candlewax & polaroids on the hardwood floor
Flora doesn’t have time to brace for it—not really. One moment she’s cresting the peak of pleasure, teetering on the edge, and the next it’s crashing through her like a tidal wave, sharp and merciless in its intensity. It’s too much, it’s perfect, it’s pleasure turned divine, rolling through her in a way that leaves her raw and exposed, stripped bare and utterly, utterly consumed.
Her body seizes, locks, then shatters apart all at once. Her back arches like a bow pulled tight, fingers slipping against the counter as her legs threaten to give way beneath her. Heat spills through her like molten gold, licking up her spine and unfurling through every inch of her skin. It’s bright—too bright—like staring directly into the sun at midday, but gods, she can’t look away, can’t close herself off from it, can’t do anything but feel.
Jack slams into her, drives himself deep, and though she should feel the bruising force of it, the sharp bite of his fingers against her flesh, all she registers is the way he fills her completely, the way her body writhes and clenches, taking him in as though she was made for this; made for him. Somewhere, in the wild, dizzying mess of sensation, she wants to twist in his arms, wants to look him in the eye, wants to beg him to be hers forever. But she can’t—won’t—because another part of her is too greedy, too fixated on this feeling, riding it out as long and hard as she can.
Her moan is wrecked, shaking, more a desperate cry than a coherent sound, her vision white-hot and sparkling at the edges, a dizzying mix of stars and salt and the deep, endless blue of an ocean she’s drowning in. And she wants to drown in it. Wants to sink into the feeling, to let it take her under, to let it leave her breathless and weightless and floating in the wreckage of what she'd previously considered to be her best orgasm ever.
A slow, satisfied smile tugs at her lips, lazy and languid, even as she finally, finally starts to come down from it all. "Shower," she murmurs after a moment, voice thick and drowsy with pleasure. "Then bed."
Her body seizes, locks, then shatters apart all at once. Her back arches like a bow pulled tight, fingers slipping against the counter as her legs threaten to give way beneath her. Heat spills through her like molten gold, licking up her spine and unfurling through every inch of her skin. It’s bright—too bright—like staring directly into the sun at midday, but gods, she can’t look away, can’t close herself off from it, can’t do anything but feel.
Jack slams into her, drives himself deep, and though she should feel the bruising force of it, the sharp bite of his fingers against her flesh, all she registers is the way he fills her completely, the way her body writhes and clenches, taking him in as though she was made for this; made for him. Somewhere, in the wild, dizzying mess of sensation, she wants to twist in his arms, wants to look him in the eye, wants to beg him to be hers forever. But she can’t—won’t—because another part of her is too greedy, too fixated on this feeling, riding it out as long and hard as she can.
Her moan is wrecked, shaking, more a desperate cry than a coherent sound, her vision white-hot and sparkling at the edges, a dizzying mix of stars and salt and the deep, endless blue of an ocean she’s drowning in. And she wants to drown in it. Wants to sink into the feeling, to let it take her under, to let it leave her breathless and weightless and floating in the wreckage of what she'd previously considered to be her best orgasm ever.
A slow, satisfied smile tugs at her lips, lazy and languid, even as she finally, finally starts to come down from it all. "Shower," she murmurs after a moment, voice thick and drowsy with pleasure. "Then bed."
