is this the end of all the endings?
As Kaisel lifts her higher, Flora bends instinctively to meet him, folding herself around his mouth like a wave drawn down the length of a cliff. She bows not out of submission but from the sheer gravitational pull between them, her lips trailing his with a desperation that tastes like reverence. Should they stumble, should they crash into walls or lose their footing altogether on the way to the bathroom, she welcomes it. There is nothing in her now that fears bruises, not when the alternative is distance, not when separation would tear at something so raw and vital that it feels like trying to breathe through sea glass.
The echoing slam of the door rebounds through her ribcage, a thunderclap that drowns out every thought except the ferocious want clawing its way through her. At the sound of his voice—his demand, the unvarnished truth of it growled into the sweat-slick air—her entire body quivers, struck not with fear but with something too incandescent for language. It is the kind of pleasure that presses against the inside of her skin until it feels too much to contain, until the only thing left to do is tremble against the swell of it, to writhe and squirm and chase the edge of what he makes her feel.
Before she can offer the word he craves, he consumes her mouth, taking the answer in a kiss that undoes her spine and makes a garden bloom beneath her ribs. It is messy and hungry, uncontainable in its need, and only deepens her own, dragging soft sounds from her throat like prayers. When his teeth graze her neck, the heat of his breath curling into her skin, she gasps in sharp contrast to the sudden cold that claims her back as he presses her against the tile. Her fingers claw against him, not to escape but to root herself more deeply, uncaring of the flour that streaks them, of the grime on his hands, of anything except the wild, blazing need to be close.
Her arm shoots sideways, reaching for the shower knob with graceless urgency, and when the water hits them—neither hot nor cold but irrelevant either way—it does nothing to douse the fire pooling low in her belly. Her body arches reflexively, skin slickening with a heat that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with him.
Framing his face between her hands, Flora draws his gaze upward, needing to see him, needing him to see her; all of her, bare and undone and his. Her thumbs drag gently across his cheekbones, and when their eyes meet, it’s not lust that floods her first but love. Fierce, staggering love that leaves her breathless. "Forever," she whispers again, before melting back into him, her mouth searching out his in a kiss that speaks for everything she doesn’t know how to say. Her tongue brushes his, repeating the word in ways that only he can translate, her soul etched into every stroke.
Even as her legs remain clamped tight around him, one arm slips free, reaching downward with fumbling insistence. She turns her hips slightly, trying to tug the wet fabric of her underwear aside with fingers made clumsy by the rain of sensation and the way her body is already shaking with need. Tearing them would take too long, and being apart from him—even for that—is unthinkable. Her jaw trembles against his as she draws her hips back just enough, guiding the hard length of him against her. She wants—needs—to be taken, not with gentleness or ceremony, but with the same reckless hunger with which he holds her now, so instead of rocking her hips forward, she waits.
Pressed against him, shaking in his grip, her eyes flutter shut as her forehead rests against his. The moment is suspended like a held breath, every muscle tight with the delicious, desperate anticipation of what she is offering. Her entire body sings with readiness, not just to be touched but to be claimed, to be pulled inside-out by the one person who sees her not as something breakable but as something burning.
The echoing slam of the door rebounds through her ribcage, a thunderclap that drowns out every thought except the ferocious want clawing its way through her. At the sound of his voice—his demand, the unvarnished truth of it growled into the sweat-slick air—her entire body quivers, struck not with fear but with something too incandescent for language. It is the kind of pleasure that presses against the inside of her skin until it feels too much to contain, until the only thing left to do is tremble against the swell of it, to writhe and squirm and chase the edge of what he makes her feel.
Before she can offer the word he craves, he consumes her mouth, taking the answer in a kiss that undoes her spine and makes a garden bloom beneath her ribs. It is messy and hungry, uncontainable in its need, and only deepens her own, dragging soft sounds from her throat like prayers. When his teeth graze her neck, the heat of his breath curling into her skin, she gasps in sharp contrast to the sudden cold that claims her back as he presses her against the tile. Her fingers claw against him, not to escape but to root herself more deeply, uncaring of the flour that streaks them, of the grime on his hands, of anything except the wild, blazing need to be close.
Her arm shoots sideways, reaching for the shower knob with graceless urgency, and when the water hits them—neither hot nor cold but irrelevant either way—it does nothing to douse the fire pooling low in her belly. Her body arches reflexively, skin slickening with a heat that has nothing to do with temperature and everything to do with him.
Framing his face between her hands, Flora draws his gaze upward, needing to see him, needing him to see her; all of her, bare and undone and his. Her thumbs drag gently across his cheekbones, and when their eyes meet, it’s not lust that floods her first but love. Fierce, staggering love that leaves her breathless. "Forever," she whispers again, before melting back into him, her mouth searching out his in a kiss that speaks for everything she doesn’t know how to say. Her tongue brushes his, repeating the word in ways that only he can translate, her soul etched into every stroke.
Even as her legs remain clamped tight around him, one arm slips free, reaching downward with fumbling insistence. She turns her hips slightly, trying to tug the wet fabric of her underwear aside with fingers made clumsy by the rain of sensation and the way her body is already shaking with need. Tearing them would take too long, and being apart from him—even for that—is unthinkable. Her jaw trembles against his as she draws her hips back just enough, guiding the hard length of him against her. She wants—needs—to be taken, not with gentleness or ceremony, but with the same reckless hunger with which he holds her now, so instead of rocking her hips forward, she waits.
Pressed against him, shaking in his grip, her eyes flutter shut as her forehead rests against his. The moment is suspended like a held breath, every muscle tight with the delicious, desperate anticipation of what she is offering. Her entire body sings with readiness, not just to be touched but to be claimed, to be pulled inside-out by the one person who sees her not as something breakable but as something burning.
my broken bones are mending
