Page 6 of Iris
Something moves in the dark, and I nearly spit out the booze. It shoots heat and light in me. The scent of freshly tanned leather wraps around me, and I breathe it in. It’s so strong, so soothing, that I wonder how I hadn’t smelled it when I’d first walked in. Especially if it’s from something like the old furniture. Or?—
Wait, that’s not it. It’s not the room.
A tall, broad man with a shaved head and a scar just above his shirt collar steps into the soft light from the window.
Even though his neck is covered in tattoos, the scar stands out, jagged and raised, across his throat.
Shit. A mark like that isn’t from a papercut. What happened to him?
If I was Mari, I might be interested in the intricate tattoos, the art. If I were Dahlia I might be wondering if he played an instrument. Or, if I was Rue, I’d be peppering him with a billion questions about the scar.
Of course, if I was Vi, I’d apologize, make sure he was comfortable, and high tail it out of here in a nervous burst of manners.
I’m not any of them, so I’m staring.
Not discreetly, either. Full on, mouth agape kind of staring.
He’s gorgeous. Face of an angel. Sharp cheekbones, full lips, hair dark but shorn close to his skull.
And his eyes…a sharp icy blue.
Alpha.
The fact blares in my mind.
But he just stands there, unmoving. Eyes on me.
Heat coils in me, and my body throbs.
No one’s ever looked at me like that before.
Like he can see the secret me.
My heart starts to beat wildly. Does he live here? He has the kind of presence that fills the room suddenly, like he belongs.
Come on, Iris. Don’t just gawk. Do something.
I hold out my hand. “I’m Iris.”
He takes my hand. Doesn’t speak.
“Very nice to meet you, Mr.…Scarsby,” I say, nodding toward the scar. I swear the corner of his mouth flickers up. “I’m tired of being harassed to dance upstairs, so?—”
He pulls me into his arms, and I hold my breath. He’s so tall that I’m not sure my feet touch the ground as he lifts me against him starts to swing me in some kind of boring-ass ballroom dance.
I have no idea what’s going on. It happened so suddenly, and he’s so strong, I just let him glide me along the floor.
“I see you’re a man of few words,” I whisper, trying to breathe as his fingers slide down my back to rest on my ass. All I draw in is his intoxication leathery scent, and it makes me both dizzy and fully awake.
He’s warm, strong, and he makes stone want to melt into magma.
Man, he’s the kind that could make the strongest feminist Omega want to wear an apron, take up baking, and become barefoot and pregnant. He makes things rev.
He’s the one who smells like leather. There’s a hint of spice and smoke in there, too.
The man leans in, and I want to babble at him, but I don’t. I can’t form sound.
My breasts brush up against his chest, and we move sinuously, like we’re one with the music.
