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Iris picks him because he’s the least threatening guy in the club.
She’s been watching him for half an hour, and all he does is hang out by the bar looking faintly puzzled by his surroundings. He’s a little baby faced and scruffily hipster, skinny jeans and chucks and a button down shirt, of all things, but he’s nice and tall, and every now and again one of his friends says something that makes him laugh and his whole face scrunches up into a big, easy grin that is off the charts levels of handsome and yes – Iris would happily get with that smile.
He’s there with two friends (one male, one female, neither of whom he appears to be romantically involved with), he occasionally does this awkward little approximation of dancing which is adorable but also makes it clear this is not really his scene. She wonders which of his friends dragged him out tonight, and why.
Either way. She’s taking him home.
“That one,” she nudges Felicity.
“That one?” Felicity cranes her neck, “oh, the baby giraffe?”
“Baby giraffe?”
“He’s all legs and eyelashes.” Felicity pats her arm, encouragingly – and she kind of has a point about the legs. And the eyelashes. “It’s cute. He’s cute. Go for it. And if he turns out to be a creep text me and I’ll send Oliver over.”
Oliver, bless him, tolerates the position of ‘big intimidating fake boyfriend of all my girlfriend’s girlfriends’ on a semi-regular basis. He is here tonight to help Felicity help Iris get laid, propping up their table with an arm around Felicity’s waist and acting like the big, handsome buffer that he is to keep every other guy in here at bay until Iris has picked one out.
“Right, okay,” Iris takes a deep breath. She can do this. She is a cool sophisticated grown up woman and she can definitely do this. “What do I say?”
“Start with hi,” Laurel recommends, over Felicity’s shoulder. “Then my name is Iris, I’m going to buy you a drink.”
“I hear baby giraffes are attracted to confidence,” Felicity nods, sagely.
Iris nods, takes another deep breath, straightens her dress, gets a thumbs up for Felicity and Laurel, and sets off through the crowd.
“Hi,” she says, tugging the baby giraffe’s shirt sleeve, “my name’s Iris. I’m going to buy you a drink.”
“Oh,” he blinks at her and oh, he really is all eyelashes, isn’t he? Wow, “okay.”
Then he smiles, just a little hesitant around the edges, and Iris thinks yeah – yes, she can do this.
“Barry,” he offers her his hand. He has long fingers, and clean nails.
“Nice to meet you, Barry.”
“You um – you mind telling me why you’re buying me a drink?” He asks, and he has to lean down to ask it into her ear over the music, and she doesn’t mind that proximity at all.
“Trying something.”
“Something?”
“Yeah.”
“Like what?”
“Mm,” she glances up at him from under her eyelashes and thinks she can see his neck turning pink, “I’m not sure you’re ready to hear that yet.”
“Oh, okay,” he leans his elbows on the bar, and laughs, self-consciously, and she pretends to feel way, way more confident than she actually is and just casually lays her hand on his arm, like that’s something she just does all the time, stroking his wrist without actually looking at him.
Is he blushing or is it just the heat in here? She decides she doesn’t care. She can see one of his friends – the guy – making an impressed face at Barry out of the corner of her eye.
Half an hour later, Iris leads Barry outside and kisses him against the club’s back wall. He’s a lot taller than her, even in her heels, so it’s not an especially comfortable exercise, especially because they’re in a cold dark alley at past midnight and there’s a drunk guy audibly puking all of a hundred yards away. But Barry isn’t a bad kiss, all things considered – wraps his arms around her, smells like a decent brand of aftershave, strokes his thumb along her jaw, tastes warm and sweet like those weird blue drinks they’ve been serving inside. He doesn’t try to slide his hands too far down her back or go for the hem of her dress. He just holds her and looks a little puzzled, and pleased, and it’s sweet – she likes it. She likes him.
