#iris adams

I had never been sure if the interior of your apartment matched the make-up of your knife set, or if it was the other way around. None of the rooms seemed to connect, design-wise, anyway. The furniture was all different styles and the walls were painted different colours, but what caught my attention the most were the different photographs in each.

I knew that your bedroom was inspired by your time in Hanoi. The walls were a rich, navy blue and canvas prints of the Vietnamese nightlife and skyline dotted them. Looming mountains and street cars and the sparkling city lights. Every one of them seemed to buzz with life.

Your office, if I had to guess, was Germany; wine-coloured walls and sleek metallics in the furniture. On your desk and the walls were black and white, close-up photos. Condensation on glasses, sloshing bottles of wine, cobblestones and scattering spices. I didn’t know it at the time, but all of them were taken during your time in Berlin.

Your bathroom, admittedly, I thought was pretty non-descript, but there was a notable beach theme with the seafoam walls and single framed photo. The photo depicted a beautiful beach and had the caption Greece, alongside an illegible date written in smeared ink.

The living room, I decided, was Armenia. The walls and furniture were all clad in the warm tones of sunset, with a mismatch of canvas and framed photos on the walls. Some were of bustling city life, some were of historical sites, some were close-ups of food and drink. It was cosy and inviting, above anything else.

Your kitchen was France, Paris specifically, but that was more in the equipment and ingredients you kept in it than anything else. On your fridge, there were magnets from all over the world, but—as I only noticed when I saw it outside of your TikTok—also Polaroids from all the same places. You were smiling with friends and colleagues, laughing and experiencing in a way I almost envied. It seemed that your training in Paris had just been the roots from which your whole life bloomed.

Your apartment and your knife set both matched and reflected you perfectly in your beautiful chaos. You were an incredible patchwork of experiences and knowledge that had built you not only into a wonderful chef, but an incredible human being as well.

Everything about you seemed to blow my dreary, grey life wide open, forcing me to look around at my own poorly furnished, landlord white apartment and ask: “do I even want to be here?”

The answer was no, and it came to me fast enough that I felt a bit guilty about it, selfish, even. I was turning over the question in my head, wondering what in me makes me feel as though I’m worthy of stepping into your world of colour with all of my grey. Would I be taking away from you? Dragging you down? Holding you back? You were a spice market worthy of starting wars over and I was salt and pepper.

It had been two weeks of colour for me, two weeks since that fateful night in the staff room. I’d woken in your prismatic space, in the soft warmth of your bed, with you in the kitchen making me eggs. I’d always been a firm believer in food tasting different when it is made with love, but you only cemented that for me. I’d never quite been able to replicate them on my own, so whatever love you must have put into them must have been something special… Or maybe it was just the rosemary salt.

Your cat, Cannoli, had sprawled across my chest, purring loudly and kneading with her only front paw. I’d always considered myself more of a dog guy, but I couldn’t help but be endeared by her. She was a sweet, black, long-haired kitten with eyes so green they almost looked unnatural. With her missing leg, she reminded me of an old army buddy, one Dr. Jack Abbot, who—last I heard—had a pretty cushy job at a hospital in Pittsburgh. As I scratched behind Cannoli’s ear, I decided that I should introduce the two sometime. You and Jack too, of course.

Cannoli had been a new fixture in your life, one recent enough that I could remember the day you’d gotten her.

You’d found her on the way into work the morning after Halloween, just a tiny little thing trying to take shelter in an overturned garbage can. You were never certain, but you had a nasty suspicion that she was one of the many Halloween “prop cats” that were adopted then abandoned after the holiday. You’d scooped her into your arms, let her burrow into your jacket, then snuck her into the staff room at work.

I hadn’t quite known exactly what was going on, but I knew that something was up from the way that you and Beans kept giggling mischievously all morning. The two of you also kept taking a suspicious amount of bathroom breaks, which—after the habanero incident—I certainly wasn’t one to judge; however, after I took the initiative to follow you and caught you sneaking into the staff room with a couple ounces of sashimi-grade salmon in your pocket, I had a few questions.

I’d found you kneeling on the ground next to a cardboard box that had been salvaged from the recycling bin. A few smuggled tea towels lined the bottom and you were currently baby-talking the box’s contents and feeding it small pieces of salmon. I watched you for a few moments, torn between endearment and annoyance, then cleared my throat.

You jumped like you’d been shot and I couldn’t help but laugh. You whipped around to face me like a deer in headlights, or a kid with their hand in the cookie jar, and your mouth moved like you were trying to speak but couldn’t.

You finally settled on a far too casual. “Hey… Chef.”

“Hey.” I replied, then jerked my chin in the direction of the box. “Whatcha got there?”

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Long enough to see you sneaking salmon out of the kitchen and baby talking a cardboard box, so you’ve either got an animal or schizophrenia.”

