flora
Flora lifts her brows in slow, deliberate approval, chin tipping just enough to make the gesture unmistakably condescending, because yes, obviously Château Pillow Fort is not some roadside inn where anyone with a match and a mediocre last-name idea can wander in unannounced. Her lips purse as though she is assessing his understanding of the matter, then she gives a prim little nod that says he has, at the very least, grasped the gravity of the establishment. "I'm pleased you recognize its standards," she says smoothly, one shoulder angling back as though she might actually sweep invisible skirts aside to re-enter her fortress of cushions.
When his hand ruffles through his hair and the firelight catches along the line of his arm, her throat clears—just once, subtle, almost polite—as if she has merely inhaled a bit too much volcanic air and not noticed at all the way his muscles flex beneath the thin fabric of his tank. They have grown, she realizes with a quiet flicker of awareness, fuller and more defined than even a few seasons before, and there is something unfair about the way the fire gilds every contour, as though the Climb itself has conspired to stage-light her husband for dramatic effect. She keeps her expression cool, aqua gaze steady, but heat begins to thread through it all the same, warming the edges of her composure as he mouths three and mirrors her stance, that insufferably confident tilt of his head doing very little to steady the rhythm beginning to pulse beneath her ribs.
She watches—pretending not to watch—as his hand drifts from his hip and beneath the hem of his shirt, the motion lazy, thoughtful, entirely too casual for the effect it has, and she feels herself shift, just slightly, the movement small and almost girlish despite the haughty air she is trying so valiantly to maintain. Newly married or not, she is not immune to the spectacle of him, and she most certainly does want him inside the pillow fort, wants him stretched across those cushions she so carefully arranged, wants the world narrowed down to firelight and breath and the quiet rebellion of softness against stone. But she will not make it easy, not when he is preening like that.
So, she folds her arms across her chest, the gesture calculated and artful, drawing her shoulders back in a way that maximizes her cleavage, and makes a sharp, cheerful sound like an incorrect buzzer. "Ehhh," she sings out, shaking her head with mock severity. "Wrong." The word lands with theatrical disappointment, though the corners of her mouth are already threatening to betray her. "Only two left," she warns, voice smooth but carrying a tremor of anticipation she hopes the crackle of the fire disguises. "Before you're spending the night out here with your ass on the ground."
Her heart is beating just a touch faster now, pulse tapping lightly at her throat, and she can feel a faint warmth blooming across her cheeks that has nothing to do with the Climb’s relentless heat, her gaze flicking once—just once—to the sliver of skin he has revealed before snapping back up to his face, daring him to try again.
When his hand ruffles through his hair and the firelight catches along the line of his arm, her throat clears—just once, subtle, almost polite—as if she has merely inhaled a bit too much volcanic air and not noticed at all the way his muscles flex beneath the thin fabric of his tank. They have grown, she realizes with a quiet flicker of awareness, fuller and more defined than even a few seasons before, and there is something unfair about the way the fire gilds every contour, as though the Climb itself has conspired to stage-light her husband for dramatic effect. She keeps her expression cool, aqua gaze steady, but heat begins to thread through it all the same, warming the edges of her composure as he mouths three and mirrors her stance, that insufferably confident tilt of his head doing very little to steady the rhythm beginning to pulse beneath her ribs.
She watches—pretending not to watch—as his hand drifts from his hip and beneath the hem of his shirt, the motion lazy, thoughtful, entirely too casual for the effect it has, and she feels herself shift, just slightly, the movement small and almost girlish despite the haughty air she is trying so valiantly to maintain. Newly married or not, she is not immune to the spectacle of him, and she most certainly does want him inside the pillow fort, wants him stretched across those cushions she so carefully arranged, wants the world narrowed down to firelight and breath and the quiet rebellion of softness against stone. But she will not make it easy, not when he is preening like that.
So, she folds her arms across her chest, the gesture calculated and artful, drawing her shoulders back in a way that maximizes her cleavage, and makes a sharp, cheerful sound like an incorrect buzzer. "Ehhh," she sings out, shaking her head with mock severity. "Wrong." The word lands with theatrical disappointment, though the corners of her mouth are already threatening to betray her. "Only two left," she warns, voice smooth but carrying a tremor of anticipation she hopes the crackle of the fire disguises. "Before you're spending the night out here with your ass on the ground."
Her heart is beating just a touch faster now, pulse tapping lightly at her throat, and she can feel a faint warmth blooming across her cheeks that has nothing to do with the Climb’s relentless heat, her gaze flicking once—just once—to the sliver of skin he has revealed before snapping back up to his face, daring him to try again.
i scream for whatever it's worth
"i love you" ain't that the worst thing you've ever heard?
"i love you" ain't that the worst thing you've ever heard?