“Uh,” Iris breaks off after a moment, keeping one steadying hand on his shoulder, “buying you a drink was about picking you up and taking you home with me, just – um – if that was unclear – ”
“Yeah, I sort of got that,” he swallows, his voice low and a little breathless. “Um, are you sure?”
“About you?” Iris finds herself giggling, “yeah, I like baby giraffes, they’re cute.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Come on. We’re going to mine.”
“Okay,” he looks completely mind-blown as he lets her lead him to the road and flag down a taxi, and when she leans against him in the backseat he takes the invitation and drapes his arm around her shoulders, and plants a little kiss just below her ear which makes her laugh. She texts Felicity and tells her she can take Oliver home for the night – this is gonna be fine.
“Wow, nice place,” Barry says, as she lets him in.
“It’s my dad’s,” she kicks off her shoes, “no judgement. I’m a poverty stricken free-lancer.”
For a moment, as she watches him politely unlacing his shoes and leaving them all neat and properly lined up next to the door, she vaguely considers offering him a drink or coffee or – but no, no, she wants to get on with this and get him naked as quickly as possible. She’s just drunk and just nervous enough that if she starts trying to make small talk now, she could end up making slightly awkward conversation with a stranger in her dad’s kitchen for the next three hours, kicking him out at four AM and then calling Felicity to pretend it went well. (She may or may not have done that at least once before. It’s never fun.) And that’s not what she wants right now.
“Not here to judge,” he promises, glancing around, “um – I’m presuming he’s not here…?”
“Away for the weekend,” she replies, with a grin, “only reason this is possible. Come on.”
“Okay,” he agrees, contentedly, and follows her to her room.
He compulsively straightens her bedspread before crawling on top of it with her. She’s not sure if he’s really that much of a neat freak or just kind of drunk and distractible. Either way, she tugs him down on top of her and he makes a startled sound and then grins at her and tells her she’s pretty, so she decides she doesn’t care.
They make out on her bed, slow and kinda clumsy – he really is all long limbs and it takes a while to arrange them all so there isn’t an elbow somewhere awkward or a knee off the bed. Still, he’s gentle and attentive. Iris drags her hands up his sides, feeling the way his breath hitches, a little lean muscle under his shirt – boy’s skinny but he’s not all skin and bone, either, she notes, with satisfaction. His hands roam a little, although not especially far. He’s hesitant, and it takes Iris a minute or so of this polite fumbling to work out that he’s not really shy, just waiting for her permission. She grabs his wrist and directs his hand a little further up her thigh.
“There,” she murmurs.
“Oh,” he mumbles, like what’s between her thighs is a revelation, though given how he positions his thumb and forefinger just – yeah – it’s not that much of a revelation; Barry has absolutely done this before. She squirms, comfortably, tugging at his chin for another kiss.
“Can I –“ he’s gently pushing one of her thighs up, and fumbling at the neck of her dress at the same time and Iris realises he wants to take it off. “Um –“
“Yes,” she nods, pushing herself up on her elbows. “Less clothes. Good idea.”
He swallows, visibly, but nods, as she sits up and twists to let him get at her zip.
“God you’re really pretty,” he says, again, “sorry – that’s – I don’t mean…” His fingers trace down the skin between her shoulder blades.
“It’s okay. You should totally feel free to keep telling me how pretty I am,” she glances back at him, “really, that’ll get you places.”
He grins at her – it makes his eyes crinkle up in a way she hadn’t noticed before.
“I mean you’re… really beautiful and I… this doesn’t happen to me very often,” he strokes the nape of her neck, then leans down to press his open mouth there for a second, “or… you know, ever.”
And good Lord he’s precious. Iris twists, so she can cup his face and kiss him, and he kisses her back. But she’s in danger of getting tangled in her dress at this angle so she stops to shrug it off. Barry goes wide-eyed in the soft glow of her bedside lamp.
“Oh, wow,” he mutters, “okay. Wow.” And yeah that’s pretty gratifying, as reactions go.
