flora
Flora barks a laugh, bright and utterly unrepentant at his choked-out laughter. And gods, it really is like something off a set—the golden light, the slow drag of hands over skin, the hissed breaths. In a porno, Kaisel would’ve shucked his swim trunks off, and when Flora asked for the tube of sunscreen, he'd have turned with all the subtlety of a bad actor and handed her his cock instead. Guess you'll have to work a little harder to get the rest out, he’d say, smug and gleaming and oiled to hell. In one of Mateo's cheesy romance novels, he’d pivot, fingers threading suddenly through her hair, dragging her into a kiss she’d melt into before the chapter cut off.
Instead, Kaisel steps away with a laugh, too wise to let her get up to whatever dastardly plan she had next (namely using the tip of one nail to doodle a flower somewhere on his ribs), and Flora just sighs with exaggerated disappointment. "Coward," she mutters fondly.
Scooping up her wine glass and his measuring cup of water, she gives a sharp whistle—and Spice appears from wherever she’d been sunbathing, exhaling a delicate stream of frost that laces the glasses in shimmering condensation. Flora sets Kaisel’s beside his towel with a dainty little clink, and instead of obeying his order to do her front, she simply flops face-down onto her own towel, cheek pillowed on her arms. "Nah, I’ll just burn to a crisp," she mumbles into the crook of her elbow, half-smiling, half-muffled.
"How long’re you in Torchline this time, anyway?"
Instead, Kaisel steps away with a laugh, too wise to let her get up to whatever dastardly plan she had next (namely using the tip of one nail to doodle a flower somewhere on his ribs), and Flora just sighs with exaggerated disappointment. "Coward," she mutters fondly.
Scooping up her wine glass and his measuring cup of water, she gives a sharp whistle—and Spice appears from wherever she’d been sunbathing, exhaling a delicate stream of frost that laces the glasses in shimmering condensation. Flora sets Kaisel’s beside his towel with a dainty little clink, and instead of obeying his order to do her front, she simply flops face-down onto her own towel, cheek pillowed on her arms. "Nah, I’ll just burn to a crisp," she mumbles into the crook of her elbow, half-smiling, half-muffled.
"How long’re you in Torchline this time, anyway?"
I want to be when you fall on me like night
I wanna kill the lights
I wanna kill the lights
