lay your soul onto mine
Flora snickers, shaking her head as she leans against the wardrobe, fingers still curled lightly around the key. "There's a difference between stripping down because you like feeling the sea breeze against your balls and doing it because you can't stop staring at my tits and keep folding way too early," she points out, her grin sharp, her aqua eyes gleaming. "I don't mind either way, obviously, but one of them means I get to take all his money." And to see him get all boyishly ruffled, which she adores.
But then she pulls open the door and actually sees what's inside, which all but slaps the smirk right off her face.
The moment she does, everything stills—just for a fraction of a second. It's instinct, really, the way her mind leaps to the obvious connection, a knee-jerk thought that she can't smother before it blooms in full. It looks like a wedding dress. White lace, delicate and shimmering, hanging among Jack's neatly arranged shirts and waistcoats like it belongs there.
The thought is ridiculous, though. Obviously. Jack isn't the marrying sort. Jack isn't even the serious relationship sort, except, well—he is, with her, but that was only because of a series of incredibly fucked up sets of circumstances that all but bound them together. But a white lace dress hanging in his closet? That's something right out of the nonsense she lets herself daydream about when she thinks he's asleep, so the fact that he's gone and made it real..
Flora's fingers ghost over the fabric, soft and reverent, before she forces herself to smirk over her shoulder at him, tilting her head just so. "Your hands will have to be real clean before I let you touch me in this," she teases, her voice breezy as if she might blow away the surely ludicrous thoughts trying to take hold in her mind.
But then she pulls open the door and actually sees what's inside, which all but slaps the smirk right off her face.
The moment she does, everything stills—just for a fraction of a second. It's instinct, really, the way her mind leaps to the obvious connection, a knee-jerk thought that she can't smother before it blooms in full. It looks like a wedding dress. White lace, delicate and shimmering, hanging among Jack's neatly arranged shirts and waistcoats like it belongs there.
The thought is ridiculous, though. Obviously. Jack isn't the marrying sort. Jack isn't even the serious relationship sort, except, well—he is, with her, but that was only because of a series of incredibly fucked up sets of circumstances that all but bound them together. But a white lace dress hanging in his closet? That's something right out of the nonsense she lets herself daydream about when she thinks he's asleep, so the fact that he's gone and made it real..
Flora's fingers ghost over the fabric, soft and reverent, before she forces herself to smirk over her shoulder at him, tilting her head just so. "Your hands will have to be real clean before I let you touch me in this," she teases, her voice breezy as if she might blow away the surely ludicrous thoughts trying to take hold in her mind.