“Your turn,” she directs, firmly, and he obediently unbuttons his shirt and kicks off his jeans.
He’s all soft, pale, lightly freckled skin and dark hair and big, warm eyes – and yeah, there’s a little more muscle there than she would initially have expected on his frame. She runs her hands over his biceps, experimentally, then down to his abs (he has a six pack? He has a six pack. Wow. Awesome.) She sees his small, pleased smile at her reaction.
“Lightening kind of gave me abs,” he tells her, with something bright in his gaze, “it’s a long story.”
Now that she hasn’t magically disappeared from his arms, and it’s clear this isn’t a joke and Iris isn’t about to change her mind, Barry has started to pick up some confidence. His eyes never leave her, his expression sharp and attentive, his hands questing steadily across her body, shaking just a little (so are hers; that’s fine; that’s sex and alcohol and being wide awake at 2AM and lots and lots of pheromones); he lays her back against the pillows and goes nuzzling at her neck. He drags his teeth across her throat, and he slips his knee between her thighs and – yes, perfect – Iris rolls her hips enthusiastically.
“Mm.”
“Good?” He asks, close against her ear.
“Yes.”
“Good.” He mouths at her a while longer, nips at one of her earlobes, then tugs down her bra to do the same to one of her nipples.
Iris sighs, contentedly.
The best thing about Barry, though – even after the nice aftershave, the big crinkly smile, the unexpected abs – turns out to be that he goes down on her without even having to be asked. Just – slides his hand into her panties, where she’s already pretty much ready to go let’s be honest, because between him kissing her neck a lot and her grinding against his knee this is all going straight to her clit. He gives her a quick, questioning eyebrow and then thumbs over where she’s slick and willing, and Iris exhales, heavily, because yes, god, yes please.
Barry kisses her mouth, all soft and sweet and not too much tongue, then grazes his lips along her jaw, her throat, makes his way down her body – and then – yeah. Okay. Someone has trained this boy fantastically well. She’s going to have to find out who his last girlfriend was and call her to offer a personal vote of gratitude. He. Is. Awesome. At this.
He doesn’t actually take her panties off – he pushes them out of the way and uses the fabric for friction on her clit whilst he pushes his fingers inside her, laps with the flat of his tongue, sets up this agonizingly steady rhythm. And then he… hums. Low and tuneless, and in with the other wet-flesh, ruffled-sheets, caught-breath sexy sounds it’s a little strange; but it feels amaaaazing.
Iris arches, sinks her fingers into his hair, may or may not nearly suffocate him with her thighs and comes with a shakey groan, gasping for breath.
Barry sits up between her knees and wipes his mouth, then grins down at her, his hair ruffled, his cheeks flushed. Iris manages a melty, boneless smile from the pillows, and he leans back over her to kiss her. She licks the salt-slick taste of herself out of his mouth.
“You are – really good at that.”
He shrugs, looking just a little smug. “Yeah?”
“Mm.” Iris giggles, because he’s ridiculous, all adorable and that good at oral sex holy god she picked a winner. She tugs his arm, pulling him down to kiss her again. “Mmhm.”
“Mm.” He mumbles contentedly against her mouth.
When she’s managed to catch her breath, Iris reaches down to start to roll back the waist of his boxers. “Do you have a condom?”
“Yes,” he nods, “I have – three.”
“Such a boy scout.”
He grins and disappears off the bed for a moment, rooting through his jacket pockets. “I like being prepared. I also always carry a penknife and a flashlight. And I have no idea why you need to know that.”
Iris giggles at him from the pillows, rolling onto her stomach and folding her hands under her chin. “You’re cute.”
“Thank you.” He holds a little foil square aloft. “Got one.”
His hands are trembling so much she has to help him put it on, and he makes this really fantastic string of consonant sounds when she palms his length, gives him a gentle, experimental squeeze.
“Okay,” she murmurs, “come on, then, boy scout.”
