flora
Flora’s laugh breaks free, bright and sharp, but the flower Jack leaves against her skin frays it at the edges until it becomes breathless. "I can’t—" she starts, her mind already betraying her with flashes of the next few moments, unspooling a tapestry of just how loud she’ll be, how moaning doesn’t even begin to cover it.
Lying to a telepath would be ambitious on a good day, but here—stripped bare of anything but heat and want—there’s nothing polished or clever left in her. Just raw truth, and so the word spills out of her like an open door, a surrender wrapped in a whisper: "yours." The lace gives way, the head of his cock nudging against her, and she tries again, breathless, "you—" before the thrust drives the word out of her lungs in a moan that’s anything but quiet, nails digging crescents into his shoulders as he fills her.
Her legs tighten high around his waist, hips rising to match him, meeting each thrust with a tide that won’t recede. One arm clings around him, but the other lifts, fingers brushing the sharp line of his jaw where she can already feel the muscles feathering. "Don’t," she breathes, voice soft against his skin despite the hitch that follows from the thrust of his hips. She doesn't want him to hold back, to swallow it down, to rob her of the sounds she’d pull from him. She wants every ragged edge, every groan, every shred of restraint unravelled, having lost far too many over the seasons between clenched teeth and curses muttered against her skin rather than moaned into her ear.
Lying to a telepath would be ambitious on a good day, but here—stripped bare of anything but heat and want—there’s nothing polished or clever left in her. Just raw truth, and so the word spills out of her like an open door, a surrender wrapped in a whisper: "yours." The lace gives way, the head of his cock nudging against her, and she tries again, breathless, "you—" before the thrust drives the word out of her lungs in a moan that’s anything but quiet, nails digging crescents into his shoulders as he fills her.
Her legs tighten high around his waist, hips rising to match him, meeting each thrust with a tide that won’t recede. One arm clings around him, but the other lifts, fingers brushing the sharp line of his jaw where she can already feel the muscles feathering. "Don’t," she breathes, voice soft against his skin despite the hitch that follows from the thrust of his hips. She doesn't want him to hold back, to swallow it down, to rob her of the sounds she’d pull from him. She wants every ragged edge, every groan, every shred of restraint unravelled, having lost far too many over the seasons between clenched teeth and curses muttered against her skin rather than moaned into her ear.
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
