you can call me honey if you want
Though she’s been kissed on this beach before, nothing—nothing—has ever felt like this. There’s no foolish tumble of youth left in her, no thoughtless glitter that fades when the sun rises. This is something deeper, deliberate in its joy, a thing learned the hard way and savoured now like the last sweet sip at the bottom of a glass. The feel of Kaisel pressed over her is a contradiction she’ll never solve; his body strong and heavy enough to pin her completely, yet somehow she’s never felt more free.
He’s handsome, gods, he’s stunning like this. The firelight turns his skin to gold and molten copper, muscles shifting like something sculpted from salt and moonless sea. Sand clings to his hair, his jaw, the edges of his grin, and still he looks untouchable, radiant and wild and hers. Every inch of him glows with life, from the lines of his throat, the slope of his shoulders, the way his breath shakes with laughter and hunger all at once.
Flora kisses him back with the kind of abandon that feels like flying, fingers tracing up the curve of his spine, into his hair, holding him to her like she might forget how if she ever lets go. Delight melts into devotion; their laughter breaks and reshapes itself in the sound of lips meeting, in the tiny sighs caught between them. When they part, she’s panting against his mouth, smiling like she’s just discovered joy for the first time and it has his name written all over it.
As his lips trail lower, down the slope of her neck, Flora tips her head back and up, baring her throat and the soft rise of her chest. The air catches in her lungs as she stretches toward him, curls brushing the sand, her grin blooming foolishly skyward. The world above them is fire and darkness and bioluminescent glow, and she feels every bit of it reflected inside her, burning and bright.
Then her smile gentles, the edges of her laughter settling into something quieter, steadier, like a flame finding its centre. Her eyes flutter closed, her voice soft as she whispers, "I can do this," and then she whistles.
From the shadows comes a flicker of white; Spice answers instantly, the little dragon streaking toward them with a flaming branch clutched in her claws. The fire paints streaks of gold across the night, and Flora’s laughter brightens to meet it. The dragon darts low over the surf, her icy breath hissing as she lights one, then another, then another of the square driftwood floats bobbing along the tide—each crowned with its own trembling candle flame. When the last one catches, Spice lets the branch fall with a soft crackle and vanishes into the dark again, leaving behind a chain of soft, golden light that dances against the blue shimmer of the sea.
Watching all of this mostly upside down and grinning like she’s just performed a small miracle, the sound that escapes her is half-laugh, half-warning, and with a quick shove, Flora rolls them to the side. She follows him, a sweep of gold curls and warm skin, until she’s the one perched above him, breathless and triumphant. The firelight flares at her back while the bioluminescence ripples across her skin, soft blue blending into warm amber as though the ocean itself has bent close to watch.
Her fingers trail up her sides and over her shoulders, and with a slow, unhurried tug she loosens the strings of her bikini top. The fabric flutters down like a sigh, lost to the sand. The light licks over her—over them both—until everything else falls away. It isn’t the first time that they've been like this, but it feels new all the same, achingly so, as if this is the first time she’s truly been seen. Her smile down at him isn’t siren-sharp or teasing; it’s something softer, unguarded, blooming with love so pure it almost hurts.
He’s handsome, gods, he’s stunning like this. The firelight turns his skin to gold and molten copper, muscles shifting like something sculpted from salt and moonless sea. Sand clings to his hair, his jaw, the edges of his grin, and still he looks untouchable, radiant and wild and hers. Every inch of him glows with life, from the lines of his throat, the slope of his shoulders, the way his breath shakes with laughter and hunger all at once.
Flora kisses him back with the kind of abandon that feels like flying, fingers tracing up the curve of his spine, into his hair, holding him to her like she might forget how if she ever lets go. Delight melts into devotion; their laughter breaks and reshapes itself in the sound of lips meeting, in the tiny sighs caught between them. When they part, she’s panting against his mouth, smiling like she’s just discovered joy for the first time and it has his name written all over it.
As his lips trail lower, down the slope of her neck, Flora tips her head back and up, baring her throat and the soft rise of her chest. The air catches in her lungs as she stretches toward him, curls brushing the sand, her grin blooming foolishly skyward. The world above them is fire and darkness and bioluminescent glow, and she feels every bit of it reflected inside her, burning and bright.
Then her smile gentles, the edges of her laughter settling into something quieter, steadier, like a flame finding its centre. Her eyes flutter closed, her voice soft as she whispers, "I can do this," and then she whistles.
From the shadows comes a flicker of white; Spice answers instantly, the little dragon streaking toward them with a flaming branch clutched in her claws. The fire paints streaks of gold across the night, and Flora’s laughter brightens to meet it. The dragon darts low over the surf, her icy breath hissing as she lights one, then another, then another of the square driftwood floats bobbing along the tide—each crowned with its own trembling candle flame. When the last one catches, Spice lets the branch fall with a soft crackle and vanishes into the dark again, leaving behind a chain of soft, golden light that dances against the blue shimmer of the sea.
Watching all of this mostly upside down and grinning like she’s just performed a small miracle, the sound that escapes her is half-laugh, half-warning, and with a quick shove, Flora rolls them to the side. She follows him, a sweep of gold curls and warm skin, until she’s the one perched above him, breathless and triumphant. The firelight flares at her back while the bioluminescence ripples across her skin, soft blue blending into warm amber as though the ocean itself has bent close to watch.
Her fingers trail up her sides and over her shoulders, and with a slow, unhurried tug she loosens the strings of her bikini top. The fabric flutters down like a sigh, lost to the sand. The light licks over her—over them both—until everything else falls away. It isn’t the first time that they've been like this, but it feels new all the same, achingly so, as if this is the first time she’s truly been seen. Her smile down at him isn’t siren-sharp or teasing; it’s something softer, unguarded, blooming with love so pure it almost hurts.
