flora
Flora knows better than to ask for truths Jack can’t give. Not always truths, not forever truths. But this—right now—she can have him say he wants her, needs her, could probably even have him say he missed her so long as he was able to hiss it against her skin, and gods she's sure the only heat she'd feel would be between her thighs. I want you. No caveats. No half-truths. Not I wanted you, but, not I want you until . Just the sweet sound of lace tearing, the hot scrape of fabric against flushed skin, the words searing straight into her blood.
Her gasp is loud, reckless, as unashamed as the moan of his name that follows, echoing off his cabin walls for whoever might be listening. Her fingers knot into his hair, pressing his mouth down over her breast, begging silently for him to another another bloom to the bouquet outside, a twin to the one on her neck.
"How do you want me?" she breathes, her voice a tremor of velvet heat as her hips roll again, finding the hard line of him through the final barrier of lace. It’s the kind of exquisite torment that leaves her torn between power and surrender—shaking, wanting, utterly his. Her lips brush his hair, her words a freying and threadworn thing: "You're the only one who makes me feel like this." The only one who can strip her bare and make her crave ruin. She’d bleed for him, bruise her knuckles raw for him, throw her name into the gutter just to hear it whispered from his lips, the way no one else ever could.
Her gasp is loud, reckless, as unashamed as the moan of his name that follows, echoing off his cabin walls for whoever might be listening. Her fingers knot into his hair, pressing his mouth down over her breast, begging silently for him to another another bloom to the bouquet outside, a twin to the one on her neck.
"How do you want me?" she breathes, her voice a tremor of velvet heat as her hips roll again, finding the hard line of him through the final barrier of lace. It’s the kind of exquisite torment that leaves her torn between power and surrender—shaking, wanting, utterly his. Her lips brush his hair, her words a freying and threadworn thing: "You're the only one who makes me feel like this." The only one who can strip her bare and make her crave ruin. She’d bleed for him, bruise her knuckles raw for him, throw her name into the gutter just to hear it whispered from his lips, the way no one else ever could.
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
