you can call me honey if you want
Flora rolls her eyes with the exaggerated flair of someone entirely unbothered by Kaisel's wounded theatrics, as she's entirely certain he knows exactly what he did wrong. The kind of wrong that required no apology, only sass and memory for future leverage. "Mmhm," she says, tone rich with disbelief, the corners of her mouth twitching upward.
As he accuses her of adding extras to her flavour profile, she scoffs again, shooting him a look that is equal parts scandalised and smug. "I was being thorough in my answer," she replies loftily, arching one brow as she catches the direction of his gaze and pointedly cocks a hip, shifting just enough to make the lace shift across her skin. "Besides," she adds, sweeping a lock of damp hair off her shoulder, "you’re one to talk. What flavour would you be, oh great judge of dessert purity?"
The soft pressure of his hand against her back draws a pleased little hum from her lips, and the look she tosses back at him—sun-kissed and sea-glass bright—is flushed with a tenderness that melts at the edges. There’s laughter still in her—there always is, with him—but it’s softened now into something warmer. A little bit lovesick and utterly twitterpated, if she’s being honest with herself.
Sliding onto the table again, she stretches out with an indulgent sigh, arms folded beneath her chin as she settles stomach-down. Her hips lift in a playful shimmy, just enough to make the lace flicker and sway over her ass for his benefit. "Mmm...definitely strawberry," she decides after a moment, drawing the word out like a taste she’s savouring. "I’m in the mood for sweet." The look she flashes him over her shoulder leaves no question that the sort of sweet she's looking for, is precisely the sort he never seems to run out of.
As he accuses her of adding extras to her flavour profile, she scoffs again, shooting him a look that is equal parts scandalised and smug. "I was being thorough in my answer," she replies loftily, arching one brow as she catches the direction of his gaze and pointedly cocks a hip, shifting just enough to make the lace shift across her skin. "Besides," she adds, sweeping a lock of damp hair off her shoulder, "you’re one to talk. What flavour would you be, oh great judge of dessert purity?"
The soft pressure of his hand against her back draws a pleased little hum from her lips, and the look she tosses back at him—sun-kissed and sea-glass bright—is flushed with a tenderness that melts at the edges. There’s laughter still in her—there always is, with him—but it’s softened now into something warmer. A little bit lovesick and utterly twitterpated, if she’s being honest with herself.
Sliding onto the table again, she stretches out with an indulgent sigh, arms folded beneath her chin as she settles stomach-down. Her hips lift in a playful shimmy, just enough to make the lace flicker and sway over her ass for his benefit. "Mmm...definitely strawberry," she decides after a moment, drawing the word out like a taste she’s savouring. "I’m in the mood for sweet." The look she flashes him over her shoulder leaves no question that the sort of sweet she's looking for, is precisely the sort he never seems to run out of.
