The fabric, warm and musky, covered her nose and mouth. The scent, concentrated, filled her lungs. The pheromones, trapped in the cloth, flooded her system. Her knees buckled. Her hands, reaching up to pull the pants away, gripped the fabric. Held it. Her fingers, trembling, did not pull.
"What the hell am I doing?" she whispered into the cloth. The question was directed at herself. The 'why-am-I-holding-his-pants-over-my-face' question that had no answer because the answer was the pheromones and the pheromones did not negotiate.
She pulled the pants away. Dropped them. Her face, flushed and hot, turned toward the bed.