Iris puts Barry on his back, this time, and straddles him – he gazes up at her, one steadying hand on her hip, his mouth open, his breath hitching like he’s trying to breathe her in, drink her up. She sinks down onto him and he looses another string of discombobulated consonants, arches, tips his head back against the pillows and yeah – Iris kinda knows what he means. He feels good. This feels good.
She braces one hand over his shoulder, leaning down to brush her mouth to his, rocking experimentally forward – and back – and forward – Barry groans, low in his chest, and bucks his hips.
“God.”
“I know,” Iris whispers, and Barry smiles, shakey but eager, warm and crinkly.
He wraps one arm around her as she leans over him, brings his free hand to her face. “You’re incredible.”
He sounds absolutely sincere, and Iris kisses him, because she wants to believe he means it – that she can find unexpected intimacy with a nice boy and a one night stand and it can feel warm, like they know each other better than they do.
They trade lots of messy, open-mouthed kisses as they move together – Barry is all clumsy enthusiasm and Iris is all sweat and salt and heat and past the point of caring about the amount of tongue, really, as long as he kisses her and moves with her and – yes – like that –
After maybe five minutes Iris surprises herself with a second orgasm (normally she’s one and done for the night – she’s fucking Barry because she enjoys that particular activity too, not because she especially expects to come again), and Barry holds her tight, one hand on the back of her neck, the other massaging her shoulder blades, grazing his teeth on her neck, bucking up into her increasingly erratically as Iris rocks and rides him through her climax. He comes groaning against her temple, chanting what she’s fairly sure is some kind of mathematical formula which – whatever, it’s cute. She kisses him once more before she rolls off him, gasping for breath.
And then there’s this soft, lingering silence. Barry has one arm draped over his eyes, his chest flushed red and heaving. Iris can feel her own sweat cooling on her skin, lingers in the pool of the afterglow for a moment – then sees the condom seeping and hastily peels it off him. Her bedspread is dry clean only.
He blinks at her from under his arm. “Oh. Sorry. I should of – ”
“It’s okay.” Iris drops the condom into the empty coffee mug on the floor at the end of her bed (neat freak she is not), and flops down next to him again.
He smiles at her, dopily, and she smiles back.
“Um,” Barry manages, after a moment, going bashful again, now, passing a hand over his face and then dragging it through his hair. “That was… I’m feeling like I should thank you, here, or something.”
“I think I got my fair share out of this arrangement,” Iris stretches, languidly, meets his gaze and then laughs at the look on his face.
“Still.” He reaches for her hand and draws her knuckles to his lips, planting an unexpectedly sweet kiss there. Iris touches his jaw, biting her lip – then she leans closer, just enough to kiss him, sucking on his lower lip.
“You wanna get under the covers?” She thumbs his chin, gently.
“You’re not kicking me out?”
“Mm, no,” Iris sits up and begins to tug back her bedsheets, “you’ve earned yourself a nap. Come on.”
He grins and crawls under the covers with her – carefully arranges those long limbs of his so there’s room for her in amongst them. He still smells pretty good, all things considered, she thinks, as she nestles against his chest. And because the moment seems to require someone to say something, she plucks the first question that comes to mind out of the air.
“What kind of aftershave are you wearing?”
He laughs, drowsily. “It’s my dad’s. I can’t afford the good stuff normally.”
“I should thank your dad. You smell amazing.” Iris stretches out, feeling deliciously loose in her own skin.
“I’ll let him know.” Barry is grinning down at her, all shy, sleepy affection, delicately touching the nape of her neck, playing with her hair. Iris settles again, yawning, enjoying the way he’s looking at her, like he can’t quite believe his luck.
She plays her fingers up and down his shoulders, tracing patterns between his freckles.
“So what were you up to in that club tonight?” She asks, softly. “No offense – doesn’t… quite seem like it was your scene.”
