flora
Flora does not miss the way his gaze sinks, helpless and tidal, to the curve she has so deliberately arranged for him, and if she happens to inhale a little deeper when she catches him looking—shoulders drawing back, breath expanding her chest in a slow, unhurried swell that makes the firelight play even more generously across her skin—well, so what? Her grin sharpens when he calls her mad, as though he has just handed her a medal instead of an accusation. "I've been called worse," she replies lightly, eyes gleaming, entirely pleased that he thinks her unreasonable. It means she's winning.
But then the tables tilt. Her gaze drifts, betraying her despite the hauteur she is trying to maintain, as Kaisel continues to trace the defined lines of his stomach where the shirt remains caught beneath his hand. Firelight gilds every ridge and hollow, and she knows that terrain intimately—knows the give of it beneath her palms, the way muscle tightens and shifts under her touch—and her fingers twitch where they are tucked against her arms, a phantom memory stirring through them like static. When his thumb hooks into his waistband and drags it lower, revealing that sharp V of muscle that disappears beneath fabric, her breath stumbles for half a second before she can smooth it out. The thought of what lies just beyond sends a flicker of heat straight through her, and she shifts her weight, subtle but restless, as though her body is trying to decide something without consulting her pride.
He says gummyworms, and she almost laughs, the absurdity of it colliding violently with the way her pulse has begun to quicken. "Gummyworms?" she echoes, voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and intrigue, letting the word linger as if she is tasting it, as if maybe it's right. Then, with a composure so deliberate it borders on theatrical, she begins to move, but oh so slowly.
She sinks down onto her knees in front of him, the blanket soft beneath her but the air electric between them, eyes never leaving his face as she descends. The fire throws shadows along her cheekbones, catches in her aqua gaze, and she lets her smile soften into something unreadable. Her hands lift, gathering her loose curls back from her shoulders, fingers combing through blonde strands as she pulls them into a makeshift ponytail at the nape of her neck. The gesture is unhurried, purposeful, chin tilting upward as she looks at him through her lashes, lips parting just enough to suggest breath, to suggest intention, to suggest possibly not just entry into the fort, but maybe a reward for being correct as well.
Her mouth hovers dangerously close to his waistline, posture poised with exquisite deliberation, she holds the moment there, stretching it thin as spun sugar. Then, softly, wickedly, she purrs, "wrong again."
But then the tables tilt. Her gaze drifts, betraying her despite the hauteur she is trying to maintain, as Kaisel continues to trace the defined lines of his stomach where the shirt remains caught beneath his hand. Firelight gilds every ridge and hollow, and she knows that terrain intimately—knows the give of it beneath her palms, the way muscle tightens and shifts under her touch—and her fingers twitch where they are tucked against her arms, a phantom memory stirring through them like static. When his thumb hooks into his waistband and drags it lower, revealing that sharp V of muscle that disappears beneath fabric, her breath stumbles for half a second before she can smooth it out. The thought of what lies just beyond sends a flicker of heat straight through her, and she shifts her weight, subtle but restless, as though her body is trying to decide something without consulting her pride.
He says gummyworms, and she almost laughs, the absurdity of it colliding violently with the way her pulse has begun to quicken. "Gummyworms?" she echoes, voice pitched somewhere between disbelief and intrigue, letting the word linger as if she is tasting it, as if maybe it's right. Then, with a composure so deliberate it borders on theatrical, she begins to move, but oh so slowly.
She sinks down onto her knees in front of him, the blanket soft beneath her but the air electric between them, eyes never leaving his face as she descends. The fire throws shadows along her cheekbones, catches in her aqua gaze, and she lets her smile soften into something unreadable. Her hands lift, gathering her loose curls back from her shoulders, fingers combing through blonde strands as she pulls them into a makeshift ponytail at the nape of her neck. The gesture is unhurried, purposeful, chin tilting upward as she looks at him through her lashes, lips parting just enough to suggest breath, to suggest intention, to suggest possibly not just entry into the fort, but maybe a reward for being correct as well.
Her mouth hovers dangerously close to his waistline, posture poised with exquisite deliberation, she holds the moment there, stretching it thin as spun sugar. Then, softly, wickedly, she purrs, "wrong 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?
