flora
Flora’s grin could shame the devil himself, all teeth and temptation wrapped in silken satisfaction. "Oh nooo," she drawls, the words drawn out with so much false innocence they might as well be dipped in gold leaf. There’s nothing contrite in her tone, no real fear of retribution—only the delighted thrill of baiting him further, of seeing just how far she can continue to push him.
The slick of soap still clinging to her skin works in her favour as she slips from his grip. Her hands slide down his sides in a featherlight trail, anchoring at his hips before she sinks to her knees in the steam-drenched space between them, water cascading in rivulets around her like a veil. She’s already watching him as she moves, tilting herself just out of the spray with practised ease, angling so the warm stream sluices down over him instead. Then—gods help him—she leans in, eyes locked with his, and lets her tongue trace a slow, deliberate circle around the head of his cock, tasting him like a secret she intends to keep.
There’s no teasing smirk now. No coy delay. Her lips part and she takes him into her mouth with reverence and hunger braided together, sinking slow and sure along the length of him. Her fingers slide behind to cradle the backs of his thighs, pressing gently enough to encourage him to move against her.
When he does, when he tilts into her grasp and lets her guide him deeper, her hand wraps firm and steady around the base of him, grounding every motion with purpose. She finds a rhythm that’s unhurried but intent, tongue swirling and lips sealing with maddening precision, the curve of her back fluid and feline beneath the water’s caress.
The slick of soap still clinging to her skin works in her favour as she slips from his grip. Her hands slide down his sides in a featherlight trail, anchoring at his hips before she sinks to her knees in the steam-drenched space between them, water cascading in rivulets around her like a veil. She’s already watching him as she moves, tilting herself just out of the spray with practised ease, angling so the warm stream sluices down over him instead. Then—gods help him—she leans in, eyes locked with his, and lets her tongue trace a slow, deliberate circle around the head of his cock, tasting him like a secret she intends to keep.
There’s no teasing smirk now. No coy delay. Her lips part and she takes him into her mouth with reverence and hunger braided together, sinking slow and sure along the length of him. Her fingers slide behind to cradle the backs of his thighs, pressing gently enough to encourage him to move against her.
When he does, when he tilts into her grasp and lets her guide him deeper, her hand wraps firm and steady around the base of him, grounding every motion with purpose. She finds a rhythm that’s unhurried but intent, tongue swirling and lips sealing with maddening precision, the curve of her back fluid and feline beneath the water’s caress.
My house of stone, your ivy grows
And now I'm covered in you
And now I'm covered in you
