The elevator hummed around us, a low metallic lullaby that did absolutely nothing to soothe the screaming chaos in my skull. Iskanda’s question hung in the air like a guillotine blade—casual, innocent, devastating.
Her eyes were on me, sharp and patient, that faint smirk still playing at the corners of her mouth like she already knew the answer and was just waiting for me to dig my own grave.
Do I stink?
As if she could ever stink. As if the woman who smelled like crushed herbs after rain, sun-warmed stone, and something indefinably commanding could possibly offend anyone’s senses.
My brain short-circuited, synapses firing off in a frantic bid to form words that wouldn’t make me sound like a complete idiot. I opened my mouth, closed it, opened it again—great, now I looked like a fish gasping on dry land.
"N-no!" I stammered, the word tumbling out as if tripping over their own feet. "You don’t stink. Not at all. If anything, it’s—it’s probably me who stinks. Yeah, me. Sweaty, nervous wreck over here. Must reek like a forgotten gym sock left in the sun."
Oh Saints, why did I say that? Inner me was facepalming so hard I could feel the echo in my temples.
Here I was, hand still clasped in hers, trying to deflect with self-deprecation, but all it did was paint me as the anxious puppy I apparently was.
Iskanda’s smirk bloomed into a full laugh then, a rich, throaty sound that bounced off the elevator walls and wrapped around me like velvet ropes. She tilted her head, eyes sparkling with mischief, and leaned in close—too close—her face inches from mine, breath warm against my cheek.
"Oh, you poor thing," she purred, her voice dripping with teasing honey. "You think you stink? That’s adorable. Let’s check, shall we? I wouldn’t want my new favorite to go around smelling like regret."
Her free hand came up, fingers brushing my jaw lightly, holding me in place as if I were a delicate artifact she was appraising.
I froze, every muscle locking up, heart pounding like it was trying to escape my chest and flee the scene. What was happening? Was this real life, or had I slipped into some fever dream where dominant women sniffed you like fine wine?
She closed her eyes then, lashes fluttering shut, and leaned even closer, her nose brushing against my hair.
She inhaled deeply, slowly, making a soft, appreciative hum that sent shivers racing down my spine. "Mmm," she murmured, trailing lower, her breath ghosting over my ear, then my neck, then—oh no, oh Saints preserve me—down to my chest.
She nuzzled there for a moment, taking another whiff, her hair tickling my skin through my shirt. My mind was a whirlwind: Is she really doing this? In an elevator? With me? The guy who trips over air?
I could feel heat flooding my face, my ears, probably my entire existence turning beet red. And then she kept going, trailing even lower, her face dipping toward my waist, and before I could process it, she was nuzzling right up against my panties beneath the skirt.
She took a few short, deliberate whiffs, like she was savoring a secret bouquet. My bulge twitched involuntarily, betraying me in the most humiliating way possible.
I jumped back then, slamming against the elevator wall with a thud that rattled the panels. "W-what—wha—Iskanda!" I yelped, voice cracking into octaves I didn’t know I possessed.
Flustered didn’t even begin to cover it; I was a bonfire of embarrassment, hands flailing uselessly as if to ward off the memory of what just happened.
Did she really just...? No, replay it: hair, chest, lower—yep, she did. My mind raced, looping the scene on repeat, analyzing every second like a detective at a crime scene of awkwardness.
Was this flirting? Teasing? Some power play I was too naive to understand? And why did it make my knees wobble like jelly?
Iskanda straightened up, giggling—a light, melodic sound that contrasted sharply with the predatory glint in her eyes. "You smell rather nice, actually. Like fresh linens and a hint of spice. Very... inviting."
She stepped closer again, not giving me a moment to recover, her presence filling the small space like a storm cloud full to bursting.
I pressed back harder against the wall, but there was nowhere to go. Her giggles faded into that knowing smirk, and she strolled—yes, strolled, like this was some leisurely walk in the park—up to the wall.
She pressed her elbow against it, casual as you please, arm raised high enough that her armpit was fully exposed. And oh, she was sweating now, beads of it glistening on her skin like dew on forbidden fruit.
The scent hit me anew, stronger in this confined space. Musky, warm, utterly intoxicating. My breathing hitched, growing sporadic, ragged little gasps that I couldn’t control.
Iskanda noticed, of course—she noticed everything—and her eyes lit up with wicked delight. "What’s the matter, little lamb?" she teased, voice low and sultry. "Cat got your tongue? Or is it something else distracting you?"
She flexed her arm slightly, making the muscles shift, the sweat catch the light. "Go on, take a whiff. It’s only fair after all. I checked you first. Now it’s your turn."
I hesitated, body trembling like a leaf in the wind, but curiosity—or was it something baser?—pulled me forward like a magnet. Like a jittery puppy approaching a treat, I leaned in, nose twitching, and took a few short whiffs.
Saints, it was heady, salt, herbs, and pure Iskanda, wrapping around my senses like a vice. I felt myself stiffen in my panties, that traitorous bulge growing thicker, and—Gods above—a little leak of precum began forming at the front, warm and sticky against the fabric.
Humiliation warred with arousal, a comedic battle in my head where I was both general and fool. Just as I dared another sniff, the elevator dinged, a sharp, intrusive chime that shattered the moment like glass.
Iskanda pulled back instantly, her posture shifting from teasing predator to composed leader in a blink. The doors slid open with a whisper, revealing the world beyond, and she stalked out with a dramatic sigh, as if the interruption had personally offended her.
"Pity," she murmured over her shoulder. "We were just getting to the fun part."
I stood there for a heartbeat, frozen, before chasing after her like a lost duckling. But as I stepped out, I paused, assaulted by the stark change in scenery.
The second floor was a world apart from the opulent brightness below—oil-black marble floors gleamed under low light, reflecting flickers from a torrent of fireplaces scattered around what looked to be a vast common room.
Deep leather couches sank into the space like invitations to sin, draped with dark silk curtains that whispered secrets as they swayed gently in some unseen draft.
The air was thicker here, laced with woodsmoke and something richer, more primal, like aged wine and hidden desires.
Other Velvets lounged about, their silken collars catching the firelight—some in hushed whispers over goblets, others reclining with lazy grace, eyes flicking toward us with curiosity veiled as indifference.
One group huddled near a hearth, laughter bubbling softly, while another pair shared a blanket, heads close in conspiracy. It felt like stepping into a realm of shadows, luxurious yet intimidating, where every corner held a story I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear.
My skirt swished against my legs as I hurried to catch up, the fabric a reminder of my own vulnerability in this den of elegance.
Iskanda didn’t wait, her strides confident and unhurried, leading us into another set of halls branching off the common area. These were lit by dim lanterns, their flames casting elongated shadows that danced like mischievous spirits on the walls.
She glanced back once, that smirk returning, but said nothing until we rounded the next corner. "Before we stop by my room," she explained, voice echoing softly, "I have some business to attend to."
Her tone was casual, but there was an undercurrent, a hint of something sharper lurking beneath. I blinked, mind still reeling from the elevator escapade, and blurted out, "What kind of business?"
Oh, brilliant, Loona—way to sound like a nosy child. Inner me rolled its eyes: Smooth. Real smooth. As if she’d just spill state secrets to the guy who nearly fainted from a sniff.
But curiosity burned, overriding my better judgment. Iskanda merely smirked at me, something malicious catching in her eye—a glint like polished steel, promising depths I hadn’t fathomed.
In that moment, as we delved deeper into the shadowed halls, I suspected that I was about to step into something far bigger, stranger, and infinitely more dangerous than anything my dumb, horny little heart was prepared for.