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RUBBING one hand over her eyelids, Iris reached out to grab the alarm clock off her bedside table and felt nothing but warm skin. That's not right. She let her hand rest there for a minute, face twisting with confusion, as she wondered why her alarm clock suddenly felt like a manly, toned chest. Unless ...
Her eyes snapped open. She sat up. Curled up in the sheets beside her, one hand hanging over the edge of the mattress, was Dick Grayson, sleeping like a bear in hibernation. Fuck, fuck, fuck ... Iris looked down and immediately noticed that she was only wearing one of his long-sleeved shirts. Running a hand through her hair, she viewed around, taking in the master bedroom. Her clothes were strewn on the other end of the room, while his were nowhere to be found.
This is bad, she thought. This is really bad. How could she possibly face him at work, more or less when he wakes up?
She glanced at the clock sitting on his bedside table. 5:21 A.M. And somehow, the sunlight was already bursting through the fucking window. She needed to leave. Now.
Iris swung her feet off the bed and felt a sudden pain in her temples once they hit the floor. The pounding only increased as she walked towards her clothes right near the bathroom door, thumping against her forehead as if that was its job. Iris kneeled down to grab her jeans, but as the aching became too much, she found herself doubling over and pressing her forehead into the carpet. "This is awful," she whispered, hands fisted into her hair.
Get up! Her subconscious screamed. Get up before he wakes up and you make a fool out of yourself!
Iris huffed and brought herself up slowly, but the pain didn't lessen. She'd have to suffer through this if she wanted to get out alive. Dick was still snoring soundly in the bed, hardly moving a muscle. She tugged on her jeans and turtleneck before slipping on her favorite ankle boots. Pulling her unwashed hair back into a high ponytail, Iris spotted her coat and purse hanging off the armchair in the corner of the room and grabbed them as quietly as she could.
Dick released another loud snore. Iris glanced over at him. Despite the hangover hammering against her skull, she walked back over to the California King and kneeled on his side. He was in a deep sleep. Iris still found it hard to look at him. Shame crept up on her like a ghost, but she didn't regret giving in to her own desires. She didn't regret holding him so tightly that she felt like her arms would break. She didn't regret locking her legs around his waist just to feel him more inside her. She didn't even regret letting him see such an intimate side of her, something hardly anyone got to see. Iris didn't regret Dick Grayson one bit.
So why did she want to leave so suddenly? Even she couldn't answer that question. Cautiously, she lifted her hand, brushing her fingers across his forehead, moving pieces of hair from his eyes. Her touch lingered for a moment – dusting across his cheekbone, remembering the way his thumbs caressed her own – before she realized how fuckingweird she was being.