Barry goes quiet for a moment, and Iris realises she might have touched on something uncomfortable, his hand on her neck stilling. Then he manages a small, sheepish smile.
“My friends – Cisco and Caitlin – dragged me out,” he admits, “um, I got dumped. A couple of months back. They’re… trying to help.”
“Ah,” Iris pats his arm, gently. “Kinda bad, huh?”
“Yeah…” Barry sighs, “yeah, pretty bad.”
“Poor baby.”
“Her name was Becky. We’ve been on and off for like three years but this time it’s – it’s definitely off. It has to be off. She was a disaster. The whole thing was a disaster.” He pauses, “I shouldn’t be telling you this. Is it weird?”
“No.” She shrugs – he doesn’t owe her anything, really. “Is she the one who taught you how to do – that thing – with your tongue? And the humming?”
“That? Oh,” Barry might actually be blushing, wow, that’s seriously attractive, “no. Um. I looked that one up myself. I was… kind of a late bloomer so I spent a lot of time – preparing.”
Iris giggles. “That’s my boy scout.”
And yeah, now he’s definitely blushing, but he seems kinda pleased with the way she’s looking at him. “Well. I didn’t lose my virginity till a couple of years ago. And I didn’t want the girl to know, so I did a lot of reading.” He gives her a nudge, “don’t judge.”
“No judgement,” Iris promises, with a small, wry smile. It’s cute. “I was a little late on that front, too. It’s fine.”
“You?” He raises his eyebrows and she giggles at his surprise.
“It’s a choice, okay? I was waiting for the right guy. And then he turned out to be the wrong guy anyway so that was kind of pointless,” Iris waves a hand (she really doesn’t want to be thinking about Eddie right now, seriously, no thanks). “Now look at me, picking guys up in bars like a regular girl.”
Barry is looking at her, warm and appreciative, stroking her arm. It feels nice. Comfortable in a way it really shouldn’t be with some guy she met a little over two hours ago. But Barry seems so easy going, so content in her company. Iris tangles her legs through his, shifting her weight against him, letting the feel of him envelope her. The night seems very small and quiet around them now, and this – this in her room, feels safe. She yawns, listening to his heart beating steadily against his ribs.
Barry is smoothing his hand in slow circles between her shoulder blades. “Um… how old were you? I mean – you don’t have to say if you don’t want to – ”
“Twenty three.”
“Oh,” he blinks, “oh.”
“Why, how old were you?”
“Twenty two.”
“Got you beat, huh?” Iris gives one of his ears a little tweak and he smiles.
“I guess so.” His expression’s sort of – gentle, thoughtful – Iris quirks her head at him.
“Who was your…”
“Ah – that was – the disaster. Becky.”
“Wait,” Iris sits up, blinking down at his sheepish expression. “As in – so I’m only… the second…?”
“If it’s any comfort, you’re setting a pretty high bar, here.”
And Iris finds herself giggling, helplessly, biting her lip, because this is ridiculous. He gives her another nudge. “What?”
“It’s just,” Iris shakes her head, “I’m – oh… god.”
“What?”
“You’re my second, too.”
“I… what?” He looks so confused for a moment that she has to lean down and kiss him. “Seriously?”
And then they’re both giggling, hysterically, like school kids, like idiots, clinging to each other under the sheets. “You’re kidding me,” he gasps, and Iris shakes her head.
“No, no, I’m really not.”
“Oh my god. That’s – what are the odds of that?”
“I have no idea. God,” Iris wraps her arms around him tight, “oh my god.”
“So you were…” Barry considers, “you were just out tonight looking for a – palette cleanser, after Mr-not-actually-right, or something?”
“What? Gross, no,” Iris prods him, “I just – I wanted to have fun. I spent all this time waiting, and then there was this guy and it was gonna be forever except it wasn’t – I didn’t love him, even though I tried really hard and he was everything I thought I should want… it just wasn’t real. And after all that, I thought I just – I deserved something else. Something not so – fraught and – emotional. Something easy. This stuff should be easy sometimes, right?”