You sighed deeply and gestured for me to come over. Once I was kneeling on the floor next to you, out came a flood of apologies and explanations, but I was more preoccupied by the little critter in the box.

“You know this is a health and safety violation, right?”

“I know.” You ran a hand over your face. “I—There’s a twenty-four hour vet clinic by my apartment. I was going to get it checked for a microchip there after work, I just—.” You cut yourself off with a sigh, letting the sentence die in the air between us. “I‘m sorry.”

Endearment had won out at this point. “Listen, I appreciate that you had good intentions. You’re trying to do a good thing. I respect that, health and safety violation aside. Don’t feel like you have to sneak around me, though. If stuff like this happens again, which I’m guessing it will with you, come talk to me. We’ll figure something out. We’ll work together.”

You’d smiled at me then and, despite the cold morning, I felt myself warm down to the tips of my toes.

Back in your bed, in the bleary morning light, Cannoli had shifted her kneading down to the soft of my stomach. A bolt of something ugly ran through me as I suddenly became aware of the soft of my stomach. I didn't want to name the feeling, so I simply lifted Cannoli off of me and got out of bed. She meowed once in protest, then promptly curled up in the warm blankets I’d left on the mattress.

I tugged on one of the t-shirts that I’d moved to your place, my boxers hanging low on my hips, and then moved into the kitchen where you currently were. I could smell the richness of the eggs you were cooking and the trademark salty smell of bacon in the oven. I just watched you for a moment, unaware of my presence and half-dancing to something playing on your stereo, as a fond smile grew on my face. Yep, endearment had definitely won out.

It was the growling of my stomach that alerted you to my presence. Admittedly, it had been quite a night and I was starving.

You turned around, smile bright and welcoming, before abandoning your pan of eggs in favour of wrapping your arms around me. You released me just enough to give yourself enough room to pepper my face with kisses, each one punctuated by a greeting.

I laughed under your touch, lightheartedly trying to extricate myself from you. “Alright, alright, good morning pretty girl, but don’t burn your eggs.”

You swore under your breath and dove for the pan again, drawing out even more laughter from me.

“Not burnt!” You announced, happily.

I just smiled as you divided the eggs onto two plates, then pulled the bacon from the oven and split that up too. Food in hand, you led me to your breakfast nook so we could eat. We sat beside each other, both of us choosing the cushioned bench over the hard wood chairs opposite it, and adjusted ourselves so we could see each other. We ate in blissful, dare I say domestic silence, until our forks scraped the porcelain of your plates and there was little obligation that kept me from leaving. What kept me in that state of overstaying my welcome was nothing but selfish want of you, your space, and (though you’ll give me shit for saying it) your vibe. Both of us had a day off and I wanted nothing more than to spend it basking in you, but a nagging voice in the back of my head told me to leave, that I’d been with you too long, that you were bored.

“I think I might have a shower.” You said, breaking the silence and me from my thoughts. “Care to join me?”

Fuck, you always knew just what to say.

We moved into the bathroom where the lights weren’t nearly as kind, harsh white fluorescents instead of the warm pseudo-incandescents that lit the rest of your space. You paused in the middle of unbuttoning your sleep shirt, a thought hitting you, then darted out of the bathroom again. You called over your shoulder that you were grabbing me a towel.

In the unforgiving light of your bathroom, I couldn’t help but study myself in your mirror. Physically, I hadn’t changed much since we’d gotten together, but next to you all my flaws seemed that much more prominent. Same salt-and-pepper curls that never quite behaved, same lines and wrinkles that marked my face and neck, same softening flesh and skin that was once hard and angular. In my army days, I’d had a rather impressive set of abs, but middle age and years of civvie life had done away with them. Every so often I’d think about getting them back, but then late nights and work stress and good food would, in turn, do away with those thoughts. I could see my age in my hands, the one part of the body that never lied, and I couldn’t help the slight grimace that overtook my face. Surely this couldn’t be what you wanted, right? Some tired, wrinkly old fart with a flabby stomach and no technological skill? Surely you’d be happier with—!

“You okay?”

I jumped a little at your sudden appearance, I hadn’t even noticed your return.

“You were miles away.” You continued, moving to stand behind me. Your hands snaked up and over my hips to settle on the midpoint between my chest and waist. “What were you thinking about?”

I sucked my teeth, unsure of what to say. Feelings of all colours and creeds floated through my head, but with none of the words to describe them properly.

“I just—.” I tried. “Are you sure you want me?”

Your hands fell away from me then, seemingly in shock, before you moved between me and the mirror.

“What are you talking about?” Your eyebrows furrowed, though not angrily.

I blew out a long sigh. “I—Don’t you think you might be happier with someone your own age? I mean, you’ve got your whole life ahead of you, years of travel and learning and colour, and I don’t… I don’t want to hold you back.”

