Iris
Sunlight streams through my partially open curtains, painting warm stripes across the tangled white sheets. I wake slowly, my body pleasantly sore in ways I haven’t felt in years. An arm is draped heavily across my waist, and for a moment, I’m disoriented—and then the memories of last night come flooding back.
Arthur. The museum. Dancing in the rotunda. And then…
I shift slightly, turning to look at the man sleeping beside me.
My heart swells with a tenderness I’ve been trying to suppress for so long. Last night felt like coming home–like finding a piece of myself I didn’t even realize was missing until it slotted back into place.
Arthur stirs, his arm tightening around me. Slowly, his green eyes flutter open. They find mine immediately.
“Hey,” he murmurs. His voice is deliciously rough from sleep, a sound that I have to admit I’ve missed sorely. over the past five years. Right now, every part of me hopes to hear it as often as possible, even if life and responsibilities and the sake of “taking things slow” makes that impossible.
“Hey yourself,” I whisper back. My face heats as his eyes flick over me, lingering briefly on my exposed breast, nipples slightly peaked in the morning coolness. But I don’t cover myself.
Wordlessly, his warm hand slides up my bare back, pulling me closer until I’m nestled against his chest.
“Sleep okay?” he asks.
“Better than I have in ages,” I admit, and it’s true. Arthur isn’t the only one who has had a bad sleep schedule for the past five years. Last night might have been the first night in a long time that I didn’t pass out from exhaustion/ after painting into the wee hours of the morning.
“Good.” His hand continues its gentle exploration of my back, drifting lower to trace the curve of my hip.
But despite the warmth of the moment, I find myself tensing slightly as his fingers brush across the faint stretch marks that pattern my lower belly and hips–little souvenirs I picked up from carrying Miles for nine months.
It’s been years since I’ve been this exposed with someone, and my body has changed since Arthur last saw it. The pregnancy and childbirth left their marks.
Normally, the changes don’t bother me. But I can’t deny the fact that now, in the light of the morning and with no alcohol clouding my system, I’m a bit self conscious.
Arthur notices my tension right away, just as I feared he might. His hand stills, and he pulls back slightly to look at me. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, but the word comes out too quickly to be convincing.
His eyes search my face. Then understanding dawns in them as his fingers brush across a particularly prominent stretch mark that stands out from the rest of my skin. “Iris.” he says softly, “you’re beautiful. Every inch of you.”
I bite my lip, embarrassed. It feels ridiculous to be self conscious, but I can’t help it. “I’m different now. My body
Before I can finish, Arthur moves down the bed, pushing the sheet away to expose my stomach. I have an instinctive urge to cover myself, but he gently catches my hands.
“This,” he says, pressing a feather–light kiss to a stretch mark on my left hip, “is beautiful.” Another kiss, to my lower belly where a particularly prominent line crosses. “And this.” His lips move to my right hip, just above
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where my thigh begins. “And especially this.”
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Arthur continues.kissing downward, his breath warm against my skin as he lingers on each and every mark. His fingers trace a pattern of lines above my belly button, and then he dips his head one more time to kiss the apex of my thighs, causing me to inhale sharply.
Coming back up, he offers me a tender smile. “I think it’s sexy as hell that you bear these marks. Please don’t try to hide them from me.”
“I never…” My throat bobs. “I haven’t been with anyone since the pregnancy. I’m not used to anyone seeing them.”
“Well, get used to it,” Arthur murmurs, moving back up to kiss me properly on the mouth this time. “I intend to memorize each one.”
My breath catches again, even more so as his fingers dig lightly into my hips, tongue exploring my mouth. We’re just starting to get carried away again when the sound of a knock on the door interrupts us.
“Mommy?” Miles calls. “Are you in there?”
“Just a minute, little wolf,” I call back, scrambling to find something to wear. Arthur hands me his t–shirt from the floor, and I pull it on quickly. It falls to mid–thigh, covering enough to be decent. It smells like him, too, and I want to bunch it around my nose and inhale deeply like an infatuated weirdo, but I control myself.
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While Arthur dresses, I slip out of the bedroom. Miles is in the kitchen now, standing on his tiptoes trying to reach the cereal boxes on the top shelf. Scout curls around my legs, crying for his breakfast too as I make my way over to-
Miles.
“Here, let me help,” I say, retrieving his favorite cereal.
Miles eyes me curiously and wrinkles his nose. “You smell like Daddy.”
I feel my face heat up. “Well, um…” I busy myself with opening a can of wet food for the cat, if only to hide my blush, “Daddy spent the night. We had a sleepover.”
Miles looks wounded. “You didn’t invite me?”
“It was an adults–only sleepover,” I say with a soft laugh, ruffling his hair. “Next time, kiddo.”
He accepts this explanation easily, which I’m grateful for. pour his cereal and set it on the table, then feed the cat and start making coffee, hoping Arthur has managed to make himself presentable.
A few minutes later, Arthur emerges from the bedroom, wearing his pants but with his hair still deliciously rumpled–and shirtless, of course. Miles looks up from his cereal, eyes widening in surprise.
He doesn’t even notice when Scout jumps up on the counter and begins lapping at his milk. I shake my head and scoop the kitten up, holding him against my chest while he mews and squirms.
“Ooh, so that was your shirt!” Miles exclaims.
Arthur and I exchange a look, and I can see he’s trying not to laugh. “Yep,” he says, grabbing the cat and ruffling his ears as he passes. “Your mom stole it.”
Miles looks at me. “Since there’s three of us, can we have pancakes instead?”
I roll my eyes. “I just made you cereal.”
“Next time,” Arthur says, accepting the cup of coffee I hand him. The idea of a next time after the magical night we had makes my stomach flutter with excitement. “I’ve got to head to work soon.”
Miles looks a little disappointed, but doesn’t argue. While he eats his cereal, Arthur and I sip our coffee in silence, occasionally glancing at each other.
Each look sends fresh heat roiling through my veins, and at one point, as he not–so–subtly reaches over my head to “grab something“-even though there’s nothing to grab other than the edge of the cupboard–I have to press my thighs together to keep them from shaking.
It’s just like old times, and I want more of this. I don’t even care if it’s greedy of me. I want all of him.
But alas, it can’t last forever. We’ve both got responsibilities today, so, after I reluctantly give Arthur’s shirt back, he kisses me goodbye. With that, we part ways, promising to have another date soon–maybe one that involves Miles.
The rest of the morning passes quickly. I help Miles dress for the day, do a load of laundry, and meet with the Abbott director to discuss my current progress. But all the while, my mind keeps drifting back to last night and this morning–to Arthur’s touch, his words, the way he made me feel whole again.
By mid–afternoon, Miles and I are both restless.
On impulse, I decide to take Miles on a walk to my favorite coffee shop. We throw on hats and sunglasses to at least attempt to keep our identities hidden, and then head out with Emi trailing behind at a respectful pace.
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The coffee shop is busy but not packed. I order my usual late and a chocolate croissant for Miles and I to share, adding a sandwich and a coffee for Emi–which she thanks me profusely for. She takes Miles to a table in the corner to settle in while I wait for our order.
As I’m picking up our food, I’m so absorbed with thoughts of my night with Arthur that I don’t notice someone approaching me. I turn, not expecting anyone to be there, and my body bumps into a sturdy chest. Suddenly, hot coffee is spilling across my blouse.
“Oh!” I gasp, jumping back.
“I’m so sorry, Iris,” a familiar voice says as a pair of hands move forward to dab at the stain with a napkin.
I look up in shock to see none other than Caleb Willford standing in front of me.
