candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor
Flora paused mid-whisk, her aqua eyes darting toward Jack, narrowing just enough to be playful without losing the heat simmering beneath her expression. "Yeah right," she murmured, her lips curling into a slow grin that could melt butter faster than the stove. "We both know you absolutely do make threats." Just normally not to her, and certainly not about all the sorts of things they might get up to.
Her gaze roved over him—sweatpants slung low, muscles flexing with every deliberate motion of his hands kneading the dough—and gods it was a toss-up whether the temptation to slide her finger along the band of the sweatpants was stronger than her desire to feel his clever fingers work her the way he currently was touching the dough. The contrast of domesticity and the devilish sharpness of him was nearly too much, and Flora swore she could feel her pulse thrumming in her ears.
Tapping the whisk against the edge of the bowl with a deliberate rhythm, she set it down carefully and wiped her hands on a nearby towel, though the cinnamon sugar remained stubbornly smeared across her cheek. "Wrong," she teased, voice low and syrupy as she crossed the small distance between them, her hips swaying just enough to be on the far side of subtle. "The worst thing that'll happen is I'll make you do all of this again until we get it right."
Stopping just short of him, Flora lifted her chin. She was close enough to breathe him in—the salt, the spice, the sea—though not nearly as close as she'd have them be were this scene to play out the way she was inclined to imagine it.
Her gaze roved over him—sweatpants slung low, muscles flexing with every deliberate motion of his hands kneading the dough—and gods it was a toss-up whether the temptation to slide her finger along the band of the sweatpants was stronger than her desire to feel his clever fingers work her the way he currently was touching the dough. The contrast of domesticity and the devilish sharpness of him was nearly too much, and Flora swore she could feel her pulse thrumming in her ears.
Tapping the whisk against the edge of the bowl with a deliberate rhythm, she set it down carefully and wiped her hands on a nearby towel, though the cinnamon sugar remained stubbornly smeared across her cheek. "Wrong," she teased, voice low and syrupy as she crossed the small distance between them, her hips swaying just enough to be on the far side of subtle. "The worst thing that'll happen is I'll make you do all of this again until we get it right."
Stopping just short of him, Flora lifted her chin. She was close enough to breathe him in—the salt, the spice, the sea—though not nearly as close as she'd have them be were this scene to play out the way she was inclined to imagine it.