“Are you breaking up with me?” Your voice was small and on the verge of shaking. I noticed the way you’d started to pick at the cuticle on your right thumb, a nervous tic.

“No!” I replied, immediately and far louder than I should have. “No, Iris, I’m not—I want to be with you for as long as you’ll allow me the pleasure. I just want to be sure that you’re okay with that. You’ve lived more than most people ever will, including me. My life has been characterized by Boston, North & Vine, and a shitty kitchen in an even shittier desert in the Middle East… But even in the short time that I’ve known you, you have brought so much—well—life into my world. I don’t ever want to lose that, or you, but I don’t think I could live with myself if I was the one to drain that life out of you.”

Your expression shifted from nervous to warm and you slotted yourself into my arms, your head tilting to press against mine. I could feel your heartbeat against my chest as I brought my arms up to wrap around you, holding you closer and tighter than I ought to have.

“Grant, if I didn’t want you wholly, unconditionally, and exactly as you are, you wouldn’t be in my house right now.” You told me, plainly. “I want to wake up with you, I want quiet mornings and laundry days, I want petty arguments over bad movies and even worse coffee, and I want you warming my bed at night. I like that you’re different to the guys I’ve dated before. Sure, you’re iffy with technology and you sent a thumbs up to my excellently composed nude once—.”

“Okay how many times do I need to apologize for that?”

You just laughed. “—but that’s so small in the grand scheme of things. You can’t put a value on compassion, and sensitivity, and humour, and competency… And you certainly can’t teach someone how to be the sexiest silver fox I’ve ever seen.”

One of your hands had slid downwards to grab my ass. I didn’t flinch at the movement, merely looked down my nose at you and cocked an eyebrow as you looked up and flashed me a cheeky grin.

“You… are trouble.” I told you, a half-grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.

You giggled. “Why don’t we hold off on the shower for a minute?”

“Just a minute? Ye of little faith…” I teased you. “We went for hours last night.”

“True enough,” you conceded, “but I think I’ll be in charge this time.”

I raised my eyebrows. “You go right ahead, pretty girl, show me what you’re made of.”

In retrospect, maybe I shouldn’t have teased you like that.

Before I knew it, you’d shooed Cannoli out of the bedroom and had pushed me backwards onto the bed. Your sleepshirt hung deliciously off your shoulders as you straddled my barely-clothed hips. I was already half-hard at the almost harsh way you were piloting my body, tugging off my shirt and boxers to fling them into a messy heap on the opposite side of the room, but the way you ground your hips against mine had my cock painfully erect faster than I’d ever imagined. Your lips crashed against mine, my hands fumbling for you to pull you closer and closer to me. I wanted you, I needed you, to sit on my face until you came or I died, whichever came first.

My hands found your thighs and I tried to tug you upwards, but you fought against me. Instead, you made a show of finishing unbuttoning your shirt, letting it flow over your arms and the curves of your waist like water before tossing it away. You were practically unwrapping yourself for me, like a gift I didn’t deserve. Your bare breasts appeared from beneath the fabric, leaving you in nothing but the silky panties you’d slept in. I could feel the heat radiating off of your core and into mine, driving me wild in the process.

Your lips found mine again, but only briefly. You whispered for me to keep still as you kissed my face sweetly. Your affections then moved down to my neck, where I’d undoubtedly have hickeys come tomorrow’s shift. You kissed all along my chest, biting and nipping, pain and pleasure, in equal measure. I felt a twinge of that earlier insecurity as you pressed your lips to my stomach, but it was quickly overridden by the whispered praises and compliments punctuating each kiss.

You delivered two delicious bites, one to each of my hipbones, before you traced your fingers delicately over the shaft of my cock. I bucked into the gesture completely involuntarily, trying to stifle the moan that threatened to tear its way out of my throat. “Jesus, sweetheart, give me a warning next time!”

“Sensitive…” You murmured salaciously. “I think I can have fun with that.”

“What do you—?” I cut myself off with a strangled moan as your tongue replaced your fingers.

I had never gotten head from you before. I was more than happy to taste you, then bury myself in your gorgeous pussy, but this was something else. I felt your nails digging into my hips as you took my cock into your mouth, and my brain went blank. I could hardly think of anything but the way you were sucking my cock, it felt incredible, but you had an uncanny ability for keeping me just on the edge and never allowing me to tip over. Whimpers and pleas for permission to come flowed freely from my mouth, inhibited by neither embarrassment nor self-awareness. All I knew was your mouth and its unrelenting pace.

When you finally pulled free from my cock, tears were rolling down my cheeks.

“You okay?” You asked me, dropping the bravado and thumbing away my tears “What colour?”

