Running Home to You
She lifts the hem of his tee, untucking his undershirt from his pants with skill. She’s not sure what exactly she’s expecting, they had only been apart for seven days, but she’s nonetheless relieved to find the same navel splashed with dark hair, the same pale freckled skin, the same slim hips just as she had left them, just as he had always been.
She feels his chuckle under her palms before she hears it leave his throat. As she skirts her hands across his abdomen, upwards to his chest, intending to pull both garments over his head, she’s taken aback by the sudden motion of him sitting upright and flattening her back against the mattress instead.
“Not so fast,” Barry teases, sliding the sleeves of her dress down, unveiling one shoulder at a time. “I’ve missed you too, you know.”
While he’s bent over kissing her collar, she squirms beneath his weight, desperate to resume her previous activity, longing to make up for a lost week of touching him. She can sense his smirk stretch wider against her skin the more she twists under him.
“Give up,” comes his raspy, satisfied voice midway through kisses.
One thing Iris knows she won’t ever do is that, not especially after she has him back in her arms again, has the promise that he’ll keep running home to her still ringing in her ears, has the symbol of his devotion wrapped around her finger, has supposedly only months left to be with him.
So she takes a deep breath before slowly plunging a hand below his waistband, finds where he’s already stiff between his thighs.
That halts his kissing, replaces it with a sigh of warm breath into her neck.
“Iris…” he croaks, and it’s her turn to feel satisfied, to edge him to give up.
When he cups her cheek and coerces her to look at him, when she meets his earnest, pleading eyes, the satisfaction wanes.
“Please,” he whispers. “Please let me make it up to you…”
You already have. She wants more than anything to make him believe it, make sure he knows that it doesn’t matter to her anymore who’s right or who’s wrong, who left or who stayed. What does matter is every possible hour of theirs that remains, that every minute of his is spent with her or running back to her.
Still, she relents, for his sake.
She withdraws her hand from his length, out of his pants to link her fingers with his, making sure he can feel the silver of the ring she wears, a ring that graced the fingers of the Allen women of the past, that assures her she may live to become an Allen herself, that she will live to marry the man gazing down at her, the way no one else ever has.
“Alright then,” she murmurs, raising the hem of her skirt, bringing his hand to her thigh. “I guess it’s my turn to sing.”