• WATTYS 2022 WINNER •
When Iris Monet married millionaire Jared Darling, she had only one rule - that he could cheat on her with anyone except the household staff. This arrangement of theirs would have gone on quite happily if she hadn't caught him...
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akai 👁
SOFT lips that taste like honey. Skin smoother than the finest silk. The inner dip of her waist, the curve of her frame, her breath in my ear ... and her eyes, her beautiful eyes, filling my entire vision.
"Tell me you want me," Iris whispers, and I groan from sheer torture.
She glides lower and lower, hands touching my chest, then the navel of my stomach and still lower she goes, until finally, she dips her head and I arch –
My eyes slam open and I find myself staring at a white ceiling. Dazed. And breathing very hard.
"Oh. You're awake."
Iris is standing in front of the mirror, combing her hair. She's dressed in an oversized tee and a pair of shorts so short that all I can see are her bare legs. My loose pajama shorts grow uncomfortably tight. And when she starts tying her hair, they become tighter still.
I close my eyes desperately. Stop. There's no time for this. I need to assess the situation.
I'm in the bed of Iris Monet. I'm in my pajamas, even though I have no memory of putting them on. And the light scent of vanilla coasting off me tells me that I took a shower without my usual Lifebouy.
My eyes open with the solemnity of a man who's about to embark on a life-changing journey. "Last night, did we ..."
"You took a shower, changed into pajamas, and fell asleep on the bathroom mat." Iris speaks with the bluntness of a large hammer. "I had to haul your ass up onto the bed. And I slept in the chair."
"Oh." I'm still not looking at her. "I'm surprised you didn't try to pull anything."
"You sound disappointed."
"I'm not."
"You do a little." She clears her throat. "Anyway. You should get going before your family finds out you're not in your bed."
I don't reply for a second. "I can't."
"What are you talking about?"
Keeping my face neutral, I finally look away from the ceiling and at Iris. "I'm ... not appropriate."
"I don't – " Iris's eyes trail from my knuckle-white grip to the way I'm trying to wear the blanket like a turtleneck. "Oh. I see. I mean, I don't see. I mean I get it."
God, her legs could kill. "Can I trouble you to put on a long gown?"
"Yes. Of course. Right." Iris grabs at the gown so hard that the hanger comes off the rod with it. And I'm pretty sure she just tied a dead knot with that belt. "Done."
The awkwardness in this room is a lot more tangible than any feeling has the right to be. Even the bird on that sapling outside seems to be singing directly at me, to the tune of you done fucked up. And now I'm thinking of the word fuck. Along with its linguistic definition and various possible visual expressions.
