Flora
Even as her nerves spark and flinch beneath the soft licks of his tongue, Flora doesn’t pull away. She leans into the unbearable sweetness of it, hips twitching, thighs fluttering with sensitivity, her breath catching each time he brushes a place still singing from the storm he stirred. It’s almost too much, but almost isn’t enough, and Flora is starting to realize that this might be a pattern when it comes to Kaisel.
When he finally relents, mouth slipping from her like a benediction, her gaze finds his, wet lashes, flushed cheeks, chest heaving like her lungs have only just remembered how to work. But as he lifts her, settling her back down into the warmth of his lap, the ache twists immediately into something sharp and ravenous again. Her arms circle his neck, fingers threading into the damp, tangled mess of his hair as her hips roll forward. The contact makes her whimper; gods he feels like fire beneath soaked, rough fabric, every inch of him straining and hot and so close. The friction alone is enough to make her shiver again, especially with how open and slick she is against him, the brush of his pants like burlap across tender skin.
Leaning forward to kiss him, she tastes herself on his mouth and doesn’t hesitate; tongue tracing filth and poetry into his own, threatening ruin or begging for more, she can’t tell which. Maybe both. Her fingers slide to his jaw, angling him deeper into it, devouring and giving in the same breath until air becomes a desperate necessity. When she pulls back it’s only because she has to, her breath hitching in his mouth as her hips press down again with sinful intent. "Show me, then," she whispers, a glint of mischief in her eyes that can’t quite hide the softness underneath.
She loves this. Loves the weight of his hands still reverent on her hips, the thick ache of him poised between them, the way he looks at her like she’s everything he’s ever wanted while still asking for more. Perched like this in his lap, held and wanted and seen, she’d give him anything he asked—everything, maybe—if he’d just keep looking at her like that.
When he finally relents, mouth slipping from her like a benediction, her gaze finds his, wet lashes, flushed cheeks, chest heaving like her lungs have only just remembered how to work. But as he lifts her, settling her back down into the warmth of his lap, the ache twists immediately into something sharp and ravenous again. Her arms circle his neck, fingers threading into the damp, tangled mess of his hair as her hips roll forward. The contact makes her whimper; gods he feels like fire beneath soaked, rough fabric, every inch of him straining and hot and so close. The friction alone is enough to make her shiver again, especially with how open and slick she is against him, the brush of his pants like burlap across tender skin.
Leaning forward to kiss him, she tastes herself on his mouth and doesn’t hesitate; tongue tracing filth and poetry into his own, threatening ruin or begging for more, she can’t tell which. Maybe both. Her fingers slide to his jaw, angling him deeper into it, devouring and giving in the same breath until air becomes a desperate necessity. When she pulls back it’s only because she has to, her breath hitching in his mouth as her hips press down again with sinful intent. "Show me, then," she whispers, a glint of mischief in her eyes that can’t quite hide the softness underneath.
She loves this. Loves the weight of his hands still reverent on her hips, the thick ache of him poised between them, the way he looks at her like she’s everything he’s ever wanted while still asking for more. Perched like this in his lap, held and wanted and seen, she’d give him anything he asked—everything, maybe—if he’d just keep looking at her like that.
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
