flora
Flora raises a brow, the very picture of mock disapproval. "A 10/10?" she echoes, clicking her tongue as she snatches the bottle from his hand. "Sorry, babe—my sunscreen services don’t come with a happy ending." A devilish smile curls her lips.
But when he turns his back to her and says do your worst, well. Looking back, he'll really only have himself to blame.
With zero ceremony and even less grace, Flora squirts a generous splat of sunscreen directly onto his back. It lands in disjointed, messy globs—between shoulder blades, near one kidney, across the small of his back. The bottle is tossed aside with a thunk of finality, freeing her hands for something far more satisfying. "Hm," she hums to herself, smacking one of the dollops with her palm and leaving behind a satisfying, sloppy white handprint like a brand. "My worst?" she repeats under her breath, trying to parse exactly what he thinks that might be.
Then she rises up on her toes, delicate and deliberate, reaching for the tips of his ears. "These always get burned," she murmurs as if sharing a closely guarded secret, fingers gentle at first—before her voice drops low and syrupy. "So easy to forget." The movement is entirely necessary. Definitely not orchestrated. Not at all. But as she stretches, the gravity-defying globes of her breasts, covered only by the glinting pasties, presses lightly against the warm skin of his back as she stretches herself against him in order to make sure the tips of his ears are 100% safeguarded from the harmful rays of the sun.
Dropping back down to her heels with a nonchalant hum, Flora makes a slow swirling pass of her fingers up the centre of his spine, gathering the scattered dots of lotion into a single slicked trail like a river being coaxed into form. She starts at his shoulders, smoothing her palms over the tension there, fingers digging in just enough to feel the resistance before coaxing it away. The junction of his neck and shoulders gets special attention, her thumbs working in slow, confident circles and while she doesn't add the sort of pressure that would force the muscles to relax, she relentlessly teases them with various patterns to coax them into softening, using heat and friction and the oil from the sunscreen to her advantage. Then lower—her hands sliding over the curves of muscle behind his arms, the stretch of ribs. She shifts her weight to lean more fully into the motion, letting her forearm glide down the length of his back in broad strokes, pressing into each muscle with unhurried focus.
She pauses at the base of his back, where his waist narrows, thumbs pressing firmly just above the waistband of his shorts. "If you think you're going to get laid at my party, you could always take these off too," she says, breath curling warm against the middle of his back. "Nothing worse than a bare white ass when you're trying to look hot for someone."
But when he turns his back to her and says do your worst, well. Looking back, he'll really only have himself to blame.
With zero ceremony and even less grace, Flora squirts a generous splat of sunscreen directly onto his back. It lands in disjointed, messy globs—between shoulder blades, near one kidney, across the small of his back. The bottle is tossed aside with a thunk of finality, freeing her hands for something far more satisfying. "Hm," she hums to herself, smacking one of the dollops with her palm and leaving behind a satisfying, sloppy white handprint like a brand. "My worst?" she repeats under her breath, trying to parse exactly what he thinks that might be.
Then she rises up on her toes, delicate and deliberate, reaching for the tips of his ears. "These always get burned," she murmurs as if sharing a closely guarded secret, fingers gentle at first—before her voice drops low and syrupy. "So easy to forget." The movement is entirely necessary. Definitely not orchestrated. Not at all. But as she stretches, the gravity-defying globes of her breasts, covered only by the glinting pasties, presses lightly against the warm skin of his back as she stretches herself against him in order to make sure the tips of his ears are 100% safeguarded from the harmful rays of the sun.
Dropping back down to her heels with a nonchalant hum, Flora makes a slow swirling pass of her fingers up the centre of his spine, gathering the scattered dots of lotion into a single slicked trail like a river being coaxed into form. She starts at his shoulders, smoothing her palms over the tension there, fingers digging in just enough to feel the resistance before coaxing it away. The junction of his neck and shoulders gets special attention, her thumbs working in slow, confident circles and while she doesn't add the sort of pressure that would force the muscles to relax, she relentlessly teases them with various patterns to coax them into softening, using heat and friction and the oil from the sunscreen to her advantage. Then lower—her hands sliding over the curves of muscle behind his arms, the stretch of ribs. She shifts her weight to lean more fully into the motion, letting her forearm glide down the length of his back in broad strokes, pressing into each muscle with unhurried focus.
She pauses at the base of his back, where his waist narrows, thumbs pressing firmly just above the waistband of his shorts. "If you think you're going to get laid at my party, you could always take these off too," she says, breath curling warm against the middle of his back. "Nothing worse than a bare white ass when you're trying to look hot for someone."
I want to be when you fall on me like night
I wanna kill the lights
I wanna kill the lights
