flora
She laughs with him, light and warm, the sound gilded at the edges with breathlessness. It's a sound that had grown up beside his, that had learned how to twine around his joy like ivy curling toward sunlight. Her chest lifts with it, her whole body partaking in the moment. And when he grins and asks if biting’s off the table, Flora tilts her head, crooked and golden and flushed with affection. "I never said that," she murmurs, teeth flashing in a way that’s far too soft to be dangerous—but no less true for it.
Then there are kisses trailing down her belly and gods, if her laughter was bright, her silence now is molten. Each press of his lips maps new constellations into her skin, and her breath—already unruly—becomes a trembling thing. He'll be able to hear it, but he'll feel it too, the way her golden skin flinches beneath him in a dozen little starbursts of pleasure. Each one flares brighter than the last, and she’s fast becoming unable to tell where his mouth ends and her need begins.
She should be teasing him, she knows—should have some clever remark for the way his teeth catch at her underwear, the way his voice drops into that dangerous hum of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. But then his tongue finds her clit and the whole world fractures. Her back arches like a bow, her lips parting in a gasp that very nearly becomes his name, and the sound that escapes her is not poised or regal, but wild and wanting. It rockets through her like lightning through copper wire, bright and searing and impossible to ignore. And if some tiny part of her had wondered—briefly, foolishly—if this would feel awkward or unsure, if the Kai she knew so well might somehow falter here, she knows now how laughable that thought had been. There’s no hesitation in his mouth, no shyness in the way he moves. Whatever he learned with that girl at graduation and the ones between she and his brief fling with Rebecca, none of it prepared her for how much he clearly paid attention. For how utterly wrecked she feels with just his tongue and his hands.
She reaches down, fingers trembling with the urge to tangle in his hair, to hold him there, to tell him to never stop—and then he’s pulling back, leaving her gasping. Her eyes snap open, heavy-lidded and full of disbelief, watching him through the heat-haze rising in her own skin. Her thighs tremble with the loss, her chest heaving with ragged, unsatisfied air. And then he stands, and it’s her turn to bask.
Flora drinks in every inch of him as his shorts fall away, the flush of arousal deepening across her cheeks, her neck, the curve of her breasts. It hadn’t started as physical between them, not really, or at the very least, not like this. And gods she has looked at him before, but she’s just never let herself see until now. And now? Now it’s impossible not to. The lines of him, the heat in his eyes, the strength in his arms as he grabs her and drags her toward the edge of the bed—it all sets her heart thudding like a war drum behind her ribs. It’s too familiar—that movement. It echoes the kitchen, that night, when his hands had been rougher, his arousal confusing for them both. She’d blamed Frey for the boldness then, convinced herself it was the god’s influence, a borrowed confidence. But here he is again, dragging her closer, just as he had then, and it has nothing to do with anything except for the two of them.
Her breath hitches as his thumb finds her again, circling her clit with a precision that makes her hips jerk, pleasure wringing a sound from her throat that’s perilously close to a plea. And though she’d said she wanted it slow, that she didn’t want to beg, every instinct in her is thrumming now with the urge to cry out for him; to ask, to ache, to shatter.
Her free leg curls around his lower back as her hips lift, greedy and urgent, pressing the slick heat of her against the length of him. The contact pulls a trembling gasp from her lips, her eyes dark with want, her voice little more than a ragged whisper. "Find out," she breathes shakily. Her heel presses against him then, guiding him, encouraging him, every fibre of her straining for him. "Have me," she whispers, and gods, while it might sound like a request, it can be anything Kai wants it to be.
Then there are kisses trailing down her belly and gods, if her laughter was bright, her silence now is molten. Each press of his lips maps new constellations into her skin, and her breath—already unruly—becomes a trembling thing. He'll be able to hear it, but he'll feel it too, the way her golden skin flinches beneath him in a dozen little starbursts of pleasure. Each one flares brighter than the last, and she’s fast becoming unable to tell where his mouth ends and her need begins.
She should be teasing him, she knows—should have some clever remark for the way his teeth catch at her underwear, the way his voice drops into that dangerous hum of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. But then his tongue finds her clit and the whole world fractures. Her back arches like a bow, her lips parting in a gasp that very nearly becomes his name, and the sound that escapes her is not poised or regal, but wild and wanting. It rockets through her like lightning through copper wire, bright and searing and impossible to ignore. And if some tiny part of her had wondered—briefly, foolishly—if this would feel awkward or unsure, if the Kai she knew so well might somehow falter here, she knows now how laughable that thought had been. There’s no hesitation in his mouth, no shyness in the way he moves. Whatever he learned with that girl at graduation and the ones between she and his brief fling with Rebecca, none of it prepared her for how much he clearly paid attention. For how utterly wrecked she feels with just his tongue and his hands.
She reaches down, fingers trembling with the urge to tangle in his hair, to hold him there, to tell him to never stop—and then he’s pulling back, leaving her gasping. Her eyes snap open, heavy-lidded and full of disbelief, watching him through the heat-haze rising in her own skin. Her thighs tremble with the loss, her chest heaving with ragged, unsatisfied air. And then he stands, and it’s her turn to bask.
Flora drinks in every inch of him as his shorts fall away, the flush of arousal deepening across her cheeks, her neck, the curve of her breasts. It hadn’t started as physical between them, not really, or at the very least, not like this. And gods she has looked at him before, but she’s just never let herself see until now. And now? Now it’s impossible not to. The lines of him, the heat in his eyes, the strength in his arms as he grabs her and drags her toward the edge of the bed—it all sets her heart thudding like a war drum behind her ribs. It’s too familiar—that movement. It echoes the kitchen, that night, when his hands had been rougher, his arousal confusing for them both. She’d blamed Frey for the boldness then, convinced herself it was the god’s influence, a borrowed confidence. But here he is again, dragging her closer, just as he had then, and it has nothing to do with anything except for the two of them.
Her breath hitches as his thumb finds her again, circling her clit with a precision that makes her hips jerk, pleasure wringing a sound from her throat that’s perilously close to a plea. And though she’d said she wanted it slow, that she didn’t want to beg, every instinct in her is thrumming now with the urge to cry out for him; to ask, to ache, to shatter.
Her free leg curls around his lower back as her hips lift, greedy and urgent, pressing the slick heat of her against the length of him. The contact pulls a trembling gasp from her lips, her eyes dark with want, her voice little more than a ragged whisper. "Find out," she breathes shakily. Her heel presses against him then, guiding him, encouraging him, every fibre of her straining for him. "Have me," she whispers, and gods, while it might sound like a request, it can be anything Kai wants it to be.
My house of stone, your ivy grows
And now I'm covered in you
And now I'm covered in you
