with each love i cut loose i was never the same
As Danta’s lips meet hers, Flora hums softly in satisfaction, a low sound of contentment and mischief that lingers like perfume in the space between them. There’s nothing tentative in her touch—only the confidence of someone who knows precisely what she’s doing, even as she makes a slow, sinuous turn away from him, leaving behind the ghost of a kiss on the stone and a smear of blood like lipstick on obsidian.
Her grin is already in place when she glances over her shoulder, sharp as broken coral and just as dazzling. "Absolutely sure," she purrs, lashes fanning low as her hips sway with theatrical flourish. "And let’s be honest, babe, there’s very little I don’t look good in." The wink she throws him is golden and shameless, gleaming like sun on the sea.
When he offers his unsullied hand, she takes it without hesitation, curling her fingers into his like something entirely too pleased with herself. "You know," she muses aloud as he leads her out of the shrine’s heat and heady weight, "maybe I should see if Safrin would like this sort of worship."
Her grin is already in place when she glances over her shoulder, sharp as broken coral and just as dazzling. "Absolutely sure," she purrs, lashes fanning low as her hips sway with theatrical flourish. "And let’s be honest, babe, there’s very little I don’t look good in." The wink she throws him is golden and shameless, gleaming like sun on the sea.
When he offers his unsullied hand, she takes it without hesitation, curling her fingers into his like something entirely too pleased with herself. "You know," she muses aloud as he leads her out of the shrine’s heat and heady weight, "maybe I should see if Safrin would like this sort of worship."
