Flora
Flora expects to be lifted; the way Kaisel's hands slide down, the sudden grasp against her ass as he puts her in brief air jail such that she instinctively tightens her arms around his shoulders, ready to climb him like ivy. Her breath skips as the rough press of his belt digs against her skin, the hard leather biting a hiss against his lips as she twists just slightly in his hold. It’s too much, not enough, completely uneven—her slick skin against soaked lace, his body wrapped in all the barriers hers is stripped of—and though her hands stay tangled in his hair and shoulder, she twitches with the urge to strip him bare, right there, right now.
"You te—" she begins, breathy and hot against his mouth, meaning to push the word with a smirk or a challenge, maybe both, but then his hand slips between her thighs and the words don't just scatter, they incinerate, reduced to cinders in the time it takes for one finger to find her clit, circling, pressing, staking his claim in soft, relentless pulses. Her moan rips through her throat without grace, startled and helpless and aching all at once, a gasp of exquisite surrender as her fingers dig into his hair like she’s falling and needs something to anchor her. She trembles outright in his arms, the heat of his touch flaring through her like lightning; bright and sharp and impossible to ignore.
And then he speaks. Gods, how he speaks. His mouth leaves hers, and even in the narrow space he gives her, she’s left gasping, undone, hips pressing into the line of his palm like her body belongs to it. His voice is low and certain, that deep timbre that always makes her bones feel fluid, and the words he says don’t just reach her ears, they flood through her like a tide. Her moan breaks again, softer this time, desperate and full of want, blooming into the space between them as if it were a prayer.
Still balanced on the tips of her toes, she pulls back just enough to see him. Just the copper of his eyes through the steam, the intensity of them burning straight through her. One hand falls from his shoulder to find his wrist, curling delicately around it, and with a breathless shiver, she guides his fingers lower. Not teasing, not coy, just an offering, or maybe an answer. Sliding them inside her so he can feel exactly what he’s done to her, how wet she suddenly is in a way that the water can't help to compete with.
She gasps softly again, lips parting as another ripple dances through her. Her other hand, the one still braced on his shoulder, begins its descent too, trailing down over soaked fabric until her fingers catch the waistband of his pants. She slips beneath it, curling suggestively, possessively, and then tilts her chin with a wicked glint beneath all the softness and heat. "I’m so sorry to tell you this," she whispers, voice honeyed and sultry, "but I have a very strict no clothes in the shower policy..." Her smile curves slow and wicked, blooming like a sin across her lips. "And I really have to insist."
"You te—" she begins, breathy and hot against his mouth, meaning to push the word with a smirk or a challenge, maybe both, but then his hand slips between her thighs and the words don't just scatter, they incinerate, reduced to cinders in the time it takes for one finger to find her clit, circling, pressing, staking his claim in soft, relentless pulses. Her moan rips through her throat without grace, startled and helpless and aching all at once, a gasp of exquisite surrender as her fingers dig into his hair like she’s falling and needs something to anchor her. She trembles outright in his arms, the heat of his touch flaring through her like lightning; bright and sharp and impossible to ignore.
And then he speaks. Gods, how he speaks. His mouth leaves hers, and even in the narrow space he gives her, she’s left gasping, undone, hips pressing into the line of his palm like her body belongs to it. His voice is low and certain, that deep timbre that always makes her bones feel fluid, and the words he says don’t just reach her ears, they flood through her like a tide. Her moan breaks again, softer this time, desperate and full of want, blooming into the space between them as if it were a prayer.
Still balanced on the tips of her toes, she pulls back just enough to see him. Just the copper of his eyes through the steam, the intensity of them burning straight through her. One hand falls from his shoulder to find his wrist, curling delicately around it, and with a breathless shiver, she guides his fingers lower. Not teasing, not coy, just an offering, or maybe an answer. Sliding them inside her so he can feel exactly what he’s done to her, how wet she suddenly is in a way that the water can't help to compete with.
She gasps softly again, lips parting as another ripple dances through her. Her other hand, the one still braced on his shoulder, begins its descent too, trailing down over soaked fabric until her fingers catch the waistband of his pants. She slips beneath it, curling suggestively, possessively, and then tilts her chin with a wicked glint beneath all the softness and heat. "I’m so sorry to tell you this," she whispers, voice honeyed and sultry, "but I have a very strict no clothes in the shower policy..." Her smile curves slow and wicked, blooming like a sin across her lips. "And I really have to insist."
I hope you're sweating the bigger stuff,
finding some peace in an honest love
Hope you stop when you've had enough & throw the towel in
finding some peace in an honest love
Hope you stop when you've had enough & throw the towel in
Code stolen from Queen Sky
