candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor
"Did I?" Flora wonders, raising a brow as if completely unaware of having praised her portion of the rolls. As he reaches for her, her breath catches audibly. The casual tone of Jack's words, paired with the heat of his touch and the firm press of his body against hers, sends a wave of molten warmth spiralling through her core. Her aqua eyes widen slightly, her lips parting as though to respond, but no words come—just a soft, breathy sound that betrays how thoroughly he’s unravelled her composure.
Her mind is a dizzy haze, her thoughts tumbling over one another in fragmented bursts; of his hands on her, of the impossible heat between them, of the casual audacity with which he claims her attention. Flora tilts her head back slightly to meet his gaze, her aqua eyes darkened with want, her earlier playful edge entirely replaced by a simmering hunger.
A shiver races through her as his thumb brushes against her nipple, her body arching instinctively into his touch. "Jack," she finally manages, though her voice is soft, breathless, and far less commanding than she’d intended even as her every thought begins to curl at the edges with smoke and heat. Without hesitation she rises onto her toes, her body pressing teasingly against his as her lips crash into his. Her fingers tangle into his hair, tugging slightly as she pulls him closer; every ounce of teasing, every moment of anticipation, pours into the way she claims his mouth, her body melting against his with the sort of insistence that suggested she wanted nothing else than what he'd promised her.
Jack could blame her for this all he liked, but he was the one who dared to prowl around her kitchen with such sleepy domestication, who'd chosen to work the dough with the same maddeningly confident and deliberate fingers that he used to touch her. If her thoughts had spiralled into something molten and sinful, it was only because he’d decided to turn her kitchen into a scene straight out of her wildest fantasies (fantasies Jack would have too easily been able to pluck straight from her thoughts).
Her mind is a dizzy haze, her thoughts tumbling over one another in fragmented bursts; of his hands on her, of the impossible heat between them, of the casual audacity with which he claims her attention. Flora tilts her head back slightly to meet his gaze, her aqua eyes darkened with want, her earlier playful edge entirely replaced by a simmering hunger.
A shiver races through her as his thumb brushes against her nipple, her body arching instinctively into his touch. "Jack," she finally manages, though her voice is soft, breathless, and far less commanding than she’d intended even as her every thought begins to curl at the edges with smoke and heat. Without hesitation she rises onto her toes, her body pressing teasingly against his as her lips crash into his. Her fingers tangle into his hair, tugging slightly as she pulls him closer; every ounce of teasing, every moment of anticipation, pours into the way she claims his mouth, her body melting against his with the sort of insistence that suggested she wanted nothing else than what he'd promised her.
Jack could blame her for this all he liked, but he was the one who dared to prowl around her kitchen with such sleepy domestication, who'd chosen to work the dough with the same maddeningly confident and deliberate fingers that he used to touch her. If her thoughts had spiralled into something molten and sinful, it was only because he’d decided to turn her kitchen into a scene straight out of her wildest fantasies (fantasies Jack would have too easily been able to pluck straight from her thoughts).
