spine, finding the clasp of her bra and flicking it open with practiced ease.
Her fingers fumble with my belt buckle, yanking it free.
The leather slides through the loops with a hiss that makes my pulse hammer.
She pops the button of my jeans, drags the zipper down, and shoves the denim past my hips.
I kick them off along with my shoes, never once letting her mouth escape mine.
We're moving, stumbling, a tangle of limbs and heated skin. My hands slide up her ribcage, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts as I push the bra straps down her shoulders. She arches into my touch, a soft moan vibrating between our joined lips.
I break the kiss just long enough to pull the bra away completely, tossing it somewhere behind us.
Then I'm back, taking her mouth again while my palms cup the full weight of her breasts.
She's leaking already, warm and slick against my skin, and the sensation sends a bolt of pure need straight through me.
Her small hands explore my chest, tracing the baroque filigree of my tattoo, following the lines down my ribs, my abs. When her fingers hook into the waistband of my boxer briefs, I groan into her mouth and help her push them down.
She hooks her thumbs into the sides of her panties—delicate lace that's already damp—and shimmies them down her thighs. I watch through half-lidded eyes as she steps out of them, this gorgeous creature baring herself completely under the fairy lights and stars.
Then we're pressed together again, skin to skin, nothing between us. Her softness against my hardness, her curves fitting perfectly into the angles of my body. I walk her backward until her spine meets the railing, caging her in with my arms on either side of her hips.
"You're mine," I breathe against her lips, capturing them in another searing kiss. "All mine."
She nods, gasping, her nails digging into my shoulders. "Yours. Only yours."
The fairy lights cast shadows across her body, gilding her cream-and-honey skin in gold. She's flushed, pupils blown wide, chest heaving with each breath. Beautiful. Absolutely breathtaking.
And completely, utterly mine.
I sweep my arm across the table. Plates clatter, silverware clangs, candles topple—everything crashes to the floor in a symphony of breaking ceramic and ringing metal. I don't give a damn.
My hands grip Iris's waist, lifting her onto the cleared surface. The white tablecloth bunches beneath her as she lands with a soft gasp, legs dangling over the edge. I step between her thighs, spreading them wider, and capture her mouth again in a bruising kiss.
She tastes like desperation and need, her tongue sliding against mine with an urgency that makes my cock throb.
I bite her lower lip, tugging gently before releasing it to trail kisses along her jaw.
Her pulse hammers beneath my lips as I work my way down her throat, teeth scraping over the delicate column of her neck.
"Ivan—" My name breaks on a whimper when I reach her collarbone, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. Mine. Everyone will know she's mine.
I move lower, kissing across her chest, feeling the rapid rise and fall of her breathing. Her breasts are right there, full and heavy, nipples tight and glistening in the candlelight. Milk beads at the peaks, droplets catching the glow of the fairy lights like liquid gold.
Fuck, she's perfect.
My mouth closes over her left breast, tongue swirling around the nipple before I suck. Hard.
"Oh god—" Her back arches off the table, pushing more of herself into my mouth. Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails scraping my scalp as she holds me there.
Warm, sweet milk floods my tongue. I groan against her skin, the vibration making her gasp and writhe beneath me. The taste is incredible—uniquely hers, slightly sweet with an undertone that's pure Iris. I drink deeply, pulling harder, my hand coming up to knead her other breast.
More milk leaks between my fingers as I squeeze, white rivulets running down the curve of her flesh.
I catch them with my tongue, licking up the trails before switching to give her right breast the same attention.
My teeth graze the sensitive peak, and she cries out, her thighs clamping around my hips.
"Please—Ivan, please?—"