I gave a few heaving breaths before replying. “Green, so fucking green. Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure, handsome.” You kissed my forehead. “I want this to last after all.”

I watched as you tugged off your underwear, tossing them into the same void where my clothes currently laid, and straddled my hips again. You took my hand and drew my fingers across the folds of your pussy, moaning at the sensation. You were soaked just from giving me head and I could have come from that knowledge alone. My dick throbbed in response and I bit back a groan.

“Do you see what you do to me, Grant?” You whispered to me, beginning to grind yourself against my hard cock. “I came just from giving you head.”

I fully cried out at that. My cock was achingly hard but you weren’t giving me enough stimulation. Your hips rolled against mine painfully slowly, sending lightning up my spine with every ounce of friction.

“You couldn’t see it, but I was touching myself to you, and your pretty noises.” You continued on. “Fuck, you’re handsome. I’m so glad you’re mine.”

“Stop—Stop teasing me.” I choked out. “Please, just fuck me.”

“Say it.”

“What?”

“Say that you’re mine.”

Your eyes met mine with—was that possessiveness?

“I’m yours.” It was barely a choked whisper from me, all that I could manage in the moment.

“Louder.”

“I’m yours—!”

You lowered yourself onto my cock and the moan I let out scared Cannoli in the next room. In the part of my brain that wasn’t addled by you, I recognized the sound of her spooked skitters on the floor. Somewhere between a moan and a yell, I bit down on your shoulder to stifle it. You gasped in my ear at the sensation, then groaned low in your throat.

“You’re so good for me.” You murmured, beginning to bounce on my cock. “I’m so lucky to have found you.”

I couldn’t speak, everything in me was focused on you and the pressure building in me. My muscles felt taut, like a bow strung too tightly, and I clenched my eyes shut.

“Look at me.”

I forced my eyes open and was greeted with easily the most beautiful sight of my life. Your eyes met mine from where you remained bouncing on my cock, your hair was mussed and sweaty, your breasts bounced deliciously with every movement you made. I was desperate to devour you, but all I could do was relish in the pleasure you were giving me. New pleasure, experience and learning and colour.

“You’re mine.” You told me, dead serious. “Never doubt that.”

“I love you.”

The words left my mouth before I could even process saying them. They’d come from somewhere deep, somewhere primal, that was still functioning amidst the sheer overwhelm of our fuck. I could feel you skip a beat in your rhythm, thrown off somewhat, but then you leaned over and pressed your lips to mine.

“I love you too.”

You sped up, finally giving me the stimulation I needed. Your mouth never left mine, moans and whimpers flowing from one mouth to the other. I lost track of where you started and I ended.

Before long, that bowstring in me snapped and I came, hard. I felt you come too, for the second time, and your fluttering walls only drew out my own orgasm. My body shook, my vision went white, and one hand fell down to clutch at your sheets while the other pulled you as close to me as possible.

You pulled off of me and fell onto the bed beside me. We both laid there for a few minutes, panting and staring at the ceiling, hand-in-shaking-hand.

“You okay?” You asked me, eventually.

“I said our first ‘I love you’ and you’re asking me if I’m okay?” I looked over at you, a nervous smile beginning to grow. “Shit, that should have been more romantic.”

You simply laughed and snuggled into my chest. “It was perfect. You’re perfect.”

“And I’m yours.” I added.

Sweet peony and rose danced on the steam as the tub slowly filled; clouds of bubbles puffed high and light, rendering the porcelain bottom a mere memory. Warm, buttery amber glowed against tile thanks to Iris’s Himalayan salt lamp and Grant finally putting the scented candles he bought on a whim to good use. Seaside Paradise and Lavender Escape would have their moment in the sun, after all.

“How long has this been on?” Grant sneered at the lacy bra strap like it insulted his honor.

“Like…17 hours,” Iris winced as she shimmied free of her jeans and kicked them out of view.

He tsked and smoothed his fingers on the underwire. “We don’t need it anymore, do we?”

“No, we don’t.”

Grant slid the straps before deft fingers freed the hooks, the pink lace pooled limp his hand and softly dropped to the floor.

Golden lamplight made Iris’s deep skin shine like rich carnelian, the wafting steam dewed her body, gleaming against the shadows. Her deep brown eyes went tourmaline and her hair furled and wisped at her ears like a halo. His gaze was unhurried, lingering over the soft rise at her breasts, the elegant hip curves that travel down her thighs, stopping at her grey panties.

“May I—?”

“Nah.”

Grant’s touch lingered after Iris backed away. She shot him with a coy look over her shoulder and slinked towards the tub, swaying her hips and bending down languidly to turn off the tap. Iris remained bent and stared at him, making a show of pulling her underwear off, slowing to a teasing pace once she got to the roundest part of her ass. Iris sank low in the tub, a lengthy sigh escaped as the hot water got to work soothing away the jet lag and travel stress She stretched from root to tip, earning a few pops from tense shoulder blades.

