Flora
Every time her thoughts so much as lean away from him, Jack's there—the nip of his teeth, the crackle of his magic—yanking her focus back like he’s got both hands wound in the reins. It’s bliss, the way he strips every knot of tension from her mind, her body going loose and molten even as the pressure builds low and tight inside her.
Flora's head tips back onto his shoulder, a sound spilling from her lips that doesn’t know whether it’s a gasp or a moan. "Like that," she breathes, voice splintering, then again, more desperate, "Gods...like that." Her fingers move quicker over her clit, still maddeningly light, each pass setting off little firebursts that tear through her garden until the trellises and arches are dripping in gold, tangled with flame.
The coil in her belly winds tighter with every thrust, hips rolling back into him like her body is chasing something her mind can’t quite name yet. Her fingers tighten where they're fisted in his hair while his name falls out of her mouth in broken, breathless pieces.
"Don’t stop," she moans, louder now, a command more than a plea; one for the entire docks to hear given the volume. Her fingers claw deeper into his hair, dragging him closer as if she could fuse him into her. And then it hits; pleasure slamming through her so hard her breath catches. The garden of her mind bursting into full bloom and wildfire all at once as the world blurs and collapses down to him—his heat, his scent, the pounding rhythm of his hips against hers—until there’s nothing left but the shuddering waves wracking her body and his name spilling endlessly from her lips.
Flora's head tips back onto his shoulder, a sound spilling from her lips that doesn’t know whether it’s a gasp or a moan. "Like that," she breathes, voice splintering, then again, more desperate, "Gods...like that." Her fingers move quicker over her clit, still maddeningly light, each pass setting off little firebursts that tear through her garden until the trellises and arches are dripping in gold, tangled with flame.
The coil in her belly winds tighter with every thrust, hips rolling back into him like her body is chasing something her mind can’t quite name yet. Her fingers tighten where they're fisted in his hair while his name falls out of her mouth in broken, breathless pieces.
"Don’t stop," she moans, louder now, a command more than a plea; one for the entire docks to hear given the volume. Her fingers claw deeper into his hair, dragging him closer as if she could fuse him into her. And then it hits; pleasure slamming through her so hard her breath catches. The garden of her mind bursting into full bloom and wildfire all at once as the world blurs and collapses down to him—his heat, his scent, the pounding rhythm of his hips against hers—until there’s nothing left but the shuddering waves wracking her body and his name spilling endlessly from her lips.
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
