Flora
The spark against her nipple pulls a gasp from her, rich and theatrical, the sort of sound that exists purely for her own indulgence. The air she drags in next is sharp and salt-bright, filling the space he’s left as his mouth trails lower. When he scoops her up, her legs tighten instinctively around his waist, and he’s rewarded with the delighted flush of her thoughts; gold and ruby bright, sparking like sunlight through coloured glass, radiating outward with the thrill of being grabbed and carried in precisely the way he knew she liked.
Since he’s unfamiliar with the turns and tilts of the SugarTide’s heart, Flora mercilessly lets Jack look where he’s going, tipping her head just enough for her teeth to graze the shell of his ear. "Gods, I want you," she purrs, low and molten, the words curling warm in her mind and on his skin in equal measure. The want is a pulse in her blood now, thick and hot, rolling through her veins until every inch of her feels sharper and hungrier. Heat gathers low in her belly, coiling tight, while her skin prickles with the need to feel more of him; more weight, more heat, more of his hands mapping every bare inch they can reach. Her breath quickens against his ear, and it’s suddenly not enough to just have his body pressed to hers; she feels ravenous for it, for him, like every sense has locked onto the shape and feel of him and refuses to let go.
Her bedroom waits at the end of the hall like a siren’s promise—everything the rest of the SugarTide is, only more so. Maximalist, lush, unapologetically soft. Lilac, sea salt, and jasmine thread the air; the round window wears a lazy sheer that turns the sea beyond into a blurred mural of blue in motion. Shelves curve into the walls, cluttered with seashells, hairpins, books with half-folded pages, pressed flowers left to dry. And at its centre, the bed—half mattress, half daydream—swallows the room whole, pillows spilling over the edge, throws that look like they’ve been stitched from clouds.
Since he’s unfamiliar with the turns and tilts of the SugarTide’s heart, Flora mercilessly lets Jack look where he’s going, tipping her head just enough for her teeth to graze the shell of his ear. "Gods, I want you," she purrs, low and molten, the words curling warm in her mind and on his skin in equal measure. The want is a pulse in her blood now, thick and hot, rolling through her veins until every inch of her feels sharper and hungrier. Heat gathers low in her belly, coiling tight, while her skin prickles with the need to feel more of him; more weight, more heat, more of his hands mapping every bare inch they can reach. Her breath quickens against his ear, and it’s suddenly not enough to just have his body pressed to hers; she feels ravenous for it, for him, like every sense has locked onto the shape and feel of him and refuses to let go.
Her bedroom waits at the end of the hall like a siren’s promise—everything the rest of the SugarTide is, only more so. Maximalist, lush, unapologetically soft. Lilac, sea salt, and jasmine thread the air; the round window wears a lazy sheer that turns the sea beyond into a blurred mural of blue in motion. Shelves curve into the walls, cluttered with seashells, hairpins, books with half-folded pages, pressed flowers left to dry. And at its centre, the bed—half mattress, half daydream—swallows the room whole, pillows spilling over the edge, throws that look like they’ve been stitched from clouds.
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
