Page 22 of Iris Kelly Doesn't Date

She was being kind. Stevie’s studio apartment had a rust-covered stove and plumbing that squeaked every time she flushed the toilet. Still, she’d made it hers and had coated one wall with chalkboard paint where she scribbled out her thoughts most nights—the evening brain dump, her therapist called it—used high-quality dove-gray bed linens Ren had helped her find on sale, and covered her pink velvet thrift store couch with a blanket she crocheted herself the week she and Adri broke up.

“You want something to drink?” Stevie said, heading to thekitchen area and opening the fridge. “I don’t have much. Water. Some tomato juice I think might be expired.”

Iris just shook her head and sauntered—yes, fucking sauntered—toward Stevie.

“I think we can skip the pleasantries,” she said, hooking her arm around Stevie’s waist and pulling her close.

“Oh,” Stevie said, a nervous laugh bubbling up from her gut. Iris pressed her mouth against Stevie’s throat, then slid down to her collarbone. “Okay. Wow.”

Iris froze. Looked at Stevie. “You still want to do this?”

“Yes,” Stevie said, even as her stomach gave a worrying lurch. Fuck this anxiety. “Absolutely.”

She took Iris’s hand and led her toward her neatly made bed, which was centered on the chalkboard wall. A single lamp on the nightstand was on, casting a calming golden glow over the small space.

She kissed Iris. She tried to kiss her like she’d kissed her in Lush, but it was so quiet, all Stevie could hear was the sound of her own blood rushing through her ears.

“Maybe if we had some music,” she said.

Iris smiled. “Sure.”

Stevie plucked her phone from her pocket and selected something slow and languid. Calming, yet sexy.

It helped. She breathed in... breathed out. Looked at Iris who, fuck, was really, really beautiful. In the clearer light, Stevie could see that Iris had bottle green eyes and her hair was an even deeper red than Stevie originally thought, almost ruby in tone. She was a little shorter than Stevie and curvy, with a small waist and breasts that filled her sweater, thighs that pushed the limits of her tight jeans. Stevie felt ravenous looking at her. Desperate.

She also felt terrified. Because Iris was way out of her league. AndIris had been right—shewasgood at this. She’d probably gone home with a stranger dozens of times before, knew exactly how to smile, how to touch, how to fuck like it was nothing more than bodies coming together.

Stevie wanted that. She wanted to be like that, like Iris. Sexy and strong and sure.

So she dug deep for Stefania. She closed her eyes, cupped Iris’s face in her hands, and kissed her. Not soft and slow, but hard and hungry. Iris responded, opening to Stevie, tugging at Stevie’s belt loops. She moaned into Stevie’s mouth, and Stevie knew she was already wet—that they both were—and it gave her the confidence to pull at Iris’s sweater.

Iris took the hint, yanking the green garment over her head and tossing it behind her. Stevie had to stop and stare. Had to. Iris’s bra was a dusky pink and completely sheer, her nipples already hard and straining against the fabric.

“God,” Stevie said, and Iris laughed.

“Yeah?” Iris said.

Stevie nodded. “You’re gorgeous.”

Iris smiled, but Stevie could swear a little blush swept over her cheeks. “So are you.”

Stevie closed her eyes. She couldn’t imagine getting undressed in front of this woman. Suddenly, she was thirteen years old again, standing in her middle school’s locker room the week after she came out, feeling every eighth grade girl’s eyes on her back as she undressed. A few of them wouldn’t even change in front of her—they insisted on going into a bathroom stall.

She shook her head to clear it. No idea why that memory popped into her head, but now that it had, she couldn’t seem to get it to go away. That feeling—self-conscious and lonely and, even though she knew it wasn’t true, like she was somehowwrong—lodged its claws into her heart, her chest, her stomach.

“Hey,” Iris said, setting soft hands on her waist. “We really don’t have to do this.”

“No,” Stevie said a little too loudly. She softened her voice. “No, I want to. I really, really do.” She kissed Iris again, putting all she had into it. Iris was sweet. Iris wouldn’t hurt her or make fun of her. Yes, she would leave her, but she was supposed to. That’s what a one-night stand was, by definition. Stevie just needed to get out of her head. She needed to listen to her body instead of her brain.

Iris’s hands drifted over Stevie’s ribs. “This top?” she said, mouth on Stevie’s jaw. “Has been driving me crazy all night.”

“Really?” Stevie asked. “M-maybe we should take it off.”

“Maybe we should.” Iris’s hands roamed over the fabric, over Stevie’s breasts. She released a little groan. “No bra. Fuck, that’s hot.”

Stevie froze. Shit. She’d forgotten this shirt was tight enough that she didn’t need a bra. Her chest wasn’t anything impressive. Half the time, she went braless even in T-shirts, but tonight, she was cursing the decision.

Because as soon as her top was off, she’d be naked from the waist up.