Barry grins at her, “so I’m just a notch on your bedpost?”
Iris snorts. “Hey.”
Barry’s laugh is warm, genuine, “I hope I’m a memorable notch.”
“You’re gonna be pretty memorable, yeah.” Way moreso than she was expecting.
***
Iris wakes up next to Barry in the morning, her head kinda thick, her body aching in some interesting places. Her mouth and eyes hurt, and she rolls out of bed to find a glass of water and painkillers, and promptly knocks over the coffee mug holding the used condom in her haste, which is delightful.
That’s why Barry’s first truly post-coital impression of her is of Iris naked and cursing as she hops on one foot to avoid coffee dregs and – you know – bodily fluids, with the daylight coming through the curtains making her scrunch up her face in disgust.
“Um,” he manages, trying to think through a sleep-induced haze, “hi.”
She freezes. “Hi.”
Barry takes her in for a moment, raking a hand through his hair. And he realises that yes – yes – literally everything about last night really did happen and there she is, in the flesh, a real live human woman swearing at her rug, without any clothes on. And then he grins. “Hi.”
“You said that already,” Iris points out, softly, and it only makes Barry’s smile wider.
It turns out that that whole crinkly-eyed thing is just as endearing by daylight as it was last night and Iris can’t help but return the expression, and for a moment they’re both there just sort of smiling at each other, like complete nerds.
“Do you – um,” Barry sits up, gingerly, his hair mussed, his expression foggy, “do you want me to go?”
Iris shrugs, distracting herself from his stupid, adorable bedhead by putting on a t-shirt. “Only if you want to… I mean – if you have some place to – “
“No, I don’t,” he says, just a little too quickly, and Iris catches his eagerness and feels, even through her headache, a slightly unexpected surge of warmth. Damn, this guy has gotten under her skin a little.
“I was just gonna go find an inbuprofen or – do you want one?”
Barry shakes his head. “I kinda don’t get hangovers.”
“Lucky asshole.”
He laughs, sinking down amongst her sheets again, and Iris pads out of the room to brush her teeth and rehydrate until she feels human again. Her skin still smells faintly like Barry’s aftershave and he’s left little bruises on her throat – she inspects herself in the bathroom mirror, thoughtfully, the marks faint but the skin tender – and she wonders about what it would feel like to let him kiss them better, and then tries to remind herself that this is a one night stand.
(One night. And one morning. Because she makes toast and then makes some for Barry, too, because it feels rude to eat without offering him anything.)
“Oh,” he blinks at her when she offers him the plate, “thanks.”
“It’s about the only thing I can cook,” she warns him.
“Well, I appreciate the effort.”
They eat in bed, side by side. Barry is fastidious about crumbs, Iris less so, entertaining herself by watching the way his long fingers work and his adam’s apple bobs when he swallows, thinking about where his fingers were last night – how his neck tasted.
“So – um,” Barry begins, “you said you were a… freelancer?”
“Journalist,” Iris shrugs, “trying to be, anyway. What do you do?”
“I’m a forensic scientist,” he replies, like it’s not big deal, and Iris raises her eyebrows.
“Seriously?”
“Mmhm.”
“In a crime lab?”
“I work for Central City PD, yeah,” he shrugs, awkwardly. “Lab rat stuff, mostly, you know. It’s nowhere near as exciting as those CSI shows make it look.”
“Still pretty cool, though.” Iris considers him, thoughtfully. “Hey, you might have run across my dad.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s a cop.”
Barry nods, swallowing the last of his toast. “What’s his name?”
“Joe West. He’s a detective.”
Barry considers for a moment. “Mm. Yeah, maybe – I might have. I’m really bad with names though.” He picks a breadcrumb out of the sheets and deposits it back on his plate, “does that make you – Iris West?”
“Iris Ann West,” Iris offers him her hand with a sardonic smile.