“Starting to sound like me,” Grant snorted.

“You’re a bad influence on my bones, old man.” Iris turned in the bath until her hip crested the water, suds glistened and glided over her skin. “Your turn,” she whispered, beckoning with a slender index finger.

“Boston bathtubs aren’t built for two.”

“They should be.”

“I don’t disagree,” Grant lowered to sit next to the tub; knees creaked in protest when he reached the floor. “But if I tried to get in there with you, I’d probably break a hip contorting to fit.” Grant joked. “Pre-war construction didn’t have relaxing soaks in mind, I’m afraid.”

“Cause you were there when they got built.”

Grant rolled his eyes, “walked right into that. To be fair, I didn’t know a beautiful woman would end up bathing in my apartment; couldn’t plan with the builders,” he joked.

“You’re forgiven,” Iris laughed lightly. “I’m taking you to a ryokan the first chance I get.”

“Ah, what’s that again?”

“Hot spring resorts, they’re all over Japan. I spent December in Hokkaido two years ago and booked a stay. Fuckin’ changed my life. We should go to one with a private bath attached to the room, how does that sound, soaking together all day?”

“Tempting,” Grant admitted. “You would probably handle the water better than me, you’re accustomed to boiling hot showers,” he teased.

“Could get more used to them if you joined me,” Iris chirped as she playfully collected a mound of bubbles in her hand.  “Get a change from those ice-cold military ones.”

“They get me clean and wake me up, all I need.”

“Suit yourself. In that case, you got a dream city? Dream country?”

Grant shrugged. “Uh, I got one. Feels sorta basic though, you make me wanna pick somewhere niche,” it was said not unkindly.

“You don’t have to do that; no place is basic!” Iris encouraged.

“I’ll tell you soon, just wanna think on it some more. Now, enough about me, this is for you.”

Sloshing and light splashes echoed off the tile. The bathroom fell to comfortable stillness as Grant ran a shea butter massage bar over aches that were minutes or days or weeks old. He moved gingerly and checked in often when he went over the deep ridges left over from the bra and quietly asked if there were other tender spots with his lips brushing her temple.

“Does this feel good?” Grant asked with slow circles on her sternum.

“Mmm-hmmm…” Iris sighed. The bar practically melted in Grant’s warm hand, creating a pleasant gloss along her skin. She stretched to meet his hand and shivered when it slid between her breasts and back up to her arms. The tenderness of his rough palm in her downy one was always arresting, always cherished.

Grant toyed with how much bass, how much blunt direction to lace in his voice as the longer he worked; air puffed warm against her neck when he gently guided her this way and that. Praise followed soon after, not enough to send Iris to the brink; enough to play, enough to confirm she was open to suggestions. The fondness that greeted Iris when she turned made warmth shoot through her chest.

Grant broke the silence. “Paris.”

“Hmm?”

“I’ve always wanted to see Paris. I know it’s kinda basic, like ‘ah, yeah of course the chef wants to go there,’ but…I dunno, gotta live up to the hype somehow, in some places. I know it’s probably like…a training wheels destination for you but…”

“We can go to Paris, baby,” Iris replied softly. “What’d you think, I’d dunk on your choice?”

Grant shrugged, “you’ve been to so many amazing places, I guess I felt like I needed to pick somewhere more…I dunno…off the grid. Exciting. So, when the old man says he wants to see a heavy tourist city, I—"

“Oh, Grant…” she tutted, caressing his freckled forearm. Her hand was damp and soapy, Grant didn’t care.  

He sighed. “I’m thinking too much again, aren’t I?”

“A little.” Iris poked. “I love Paris, I’d love to be your tour guide,” she murmured.

“Yeah? You’d show me some of your old haunts?” A smile crept up Grant’s lips.

Hers matched his. “Yeah, I could tell you what to do for once. We’ll start making spreadsheets of markets and restaurants to try out when we go. Thank you, baby, you’ve given me a project,” Iris said, ecstatic.

The tension fully left his shoulders, “I’d like that. And I’m glad.”

“Don’t ever feel like you have to impress me with a country you wanna visit, okay? I’d love to be anywhere with you, Grant. I mean it. Plus, Paris is classic.”

Grant laughed, a low and husky thing. He cupped Iris’s cheek and drew aimlessly with his thumb, her skin was rosy from the steam, full lips parted. Onyx eyes were lidded, hungry, and bored into his mouth.

“I like classic,” Iris whispered.

His thumb dragged across her petal-soft lips and groaned when she caught it with her tongue and sucked it to her mouth. A whimper vibrated through his thumb.

