I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings
As Kai lifts the chain and grows uncharacteristically quiet, Flora’s thoughts immediately begin to run ahead of her, tripping over themselves with all the other possibilities she might have chosen instead; a weapon that would have looked impressive in his hands, a stronger piece of armour with sharper edges and louder promises, something dramatic and unmistakably powerful, or even something wildly impractical and extravagant that would have made everyone else stare. Could she even have found him his own dragon? The spiral tightens quickly, doubt threading through her chest as she watches his face for any hint of disappointment, and then his sudden, delighted cry cuts straight through it, snapping her attention back to him with a startled blink and a moment of pure disbelief before a slow, crooked smile spreads across her mouth. "Yeah?" she asks softly, the word carrying both hope and relief as she searches his eyes for confirmation that she is not imagining it.
When he growls out his praise in that low, deliberate way he knows affects her, Flora draws in a slow breath through her nose, lashes lowering just a touch as she watches him with open awareness, her body already responding before her mind can catch up. She expects his mouth to find hers, and the laughter that slips free when instead he peppers her neck with kisses is light and unguarded, relief and affection tangling together, until the drag of his teeth sends a pulse of heat skimming across her skin and has her shivering closer against him without even meaning to. The pressure of his fingers tightening over the lace at her hips lights her up in a way that feels almost unfair, the contrast of cool air against bare skin and his warmth anchoring her in place, the fabric shifting just enough beneath his touch to tease sensation across her lower back and make her breath hitch where her lips press into his hair.
Her fingers flex instinctively at the nape of his neck, nails brushing his skin as a breathy laugh escapes her. "If you keep holding me like this, I'm going to start getting turned on every time you unwrap something," she murmurs, the admission playful but honest in a way she does not bother to soften, not when her mind is so helplessly bound up in the image of his hands and the sensation of the lace tugging across her skin. Pulling back just enough for him to see the flush warming her cheeks, she shakes her head at him in mock reproach, as though the way he has set her alight is something she could possibly blame him for, before turning back toward the counter with a deliberate sway.
She scoops up a dollop of whipped cream from one of the mugs on her finger and lifts it to her mouth, lips gliding slowly over her skin as she draws the sweetness away, the indulgent hum she makes quiet but unmistakable as her gaze never leaves him.
When he growls out his praise in that low, deliberate way he knows affects her, Flora draws in a slow breath through her nose, lashes lowering just a touch as she watches him with open awareness, her body already responding before her mind can catch up. She expects his mouth to find hers, and the laughter that slips free when instead he peppers her neck with kisses is light and unguarded, relief and affection tangling together, until the drag of his teeth sends a pulse of heat skimming across her skin and has her shivering closer against him without even meaning to. The pressure of his fingers tightening over the lace at her hips lights her up in a way that feels almost unfair, the contrast of cool air against bare skin and his warmth anchoring her in place, the fabric shifting just enough beneath his touch to tease sensation across her lower back and make her breath hitch where her lips press into his hair.
Her fingers flex instinctively at the nape of his neck, nails brushing his skin as a breathy laugh escapes her. "If you keep holding me like this, I'm going to start getting turned on every time you unwrap something," she murmurs, the admission playful but honest in a way she does not bother to soften, not when her mind is so helplessly bound up in the image of his hands and the sensation of the lace tugging across her skin. Pulling back just enough for him to see the flush warming her cheeks, she shakes her head at him in mock reproach, as though the way he has set her alight is something she could possibly blame him for, before turning back toward the counter with a deliberate sway.
She scoops up a dollop of whipped cream from one of the mugs on her finger and lifts it to her mouth, lips gliding slowly over her skin as she draws the sweetness away, the indulgent hum she makes quiet but unmistakable as her gaze never leaves him.
and I hate accidents except when we went from friends to this
