your touch brought forth an incandescent glow, tarnished but so grand
The touch of his hands roars loudly in her thoughts even as his grasp grows gentle before she shifts, thinking instead of the angle of him inside of her as she sits down against him and grinds her hips forward and back. At some point Flora's eyes have closed to better aid her in strapping on her mental blinders and it's only as his lips trickle down her neck that they open, her fingertips pressing against the back of his head.
no you don't Flora thinks, the words shimmering above the mirage her arousal has created to hide what was beneath. you don't. Months ago, when they'd sat together at the top of the Last Step with acres of white beneath them and stars above, he'd told her as much. Ain't sure I could ever bring myself to love anyone, he'd said, the sentiment repeated again and again in everything he'd ever said to her on the subject, and all of his actions since. For all that Jack wasn't, in this, he'd been completely honest. It was Flora's fault for naively pushing ahead, thinking she could do what he said couldn't be done—didn't want to be done. Only what had started out as a girlish game had turned into something real along the way, and—
—reaching for his chin, now it was Flora's turn to direct his lips against hers. The pace she was setting was wonderfully slow, but already she could feel the pressure of orgasm beginning to build. It ballooned inside of her, an easy distraction from the rapidly unravelling strings of red and gold.
no you don't Flora thinks, the words shimmering above the mirage her arousal has created to hide what was beneath. you don't. Months ago, when they'd sat together at the top of the Last Step with acres of white beneath them and stars above, he'd told her as much. Ain't sure I could ever bring myself to love anyone, he'd said, the sentiment repeated again and again in everything he'd ever said to her on the subject, and all of his actions since. For all that Jack wasn't, in this, he'd been completely honest. It was Flora's fault for naively pushing ahead, thinking she could do what he said couldn't be done—didn't want to be done. Only what had started out as a girlish game had turned into something real along the way, and—
—reaching for his chin, now it was Flora's turn to direct his lips against hers. The pace she was setting was wonderfully slow, but already she could feel the pressure of orgasm beginning to build. It ballooned inside of her, an easy distraction from the rapidly unravelling strings of red and gold.
