"A man falls in love through his eyes, a woman through her ears."
Iris doesn't wholeheartedly believe that, not only because she's tired of abstractions on the state of men and women (by men too, at that), but also because she's certain Barry is an exception.
She'd like to assume such a generalization of women doesn't apply to her as well, but she also can't deny the power words exert on her, how much they move her, the extent that they can seduce her. She can't help it: it's her love of writing coupled with how Barry somehow transforms from a disordered flood into an expressive fountain when it comes to her.
But she can't accept a sweeping description of men when she knows one like Barry, and it's not just his speed that sets him apart. Barry Allen was made to love, he was meant to love. And when he himself falls in love, he does so with every part of his being.
That's why she makes sure to douse his face with her hair when she bends over to kiss his throat, witnessing the quiver of his ribs the moment her scent hits him. It's why her insistent mouth will part his swollen lips, so that he can taste the tang of her eager tongue. It's why she'll bring a hand to link her fingers with his slender ones, because every bit of her wants to be joined to every piece of him. It's why, in the feverish midst of moving together, she brings her lips to his ear:
"Barry," she breathes, brushing the sweat-laced locks out of his forehead as he trembles. "Barry, open your eyes," she coerces with a gentle whisper.
His lashes flutter. She's met with a reverent shade of green that fades as his eyes roll back while warm fluid pulses through her, and Iris is forced to consider that perhaps Barry is like most men after all.