“Nice to meet you,” Barry shakes it, formally, “Bartholomew Henry Allen.”
“Bartholomew huh?” Iris giggles, “kinda grand.”
“I’m kind of a grand guy,” Barry shrugs, “I’ve got my dad’s aftershave on and everything.”
“Well it’s really nice aftershave.”
And then there’s this strange little pause and a small exchanged smile.
So Iris puts her plate down on the bedside table and takes Barry’s away from him, and he looks faintly puzzled until she takes his jaw in her hands and he says a small, surprised oh right before she kisses him.
He needs pretty much no encouragement to pull her into his lap and slip his hands under her t-shirt, making warm, pleased sounds as she rakes her fingers through his hair and then down his back.
He goes down on her again. Without being asked. And if anything he’s more enthusiastic this time – which Iris spends at least the next fifteen minutes taking great advantage of. Good Lord the boy gives amazing head.
And she thinks, midway through her second orgasm of the morning, that she’s definitely going to have to keep him.
When they get out of bed a couple of hours later, to find it’s almost time for lunch, Barry turns out to make a pretty mean omelette, which he stands in the kitchen cooking for her in his underwear. Iris strokes her fingers down his spine just to watch him shiver, hear his breath catch. She likes the affect she has on him.
He turns the stove off, turns round to face her, picks her up and puts her on the countertop and – yeah they end up having sex there, too. (That’s the third and final condom put to good use, at least).
And Iris looks at Barry, in the daylight, his gaze fixed on her face as he eases into her, his expression drawn tight with pleasure and desire and warmth, his hand working between them to touch her clit, asking softly if that’s okay – does that feel – does she like – and yes Iris tells him, over and over, yes.
Iris comes with her legs wrapped around his hips, locking him to her, close and tight, thrusting back against him. She’s frantic and free and completely undignified and uncaring, the midday sun hot against her back through the window behind her and the neighbours might well be able to see her and she absolutely does not give a shit. Her groan as she comes finds it’s way out from somewhere deep in her chest and Barry hisses and begs, unintelligibly, into her ear, his skin slick under her fingertips. She grabs his chin to kiss him, deep, and he finishes almost with her – then she pushes his sweat-damp hair off his forehead for him, looking down into his face.
“You’re pretty good at this, you know that?” She murmurs – and he smiles and topples forward like a tree about to come down, resting his cheek on her shoulder, nuzzling at her neck.
“We’re pretty good at this.”
“You sure I’m just you’re second?”
“Mmhm.”
Iris sighs, contentedly – and then realises that she needs to get off this damn countertop immediately or they are definitely going to stain the wood. (Also, she needs to disinfect it before her dad comes home).
“Take me back to bed,” she orders, poking his shoulder.
“Mm. Okay. We’re out of condoms, though.” He gathers her up with his long, sinewy arms and gives her a little kiss.
“Oh no. Whatever shall we do. It’s not like there’s any other kind of sex you’re freakishly good at, or anything.”
He laughs, and carries her upstairs.
So ‘one night stand’ turns into more of a weekend, really. Sex and Netflix and talking like they’ve known each other their whole damn lives, cuddling in Iris’ bed and fucking on the floor, in the shower, on the coach, in the kitchen again. He tells her he’s a superhero and she thinks he’s joking until he disappears from her room in a flash of red and reappears five seconds later with chocolate and another box of condoms. And then he tells her everything else, and Iris thinks – fine. Okay. She picked a superhero whose tongue vibrates. Why not?
She picked a superhero who can run faster than the speed of sound and yet he looks at her like she’s the goddamn miracle.
They interrupt themselves only once, for a trip out for Big Belly burger for dinner – which Iris suggests they could? Maybe? Count as their first date?
“Not all that romantic, though, is it?”
“I don’t know. Eight orgasms in twelve hours feels pretty romantic to me.”
He laughs, and holds her hand all the way home.