Koa
There's an art to life's distractions
"I live to serve." Koa's answering murmur is husky and low, his voice catching in the folds of his tightening throat. It's not the only thing that's tightened: there's an appreciable tent rising at his crotch, the thin material of the boy's board shorts doing nothing to hide his growing arousal.
And who could blame the boy his eagerness, with a dish like Flora arrayed at his feet? She may be employing some obvious tricks, but fuck If they aren't working. His grip on the peach tightens as he gazes down upon her, eyes slipping from rosy lips to a gloriously tanned bosom and back with an artist's slow appreciation. His thumb rubs over the soft skin of the peach; he, like her, is imagining how it would feel to caress her corresponding anatomy instead.
Well. In for a penny and all that. "Looks like you might need a hand after all - may I?" Again he shifts behind her, this time well within the realms of her personal space. Only now he kneels down as well, copper eyes raking over the taper of her waist, the sharp edges of her scapula, up to the curve of her neck. His calloused hands are surprisingly gentle as they flit up to her shoulder, fingertips grazing purposefully against her as he pushes the mane of long blonde hair away from sticky skin and grasps the strings of her top. This close and her aroma is positively heady, a delicious and intoxicating thing he desperately wants to taste; he leans in close, not quite enough to touch but almost, almost, almost.
"What do you want, Flora?" The words are whispered into her ear, his nose a breath away from the auricle, his lips desperate for her neck. His hands still linger over her bindings, knot untied, unraveled, unwound, ready as he is to fall away. "Because you know I want you."
And who could blame the boy his eagerness, with a dish like Flora arrayed at his feet? She may be employing some obvious tricks, but fuck If they aren't working. His grip on the peach tightens as he gazes down upon her, eyes slipping from rosy lips to a gloriously tanned bosom and back with an artist's slow appreciation. His thumb rubs over the soft skin of the peach; he, like her, is imagining how it would feel to caress her corresponding anatomy instead.
Well. In for a penny and all that. "Looks like you might need a hand after all - may I?" Again he shifts behind her, this time well within the realms of her personal space. Only now he kneels down as well, copper eyes raking over the taper of her waist, the sharp edges of her scapula, up to the curve of her neck. His calloused hands are surprisingly gentle as they flit up to her shoulder, fingertips grazing purposefully against her as he pushes the mane of long blonde hair away from sticky skin and grasps the strings of her top. This close and her aroma is positively heady, a delicious and intoxicating thing he desperately wants to taste; he leans in close, not quite enough to touch but almost, almost, almost.
"What do you want, Flora?" The words are whispered into her ear, his nose a breath away from the auricle, his lips desperate for her neck. His hands still linger over her bindings, knot untied, unraveled, unwound, ready as he is to fall away. "Because you know I want you."
To somehow escape the burning weight, the art of scraping through
