you can call me honey if you want
As Kaisel tilts her face back into another kiss, Flora hums softly into the press of his mouth, a note so full of indulgent adoration that it curls through the air like perfume, warm and clinging. If she could have sealed herself inside the space of his kiss, locking the door behind her and throwing the key into the sea, she would have done so without hesitation. Her heart burns for him with the same intensity that coils low and molten between her thighs, and there’s something almost dizzying about how good it feels to be joyful in her love rather than ashamed of it; to want without apology and to be wanted without guilt.
Still panting faintly, she nods with an answering smile as his thumb sweeps against her cheek, the gesture as grounding as it is intimate, her gaze never leaving his. "Even more," she whispers. "More than golden hour on the beach. More than pear pasta. More than sleeping in on a rainy morning." That was the joy of him, wasn’t it? That she would give up every soft, familiar comfort just to be close to him, but with Kaisel, she didn’t have to. His love didn’t come with barbed strings or a cage she had to contort herself to fit inside. There were no guardrails to stay within, no rules about which parts of herself were too loud or too much or too sharp. With him, she could spill out in every direction and still be held in his arms.
The sound of his moan tears through her like a fever breaking, her lips parting instinctively as the warmth of it echoes down her spine. He looks like something sculpted by desire and stormlight, every line of his bronzed torso half-shrouded in steam and scattered droplets that glint like tiny stars against the sheen of clay still clinging to his skin, staining him with proof of her touch. It only sharpens the heat in her belly, a fresh flush rising across her chest as she watches the way he sprawls there, chest rising with each breath, every muscle taut with the weight of his need.
Her hand remains curled around his cock, thumb brushing along his head as she lowers herself between his legs in one unbroken movement, sinking slowly to her knees with a grace that feels almost ceremonial. Her other hand joins the first, palms gliding against the slick resistance of the mud as she begins to stroke in a twisting rhythm, each pass a deliberate attempt to cleanse and tease all at once. Her body leans forward as she works, letting the swell of her breasts press greedily against his thighs and the base of his cock, bracketing him in soft skin and warmth so the stream of the shower can gather in the hollow between them. The droplets trail from her collarbones down, pooling briefly before her hands catch them again and spread them over him.
Only when the last trace of earth is washed away does she shift her weight forward, trading her hands for the soft seal of her lips. Her tongue traces along the underside of his length in a lazy, gliding stroke before she takes him deeper, mouth slick and hot around him, the tip of her tongue flicking just so in an effort to hear his breath hitch again. One of her hands slips with casual stealth between her own thighs, ostensibly in search of stray clay, but the moment her fingers graze too near to where her clit aches with need, she moans helplessly around him, the sound reverberating through every inch of him.
Still panting faintly, she nods with an answering smile as his thumb sweeps against her cheek, the gesture as grounding as it is intimate, her gaze never leaving his. "Even more," she whispers. "More than golden hour on the beach. More than pear pasta. More than sleeping in on a rainy morning." That was the joy of him, wasn’t it? That she would give up every soft, familiar comfort just to be close to him, but with Kaisel, she didn’t have to. His love didn’t come with barbed strings or a cage she had to contort herself to fit inside. There were no guardrails to stay within, no rules about which parts of herself were too loud or too much or too sharp. With him, she could spill out in every direction and still be held in his arms.
The sound of his moan tears through her like a fever breaking, her lips parting instinctively as the warmth of it echoes down her spine. He looks like something sculpted by desire and stormlight, every line of his bronzed torso half-shrouded in steam and scattered droplets that glint like tiny stars against the sheen of clay still clinging to his skin, staining him with proof of her touch. It only sharpens the heat in her belly, a fresh flush rising across her chest as she watches the way he sprawls there, chest rising with each breath, every muscle taut with the weight of his need.
Her hand remains curled around his cock, thumb brushing along his head as she lowers herself between his legs in one unbroken movement, sinking slowly to her knees with a grace that feels almost ceremonial. Her other hand joins the first, palms gliding against the slick resistance of the mud as she begins to stroke in a twisting rhythm, each pass a deliberate attempt to cleanse and tease all at once. Her body leans forward as she works, letting the swell of her breasts press greedily against his thighs and the base of his cock, bracketing him in soft skin and warmth so the stream of the shower can gather in the hollow between them. The droplets trail from her collarbones down, pooling briefly before her hands catch them again and spread them over him.
Only when the last trace of earth is washed away does she shift her weight forward, trading her hands for the soft seal of her lips. Her tongue traces along the underside of his length in a lazy, gliding stroke before she takes him deeper, mouth slick and hot around him, the tip of her tongue flicking just so in an effort to hear his breath hitch again. One of her hands slips with casual stealth between her own thighs, ostensibly in search of stray clay, but the moment her fingers graze too near to where her clit aches with need, she moans helplessly around him, the sound reverberating through every inch of him.
