you can call me honey if you want
One skeptical brow lifts, high and sharp, Flora's expression caught in that dangerous halfway place between incredulous and undeniably turned on. "Obviously," she mutters, as if it should have been self-evident. And really, it was. After being practically naked for half the afternoon, wrapped in little more than the sea’s leftover salad and the lingering sweep of his gaze, it’s a miracle she hasn’t already dragged him onto one of the loungers for round two. Or three.
Her eyes narrow with smoky delight as Kaisel leans in to blow across her nails, his exhale so careful, so controlled, and yet somehow so suggestive because of it. The steady stream of air sends tiny goosebumps racing up her arm, her skin prickling in perfect response to the contrast between heat and restraint. It’s the way he draws in that breath through his nose, purposeful and quiet, as if he’s taking her in alongside the air, that steals a tremble up her spine and coils something molten low in her belly. Her lips part, but no words come, just a slow, delighted curl at the corners of her mouth as her eyes stay locked with his.
And then he tears the seaweed from her chest.
Her breath catches; heat flares across her cheeks and her nose, the blush more red than the polish, but there's nothing demure in the way her back arches ever so slightly, shoulders pressing subtly back, lifting the full curve of her breasts into view with all the pride and play of a siren showing off her spoils. She’s fit and flushed and grinning now, half-wild and wholly his.
"I thought ice cream was supposed to come next," she murmurs, voice low and sticky-sweet with sin, the words curling around him like seafoam around ankles. Her eyes rake slowly, hungrily, over him; hair, lips, chest, hands, everything she could want. One brow arches higher, a devil’s invitation on her lips as she adds with a purr, "But maybe you can instead."
~FIN
Her eyes narrow with smoky delight as Kaisel leans in to blow across her nails, his exhale so careful, so controlled, and yet somehow so suggestive because of it. The steady stream of air sends tiny goosebumps racing up her arm, her skin prickling in perfect response to the contrast between heat and restraint. It’s the way he draws in that breath through his nose, purposeful and quiet, as if he’s taking her in alongside the air, that steals a tremble up her spine and coils something molten low in her belly. Her lips part, but no words come, just a slow, delighted curl at the corners of her mouth as her eyes stay locked with his.
And then he tears the seaweed from her chest.
Her breath catches; heat flares across her cheeks and her nose, the blush more red than the polish, but there's nothing demure in the way her back arches ever so slightly, shoulders pressing subtly back, lifting the full curve of her breasts into view with all the pride and play of a siren showing off her spoils. She’s fit and flushed and grinning now, half-wild and wholly his.
"I thought ice cream was supposed to come next," she murmurs, voice low and sticky-sweet with sin, the words curling around him like seafoam around ankles. Her eyes rake slowly, hungrily, over him; hair, lips, chest, hands, everything she could want. One brow arches higher, a devil’s invitation on her lips as she adds with a purr, "But maybe you can instead."
~FIN