Their kiss began like the steam around them, slow and warm, gentle movement between two things in space. All it took was an eager hand weaving through Grant’s thick, silver curls for the mounting tension to snap like a coiled spring. Chianti lingered and deepened on their tongues, heady and potent when they entangled, swallowing each other’s moans. Dark handprints and streaks littered Grant’s steely grey shirt the more Iris tried to snake her arms around his shoulders, tub be damned.

“I missed you so much,” she panted, kissing him again, and again.

“I missed you too, oh—oh, Iris…Let’s get you up, here…” Grant paused his fervor enough to ensure no one slipped. He knelt before her after that; his towel of choice was purple and patterned with flowers and leaves. She mentioned it being her favorite once in a fleeting moment when they folded laundry two weeks ago. It smelled freshly washed, a barely-there warmth lingered. A video call could never capture the silkiness of Iris’s thigh in Grant’s hand; a photo would never know how her skin trembled against his lips when he kissed her stomach or replicate the glint in her deep eyes when they met his.

“That all you wanna do tonight?” the hazy tremble in Iris’s voice betrayed her attempt at joking.

“Hardly, sweetheart,” Grant took her hand and kissed each knuckle. “We’re nowhere near done, but I wanna take my time, my girl is back I need to savor this.”

“Aww…I like being your girl,” Iris whispered, honest and quiet and sweet.

“Fuck…” Grant rasped.

“Promise?” she muttered, tilting her hips forward, eager and baiting and torturous. 

“Yeah, baby. I promise.” With a final kiss to her upper thigh Grant stood and wrapped the towel loosely around her chest; the glint in his eye was deadly when he hoisted her up, carrying her to the bedroom. A gasping laugh echoed through the bathroom before morphing to giggles, pulsing and muffled into his neck.

Splayed out across the bed, Iris sighed against sage green sheets. Before long she settled into a lounge, the elegant line of her spine twisted so she faced him; her soft breasts tumbled forward, and her hip crested high and smooth in the pose.

“Off,” she purred, eyes hungry.

“Yes, ma’am,” Grant chuckled.

Decades of labor, of walking b-lines in tight corners and balancing heavy pots and boxes and dishes and whatever else landed in his hands over the years told its story over peach skin. Wide trapezius muscles flexed when Grant reached far back and peeled the shirt smoothly, slowing only to remove it without tearing. Iris followed the slope of Grant’s sharp deltoids and triceps, the smooth, defined curvature in his solid, twitching biceps, committing every line and shape to memory.

“Ooh…” Iris sighed when Grant turned, allowing her drink in his bare chest.

“Gonna do that every time you see me shirtless?” he chuckled, suddenly bashful.

“Not every time, but if I haven’t seen it in two weeks? Yes.”

For the first time that night, Grant blushed. Not much phased him, not at fifty-two, not after how much he’s worked and seen. But here, the way her dark eyes raked over the deep valley between his pectorals and toned abs, the way she licked her lips counting each oblique cascading down his sides all smoothed by the natural cushion of time, unmoored him. Iris didn’t shy away from the lines that betray late nights and unknown stresses that permanently etched his features, she celebrated, cherished, desired them. Featherlight touches graced his back and chest before, in the wee hours when Iris decided to count his moles and freckles, charting them like stars. Sunspots and patches of tan skin on his forearms and shoulders were compared to nebulas more than once, with a voice as delicate as her touch. Grant thought it was corny. The first time.

“Those too,” Iris shooed away Grant’s flannel PJ pants.

Grant tugged with more force than necessary, letting out a heaving sigh at the relieved pressure on his cock growing harder the longer it dressed to the left in his boxer briefs.

“What else do you want, Iris?” Grant murmured. Her name tasted like a prayer now, a natural place to land on his lips, a thing to keep the heart beating.

“Come here,” she held out a hand.

Lacing their fingers together, Grant let himself be pulled in. He crawled until they lay side by side, drawing lazy circles on her thigh.

“Tell me what to do,” Iris whispered.

Grant shivered, ceasing his movements. “Yeah? That what you want?” His hand slid from her leg to the crest of her waist, his fingers painted lazy, tender brush strokes over russet stretch marks.

“Yeah,” she whimpered. “Just need you…”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Grant gently tilted Iris’s chin. “All you need to do tonight is feel, okay? I wanna take care of you.”

Fondness softened the edges of her lustful eyes, “okay.”

Almond, cherry-red nails raked over the wispy hair dusting Grant’s broad chest while large, vascular hands grasped and kneaded tender thighs and looped around her hips. Moans bubbled from her when blips latched her neck; teeth scraped against her pulse while his hand traveled down, fingertips ghosting her mound.

“You miss my fingers?”

Grant pressed wide and flat against her folds, working her in slow circles. Iris mewled, her legs already jiggled as she breathed deeply and wrapped her arms around him, trying to maintain her dwindling composure.

