you can call me honey if you want
Laughter ripples through her, bright and unrepentant, as she sways lazily back into Kaisel, her weight all soft smugness and sparkling amusement. "I could channel Frey," she muses, voice syrup-slow and thoroughly unbothered, "and ask for a robe for you too, if I didn’t think you’d instantly ruin it the way you did the last Frey-outfit I got you." She arches a brow, as if daring him to deny it, her tone scandalised in the way only lovers with long memories can be.
His kiss atop her head earns a hum, sweet as the melting dessert they’re debating, but her eyes roll with theatrical disdain as she retorts, "If by that you mean am I one of those people who can control their appetite for the two minutes it takes ice cream to thaw properly, then yes. I am that type of freak."
Flora does not, however, dignify his accusation about Spice with a reply, mostly because he’s right and the memory of a poor half-liquid strawberry swirl is still a regret of hers. Instead, Flora just tilts her head the barest bit more and blows a stream of cool air right up his nose, the childish sabotage precise and petty.
Then, with an utterly unrepentant smile, she purrs, "I wonder if la Spa de Wildering has an ice cream option I can work into my services." The words are velvet and silk and suggestion, and as she leans back just enough to press her ass against him, she hums with a teasing sweetness, "I’d tip extra for it."
His kiss atop her head earns a hum, sweet as the melting dessert they’re debating, but her eyes roll with theatrical disdain as she retorts, "If by that you mean am I one of those people who can control their appetite for the two minutes it takes ice cream to thaw properly, then yes. I am that type of freak."
Flora does not, however, dignify his accusation about Spice with a reply, mostly because he’s right and the memory of a poor half-liquid strawberry swirl is still a regret of hers. Instead, Flora just tilts her head the barest bit more and blows a stream of cool air right up his nose, the childish sabotage precise and petty.
Then, with an utterly unrepentant smile, she purrs, "I wonder if la Spa de Wildering has an ice cream option I can work into my services." The words are velvet and silk and suggestion, and as she leans back just enough to press her ass against him, she hums with a teasing sweetness, "I’d tip extra for it."
