we show off our different scarlet letters
As Kaisel reaches for the raft, Flora shifts too, her body slipping easily between his arms and the flickering flame. Her arm remains braced on the raft to keep herself anchored, the ocean still tugging at her legs like it wants her elsewhere. But she's not going anywhere—not when she can press close and closer still—and let her thigh slide forward until her leg curls slowly around Kaisel's waist. The motion draws her against him, his cock brushing maddeningly where she aches for him, and the pressure of it alone makes her breath catch. She bites at a grin, eyes sparking with wicked delight as her other leg snakes around him too, locking him in place. The contact is exquisite torment, just shy of satisfaction, and the tension between them stretches so tight it feels like the waves themselves might snap from it.
His question earns a slow, indulgent smile as she lifts one hand to comb a few strands of wet hair back from his face, brushing it away so she can see the full gleam of his eyes in the dark. "I prefer to think of it as being an optimist," she purrs, voice curling like smoke against his skin. "Why not look on the bright side?" And then she leans back—slowly, deliberately—until all her weight rests on the arm braced behind her on the raft. Her chest rises, hips tilted forward, her body open and inviting, just out of reach. The hard length of him presses right against her, exactly where she wants him, and it would be so easy—too easy—for him to shift forward and bury himself inside her. But then what?
It’s the promise of it that’s so devastating, the not-quite that has her gasping softly, knuckles white where they press into the raft’s edge. Her thighs tighten instinctively around him again, trying to keep him close even as she tips her head back to look at him, and gods, look at him. The ocean glows around them in pulses, each swell of water casting streaks of soft blue over his shoulders, down the ridges of his chest, across the sharp line of his jaw. In this light, he looks untouchable, like something sculpted from dusk and starlight, his body painted in wet copper and lightning. The water beads against his skin, sliding in slow rivers that only make her hungrier to touch him. His grin still curves sharp, despite the ache they’re both drowning in, and that—that—is what undoes her.
Her gaze softens, breath still shallow from the feel of him against her. "Do you care," she asks, low and steady, "if anyone sees us?" She tilts her head slightly to the side. "Or hears us?" Her voice doesn’t waver, not shy, but it’s not pushy either. She knows how riled up he is, how easy it would be to convince him to drag her to shore and fuck her against the sand, and gods, she wants that, not least of all because while masochism might not apply to Flora, voyeruism certainly does. But she won’t take advantage of the want in either of them, not if it might become discomfort later.
His question earns a slow, indulgent smile as she lifts one hand to comb a few strands of wet hair back from his face, brushing it away so she can see the full gleam of his eyes in the dark. "I prefer to think of it as being an optimist," she purrs, voice curling like smoke against his skin. "Why not look on the bright side?" And then she leans back—slowly, deliberately—until all her weight rests on the arm braced behind her on the raft. Her chest rises, hips tilted forward, her body open and inviting, just out of reach. The hard length of him presses right against her, exactly where she wants him, and it would be so easy—too easy—for him to shift forward and bury himself inside her. But then what?
It’s the promise of it that’s so devastating, the not-quite that has her gasping softly, knuckles white where they press into the raft’s edge. Her thighs tighten instinctively around him again, trying to keep him close even as she tips her head back to look at him, and gods, look at him. The ocean glows around them in pulses, each swell of water casting streaks of soft blue over his shoulders, down the ridges of his chest, across the sharp line of his jaw. In this light, he looks untouchable, like something sculpted from dusk and starlight, his body painted in wet copper and lightning. The water beads against his skin, sliding in slow rivers that only make her hungrier to touch him. His grin still curves sharp, despite the ache they’re both drowning in, and that—that—is what undoes her.
Her gaze softens, breath still shallow from the feel of him against her. "Do you care," she asks, low and steady, "if anyone sees us?" She tilts her head slightly to the side. "Or hears us?" Her voice doesn’t waver, not shy, but it’s not pushy either. She knows how riled up he is, how easy it would be to convince him to drag her to shore and fuck her against the sand, and gods, she wants that, not least of all because while masochism might not apply to Flora, voyeruism certainly does. But she won’t take advantage of the want in either of them, not if it might become discomfort later.
