flora
Flora doesn’t melt so much as ignite when Kaisel surges up into her, meeting her kiss with that feral, breath-dragging hunger, the sound that leaves her mouth is low and involuntary, a molten thing pressed straight into his lips. She answers him without hesitation, tongue deliberate and commanding even now, because fighting with him has always felt less like opposition and more like a sharpening of the same blade, always fighting for the same thing in the end. For them.
She lets his wrists slip free without protest, the challenge already served and satisfied, and when his hands bracket her waist the reaction is immediate. Her hips roll forward into his grip, chasing the pressure he lays down like it’s a spark she refuses to let die, heat coiling low and tight in her belly at the firm certainty of his fingers. She loves the way he holds her—like she belongs exactly there, like the curve of her was designed for his palms—and she arches into it without thought, seeking more of that possessive touch that makes her feel chosen rather than contained.
The rise comes so suddenly that the startled breath she releases barely has time to form before it melts into a deeper moan against his mouth. Her thighs lock instinctively around his waist, not just to steady herself but to claim him in return, to wrap and hold and make sure there is no slipping free now. The movement frees her hands, and she uses them immediately, sliding them up into his hair, fingers spreading at his scalp as she draws him closer, lifting herself higher against him until she’s kissing him from just above, guiding the angle like she means to pull him up into her entirely.
For a heartbeat she parts from his mouth, not far, not enough to cool anything, just enough for her words to land clearly instead of dissolving into him. Her breath is uneven, flushed with want, and her forehead brushes his as she speaks. "I love when you pick me up," she confesses in the spirit of letting him know exactly the sorts of things she likes, voice husky and unguarded, fingers tightening slightly in his hair. "It makes me feel like I can't have you quickly enough. Her nails press just a little more firmly against his scalp and she drags her mouth back to the corner of his, heat flaring bright in her eyes. "It makes me feel crazy," she murmurs, the word half-breath, half-threat, hips shifting again against him in deliberate demonstration of exactly what she means.
She lets his wrists slip free without protest, the challenge already served and satisfied, and when his hands bracket her waist the reaction is immediate. Her hips roll forward into his grip, chasing the pressure he lays down like it’s a spark she refuses to let die, heat coiling low and tight in her belly at the firm certainty of his fingers. She loves the way he holds her—like she belongs exactly there, like the curve of her was designed for his palms—and she arches into it without thought, seeking more of that possessive touch that makes her feel chosen rather than contained.
The rise comes so suddenly that the startled breath she releases barely has time to form before it melts into a deeper moan against his mouth. Her thighs lock instinctively around his waist, not just to steady herself but to claim him in return, to wrap and hold and make sure there is no slipping free now. The movement frees her hands, and she uses them immediately, sliding them up into his hair, fingers spreading at his scalp as she draws him closer, lifting herself higher against him until she’s kissing him from just above, guiding the angle like she means to pull him up into her entirely.
For a heartbeat she parts from his mouth, not far, not enough to cool anything, just enough for her words to land clearly instead of dissolving into him. Her breath is uneven, flushed with want, and her forehead brushes his as she speaks. "I love when you pick me up," she confesses in the spirit of letting him know exactly the sorts of things she likes, voice husky and unguarded, fingers tightening slightly in his hair. "It makes me feel like I can't have you quickly enough. Her nails press just a little more firmly against his scalp and she drags her mouth back to the corner of his, heat flaring bright in her eyes. "It makes me feel crazy," she murmurs, the word half-breath, half-threat, hips shifting again against him in deliberate demonstration of exactly what she means.
you don't know that you're living til' you're carrying scars
you're either falling in love or falling apart
you're either falling in love or falling apart
