flora
The quietly commanding way Jack always has about him undoes her so much faster than she ever gives it credit for, and her thoughts ripple with the same shiver running down her spine at his drawl, at the lazy precision of his hands working over his waistcoat.
"Oh?" she breathes, watching him with a fascination sharp as hunger, the sight of his clever fingers at his buttons pulling her in like a tide she has no interest in resisting. Her arms loop instantly around his neck, thighs parting to welcome the press of his body against hers, and when his mouth meets hers, she answers with molten heat. Teeth catch his lower lip, dragging, before she leans back enough to shrug her shoulders so the neckline of her shirt gapes wider, cleavage framed and presented like an offering
"You must be getting old and forgetful," Flora teases. "I can think of plenty of times we’ve done this." Her mind flashes with the memory of when she'd slipped into Jack's cabin wearing the gown Asta had bought for her with the sole intention of having the captain tear it off her, or when he'd pinned her hard enough against his cabin door that her skin had taken on the pattern of the wood.
Shrugging again, languid and entirely suggestive, her hands slip down from his neck to roam the flat plane of his stomach through his open shirt. "Then again..." she adds, her voice low, "it’s possible I’ve fantasised about a good deal more than what’s actually happened in this room, so if you want me to go..." Flora's hips shift forward as if she means to slide off of the table, her thighs still bracketed around his legs such that the movement does little more than press her hips flush against his.
"Oh?" she breathes, watching him with a fascination sharp as hunger, the sight of his clever fingers at his buttons pulling her in like a tide she has no interest in resisting. Her arms loop instantly around his neck, thighs parting to welcome the press of his body against hers, and when his mouth meets hers, she answers with molten heat. Teeth catch his lower lip, dragging, before she leans back enough to shrug her shoulders so the neckline of her shirt gapes wider, cleavage framed and presented like an offering
"You must be getting old and forgetful," Flora teases. "I can think of plenty of times we’ve done this." Her mind flashes with the memory of when she'd slipped into Jack's cabin wearing the gown Asta had bought for her with the sole intention of having the captain tear it off her, or when he'd pinned her hard enough against his cabin door that her skin had taken on the pattern of the wood.
Shrugging again, languid and entirely suggestive, her hands slip down from his neck to roam the flat plane of his stomach through his open shirt. "Then again..." she adds, her voice low, "it’s possible I’ve fantasised about a good deal more than what’s actually happened in this room, so if you want me to go..." Flora's hips shift forward as if she means to slide off of the table, her thighs still bracketed around his legs such that the movement does little more than press her hips flush against his.
you're under the feeling like teenagers in cars
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
it ain't robbing or stealing if the moment is ours
