flora
The sound that leaves Flora’s throat is all velvet mischief and sun-warmed indulgence, curling from her lips as she purrs into the space between them, "I could still be so much worse." And oh, how she means it. Her grin is as lazy as it is wicked, the kind of smile that once belonged to goddesses or sirens, born to tempt and ruin with a flutter of lashes and the promise of a sigh.
But beneath it—beneath the smug delight of having stirred him again so easily—there’s something molten. Something honest. Something hot enough to evaporate the steam around them, the flush in her cheeks blooming for reasons that have little to do with the heat of the water. Her breath catches like a sail snapping in a sudden gust as his teeth graze the tender skin behind her ear, and all her cleverness falters with the strength of the shiver that floods down her spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake and her knees aching to misbehave.
He cages her, and Flora doesn’t mind in the slightest. Instead, she leans into it, into him, pressing her bare body against his without apology or restraint. Arms loop lazily around his neck and her lips rise to meet his as though she were born to do just that. Her mouth parts against his, the kiss luxuriant and lingering, like honey slow-poured across summer fruit, like something treasured after too long apart. When he draws back, leaving want painted across her skin like fingerprints in fogged glass, she lingers close enough to steal another breath.
"If we can’t be good examples," she counters, every word a kiss against the shell of his ear, "we might as well be unforgettable bad ones."
And then she releases him—reluctantly, but not without intent—watching with a conspiratorial gleam in her sea-bright eyes as he turns toward the wall. The rivulets of water curve over the ridges of his back, the shadows caught in the valleys between his muscles. She lets him lather soap in slow, distracted strokes, admiring the view with open appreciation.
Then—delicately, deliberately—she reaches for the sponge and squeezes a generous dollop of lather into her hand. "You missed a spot," she announces with mock chastisement, the innocent cadence of her voice at delicious odds with the intent glittering in her eyes. Her soapy fingers glide between them, trailing with agonizing softness down his stomach before coming to rest where he’s already hard again. Her hand wraps around him with reverence and roguery in equal measure, slow and slick and maddeningly gentle as she gives him a look so saccharine it borders on sinful.
But beneath it—beneath the smug delight of having stirred him again so easily—there’s something molten. Something honest. Something hot enough to evaporate the steam around them, the flush in her cheeks blooming for reasons that have little to do with the heat of the water. Her breath catches like a sail snapping in a sudden gust as his teeth graze the tender skin behind her ear, and all her cleverness falters with the strength of the shiver that floods down her spine, leaving goosebumps in its wake and her knees aching to misbehave.
He cages her, and Flora doesn’t mind in the slightest. Instead, she leans into it, into him, pressing her bare body against his without apology or restraint. Arms loop lazily around his neck and her lips rise to meet his as though she were born to do just that. Her mouth parts against his, the kiss luxuriant and lingering, like honey slow-poured across summer fruit, like something treasured after too long apart. When he draws back, leaving want painted across her skin like fingerprints in fogged glass, she lingers close enough to steal another breath.
"If we can’t be good examples," she counters, every word a kiss against the shell of his ear, "we might as well be unforgettable bad ones."
And then she releases him—reluctantly, but not without intent—watching with a conspiratorial gleam in her sea-bright eyes as he turns toward the wall. The rivulets of water curve over the ridges of his back, the shadows caught in the valleys between his muscles. She lets him lather soap in slow, distracted strokes, admiring the view with open appreciation.
Then—delicately, deliberately—she reaches for the sponge and squeezes a generous dollop of lather into her hand. "You missed a spot," she announces with mock chastisement, the innocent cadence of her voice at delicious odds with the intent glittering in her eyes. Her soapy fingers glide between them, trailing with agonizing softness down his stomach before coming to rest where he’s already hard again. Her hand wraps around him with reverence and roguery in equal measure, slow and slick and maddeningly gentle as she gives him a look so saccharine it borders on sinful.
My house of stone, your ivy grows
And now I'm covered in you
And now I'm covered in you
