we show off our different scarlet letters
The sound of his voice near her ear—low, coaxing, steeped in heat—draws a slow breath from Flora’s lips, her eyes fluttering shut as warmth curls through her like melted sugar. The sea kisses her thighs in cool pulses, each wave a whisper of contrast against the steady heat rolling off of him. Every place they touch sizzles; the shape of his hands, the drag of his breath across her shoulder, even the faintest graze of his mouth feels magnified by the water and the dark and the way the laughter from the distant beach feels like it’s happening in another world entirely.
She’s about to answer, to tell him he needs to hold on tight to something, when his hands cup her breasts and his fingers do that against her nipples, and the words collapse in her throat. A shaky gasp is all that escapes as his palms tease her to attention, the mischief she’d been riding on moments ago slipping from her limbs like sand through a sieve.
As his voice dips lower, and the sound of it—that deep hum, half amusement and half intent—turns her bones to something molten. Her breath stutters as his hand glides down her stomach, the smooth plane of muscle tensing beneath his touch as her fingers flinch against his shoulder as he touches her. Her hips shift instinctively—forward, slow, like maybe it was just the tide, maybe not—as his finger rolls over her clit in maddening, perfect rhythm. The moan that leaves her is soft and breathy, barely a sound but enough to echo between them. Just like that, he’s unravelled her. In three touches and a hum, he’s stripped her of all her slyness and left her pliant in his hands, and gods does she love that he can do that to her.
When his hand leaves her, a soft sound of protest slips past her lips, cut short only because she’s biting it back. Her fingers trail from the scarring on his back and into the base of his hair, curling there as she lifts her face to his. The firelight and ocean-glow paint his eyes in copper and blue, and when she meets them, she grins, slow, sly, hungry. "I’m a very strong swimmer," she purrs, as if to suggest she didn't need the rafts. Or maybe there was just something else hard and wooden she wanted to hold onto instead.
Her other hand drifts downward, fingers scratching gently along his side, mapping out the familiar terrain of his muscle until her palm finds him. The head of his cock is warm against her hand, and she presses her palm flat there for a moment of teasing resistance before her fingers ghost teasingly down the shaft, far too featherlight to be anything other than maddening.
"Come on," she whispers, voice dripping with invitation, and then she’s backing away, stepping deeper into the sea, the blue-lit water rippling around her hips. Her hand remains around him, featherlight, trailing with her as she retreats—and if he wants her hand to stay wrapped around him, he'll have to follow.
She’s about to answer, to tell him he needs to hold on tight to something, when his hands cup her breasts and his fingers do that against her nipples, and the words collapse in her throat. A shaky gasp is all that escapes as his palms tease her to attention, the mischief she’d been riding on moments ago slipping from her limbs like sand through a sieve.
As his voice dips lower, and the sound of it—that deep hum, half amusement and half intent—turns her bones to something molten. Her breath stutters as his hand glides down her stomach, the smooth plane of muscle tensing beneath his touch as her fingers flinch against his shoulder as he touches her. Her hips shift instinctively—forward, slow, like maybe it was just the tide, maybe not—as his finger rolls over her clit in maddening, perfect rhythm. The moan that leaves her is soft and breathy, barely a sound but enough to echo between them. Just like that, he’s unravelled her. In three touches and a hum, he’s stripped her of all her slyness and left her pliant in his hands, and gods does she love that he can do that to her.
When his hand leaves her, a soft sound of protest slips past her lips, cut short only because she’s biting it back. Her fingers trail from the scarring on his back and into the base of his hair, curling there as she lifts her face to his. The firelight and ocean-glow paint his eyes in copper and blue, and when she meets them, she grins, slow, sly, hungry. "I’m a very strong swimmer," she purrs, as if to suggest she didn't need the rafts. Or maybe there was just something else hard and wooden she wanted to hold onto instead.
Her other hand drifts downward, fingers scratching gently along his side, mapping out the familiar terrain of his muscle until her palm finds him. The head of his cock is warm against her hand, and she presses her palm flat there for a moment of teasing resistance before her fingers ghost teasingly down the shaft, far too featherlight to be anything other than maddening.
"Come on," she whispers, voice dripping with invitation, and then she’s backing away, stepping deeper into the sea, the blue-lit water rippling around her hips. Her hand remains around him, featherlight, trailing with her as she retreats—and if he wants her hand to stay wrapped around him, he'll have to follow.
