Flora
Normally, Flora's perfectly content for anyone wandering by to witness her more clandestine activities—half the fun is in the spectacle—but this? Whatever the fuck this is with Jack? Better that no one, especially Bassian, catch sight and start drawing conclusions.
His mouth on hers is already shortening the distance between thought and action, and when he presses her back against the counter, her breath hitches against his lips. The garden of her mind burns hotter under his touch, petals curling molten as his hand sweeps across her breast, throwing sparks that light up the paths between them, bright enough to scorch but never destroy.
She shifts, pushing up onto the counter with a smooth, practised motion, hooking her legs around his waist to pull him closer. The knit of her sweater drags against her skin as she catches the hem in one hand and yanks it over her head, leaving nothing but sun-warmed skin that glinted gold in the light, marred only by the now-healed scars on her back.
Flora's thoughts flicker quick and sharp through the possibilities—him fucking her right here against the counter, the grain of the wood biting into her thighs; the little dining table groaning under them as he pins her down; the narrow hallway giving way to her bed and the heat of his body filling every inch of space. Each image flares and fades as her kisses grow more insistent, pressing herself tighter against him until the wanting is less a garden and more a wildfire, hungry and unstoppable.
His mouth on hers is already shortening the distance between thought and action, and when he presses her back against the counter, her breath hitches against his lips. The garden of her mind burns hotter under his touch, petals curling molten as his hand sweeps across her breast, throwing sparks that light up the paths between them, bright enough to scorch but never destroy.
She shifts, pushing up onto the counter with a smooth, practised motion, hooking her legs around his waist to pull him closer. The knit of her sweater drags against her skin as she catches the hem in one hand and yanks it over her head, leaving nothing but sun-warmed skin that glinted gold in the light, marred only by the now-healed scars on her back.
Flora's thoughts flicker quick and sharp through the possibilities—him fucking her right here against the counter, the grain of the wood biting into her thighs; the little dining table groaning under them as he pins her down; the narrow hallway giving way to her bed and the heat of his body filling every inch of space. Each image flares and fades as her kisses grow more insistent, pressing herself tighter against him until the wanting is less a garden and more a wildfire, hungry and unstoppable.
I trace the evidence, make it make some sense
why the wound is still bleedin'
why the wound is still bleedin'
Code stolen from Queen Sky