“Y-yes…yes, baby…hah…” Iris writhed. Squelching, clear and obscene, permeated the room after a miniscule amount of attention. Grant hummed his approval hot against her neck; his breath tickled, goosebumps bloomed when Iris squirmed at the sensation.

“Oh, listen to that…missed me that much, hm? Gonna cum just from touching you like this?” Grant cooed, lecherous.

His fingers moved vertically now in something that resembled a rhythm, a steady cresting and ebbing like waves over her cunt. The flat of his palm pressed her sodden, flushed ripe clit. Iris clenched around nothing.

“Grant…!” she cried.

“I was joking, but you actually might. Sensitive tonight aren’t ya, baby?” he tutted.

Thickened arousal meant very little friction, her gummy muscles accepted him easily. Iris threw her head back with a moan, finally in his ecstasy.

“Mmhmm, yes, Iris. I’ve waited so long for this.”

 She missed the dull tension his thick fingers gave when he first entered her, the control in his hand, the intense focus in his eyes when he pumped, like his mind only registered pleasuring her.

“Mmmgh—hah…oh, Grant…mghh, fuck—” Iris purred into his chest.

“Fuck, Iris…takin’ me so well already, good girl,” he murmured low with a sigh, sated, like Grant was a man starved and her moans were his sustenance. Her wanton noises went straight to his cock now achingly hard in his briefs; he could reach down briefly and adjust, squeeze it for a second to bring some relief. But that would mean a second of not touching her, not doing what brought those noises in the first place, and any second would feel like a millennium too long.

Iris squirmed in his embrace when the arm around her shoulder moved to her front and held her full breast. Grant hummed when the weight of it heaved in his palm, his fingers molded around her softness easily. A calloused thumb rolled and teased her pert nipple, the warm tingle cascaded from her chest and jolted anew with each pass. His touches toed between all-encompassing and barely there and feather light, enough to make her focus on the feeling, on him.

To pay attention.

“Grant it…fuck—it feels so…feels so good, baby…oh…” Iris cried.

“Good, that’s exactly right baby, I wanna hear you feeling good—ooh, shit…” Grant hissed when Iris’s pussy throbbed at his praise, sucking in his fingers deeper. “Squeezing around me already, damn…this what you needed right, just needed me in this pussy?”

“Yes…!”

“Mhm, I know, baby, I know,” he kissed her again, quick and bruising that swallowed her moan. “Tell me what else you need.”

“I need to touch you.”

Grant’s laugh was huffed, heated. Carefully, he slid his fingers from Iris’s warmth, she tasted rich and heady on his tongue. He sat on his knees and beckoned her to follow. “Get up here.”

Iris kissed him sloppily when Grant pulled her in. His grip wasn’t ungentle, there was an edge, a claiming in the way his hands eclipsed her love handles, an affirmation that this was happening and they were together.

That she was his.

“Finally, I can get my hands on this,” Grant grasped her ass cheeks, giving them an appreciative squeeze. Iris squealed and responded with brushing kisses over his chest, she tasted his sweat on her tongue.

She tugged his underwear off, sighing along with Grant when his cock sprag free. Once he was in her hand, Iris’s stomach flipped. Grant was at full attention now, pulsing and flushed pink, the head glistened with pre-cum that dripped lazily from the tip; her hand nearly wrapped around him, if she gripped enough.

“Ahh…! Hah—fuck,” Grant thrust into her hand, just as sensitive and desperate as she was. Iris’s lustful gaze found his when she held the base; she bit her lip as every ridge and vein ran beneath her hand, slicked with pre-cum. Inch by inch, Iris worked up his girthy shaft, relishing in the heat and hardness with long, relinquishing strokes. She glanced at his face, Grant’s mouth hung open with heavy breaths, sweat-dewed pectorals glistened in the low light. His grip on her tightened with a jerk when Iris sped up, lewd, pumping wet sounds mixed with their heavy breaths. A swipe over his leaking tip sent Grant rolling heavily onto Iris and whimpered hot and needy in her ear.

“You want to fuck me, Grant?” Iris panted.

“Yeah…y-yeah baby, I wanna fuck you…Want me to fuck you?” Grant whimpered.

Her strokes were erratic now. “So badly…please…”

“Say it. I wanna hear you say it,” Grant urged.

“I want you to fuck me, please…please Grant…”

“Good girl,” Grant shivered. “Lie down for me.”

The warm plush squished beneath her weight when Iris fell into the pillows, she opened her legs broadly, nerves hummed in anticipation of what would come after. Grant towered over Iris even as he knelt, his strong form radiated heat and power thrummed through him. He spat in his palm, dirty and primal and grasped himself tightly, the last bit of build-up he needed before he lowered and lined up between her legs. Iris keened when he entered her, his blunt, thick head creating the pressure she yearned for, craved for weeks. Grant rumbled low and hot, spilling languid profanity in her ear.

“Fuck…that’s it, that’s it baby let me in…”

Iris sobbed when he bottomed out, the ache burned deliciously in her core. “Hah--! Oh…Grant, fuck!” Iris keened into his neck. Nails dug in deeper to  the meat of his shoulder, arms tightened around him.

“Yes, yes, good girl,” Grant praised through gritted teeth through the sting of her hands; he cocooned her with his arms and cradling her head. “You took me so well…” he breathed into her skin.

“K-keep going…keep…move, move p-please…” Iris stirred.

“Already? It’s not too much?” Grant panted.

She shook her head, “I can…I can take it…please…”

“Hah—oh—I know you can…ah…I know you can…”

Grant was slow at first, careful, measured things, though Iris’s face was painted in ecstasy even after so little movement, her brows furrowed and eyes screwed shut, full lips agape produced cloying sounds.

“Beautiful…you’re fucking beautiful like this,” he grunted. “You feel so good, squeezin’ me tight, huh? Need me this close to you?”

Iris whimpered, “m…mhmm…yes…yes…Need you…” She rose to meet his grinding hips, blushing at the praise. His words did the work of hands sometimes.

“G-good, that’s good, baby. I need you too…ah!” Her walls were silky and snug around him, drenched flesh slid loud and sticky between their bodies with each thrust. Sweaty thighs that hung tightly around his hips slapped rhythmically when he increased his pace.

“Ah! Oh, oh Grant—Gr-ah, fuck…” Sex wafted the air, cloying and heady and intoxicating, stronger than any vintage. He changed his pace, slow, deliberate, nearly punishing when his cock hit her g-spot enough to reduce Iris to a babbling, needy mess, gasping with every thrust.

“I’m…Grant, I think I’m…oh god, oooh…”

“I know…I know, baby, I’ve got you,” Grant murmured over knocking skin. “You-you’re doing so well…you always do—fuck—my good girl.”

Iris sobbed and tightened around him again, the term of endearment never failed in setting her alight. An orgasm tugged low and deep in her stomach, drawn ever closer by Grant switching speeds back to rolling thrusts. He pulled away by half before slamming insider her again; Iris’s pussy chased his dick, pathetic whimpers rang from her each time, protesting him not taking her with every second they had left.

“I’m gonna cum—Grant I’m…fuck I—”

“Go on, Iris. Go and cum on my cock, cum for me, that’s it…” He growled into her throat.

Iris screamed his name in his shoulder when she orgasmed, it was out a high and broken cry of relief, trembling at the edges. She clawed at him when she reached the peak of her climax, holding fast when her thighs jiggled and an impossible warmth washed across her body and spilled from her. Grant soon followed, coming with a shuddering grunt that tensed every muscle and coated her spongy pliant walls in his hot, thick spend.

The air finally stopped vibrating as they slowly came down, one deep breath at a time. Lead-limbed, Grant cupped Iris’s cheek and kissed her cheeks and dewy creases of her eyes.

“Iris? Iris, look at me; I miss those beautiful eyes,” he murmured.

Blurry colors slowly gave way to complete forms; Iris laughed wetly when he was clear in her vision, peach and muscle and gentle hazel eyes met her.

“Grant…Grant…” Iris whispered softly, her fingertips lightly skated over his wrinkles and laugh lines, desperate for another piece of evidence this was happening; she blindly kissed his jaw and searched for his hair, sighing when silver strands coated her fingers.

“Yeah, sweetheart, I’m here. I’ve got ya, just breathe…” Grant guided through his own labored lungs.

Iris remained in his embrace when Grant rolled them on their sides; her hips were strained and tender from molding to his for so long, the change in pose made some of that pressure abate. But that little adjustment made the other ways Grant’s overwhelming presence was felt; her cheek squished against wispy chest hair, stubble scratched at her forehead, heavy sweat filled her nose and solid muscles pressed against her lips. He was still inside her.

“You okay?” Grant rasped with a lazy hand along her arm.

“Mhm…very okay. That was fun,” Iris slurred.

“Very fun,” he chuckled into her hair. “Do you want me to—"

“No, no, I…I like you right here,” she whined, slowly wiggling at the gentle pressure.

Grant huffed, breathless. “Alright then, let’s stay like this for a while. I’ll need to pull out eventually, get ya some water and clean up, keep taking care of you.”

“You’ve been taking care of me since I got home, silly,” Iris murmured. “Let me remember how this feels.”

“Want me to sleep inside you for the next few days?” he joked, sarcastic.

“Wouldn’t hurt,” Iris whispered, blushing.

“Until when?”

“At least Tuesday.”