flora
Laughter keeps spilling out of her, softer now, richer, less startled and more indulgent, and she shrugs just enough to feel the slide of him against her again. "Mmm," she hums, tilting her head lazily, lashes lowered in exaggerated thought. "You could take up juggling." The suggestion dissolves into a breathy little huff as his thumbs travel lower, warmth blooming wherever he presses, her mind scattering like startled birds.
"That’s good," she murmurs, voice thinning into heat as her back arches without permission. "Because suddenly my mind is super distracted." And it’s true. Silly as it might be, she could stay exactly here—the pair of them topless, tangled, kissing him until the light shifts through the stained glass and the house spirits get bored and slam doors in protest. There’s something obscene in how simple it is, how deeply satisfying just pressing skin to skin can be. She has never once managed to get enough of him, not in all the time she’s known him, not even now when they are married and technically allowed to devour each other without consequence in a way that in theory could have taken some of the spark out of things.
But then Kaisel is pulling away, and as he does, her legs tighten immediately, reflexive and possessive, trying to bar his retreat, and the small protest that escapes her is more laugh than complaint. He doesn’t fight it; he simply shifts, positioning himself beyond the armrest with intent that sends anticipation sparking beneath her ribs. When he releases her feet and bows over her, mouth brushing her stomach, a shivery breath spills from her as his lips press against her skin.
The remainder of her clothes disappear with a decisive tug, fabric sliding away until she’s left gloriously bare except for the absurd fish hat perched stubbornly atop her head. The ridiculousness of it makes her grin wickedly even as heat coils tighter inside her. She lifts one shoulder in a languid shrug that makes the movement deliberate, indulgent, offering. "We could keep fighting," she suggests, eyes flashing with challenge, voice warm and honeyed before she narrows her gaze at him, playful indignation sharpening the edges. "I mean, it’s basically spousal abuse to get me naked and then ask stupid questions instead of doing something about it."
With exaggerated offense she reaches up, plucks the fish hat from her head, and flings it at him like a thrown gauntlet, curls tumbling free as she settles back against the cushions, unashamed and entirely expectant.
"That’s good," she murmurs, voice thinning into heat as her back arches without permission. "Because suddenly my mind is super distracted." And it’s true. Silly as it might be, she could stay exactly here—the pair of them topless, tangled, kissing him until the light shifts through the stained glass and the house spirits get bored and slam doors in protest. There’s something obscene in how simple it is, how deeply satisfying just pressing skin to skin can be. She has never once managed to get enough of him, not in all the time she’s known him, not even now when they are married and technically allowed to devour each other without consequence in a way that in theory could have taken some of the spark out of things.
But then Kaisel is pulling away, and as he does, her legs tighten immediately, reflexive and possessive, trying to bar his retreat, and the small protest that escapes her is more laugh than complaint. He doesn’t fight it; he simply shifts, positioning himself beyond the armrest with intent that sends anticipation sparking beneath her ribs. When he releases her feet and bows over her, mouth brushing her stomach, a shivery breath spills from her as his lips press against her skin.
The remainder of her clothes disappear with a decisive tug, fabric sliding away until she’s left gloriously bare except for the absurd fish hat perched stubbornly atop her head. The ridiculousness of it makes her grin wickedly even as heat coils tighter inside her. She lifts one shoulder in a languid shrug that makes the movement deliberate, indulgent, offering. "We could keep fighting," she suggests, eyes flashing with challenge, voice warm and honeyed before she narrows her gaze at him, playful indignation sharpening the edges. "I mean, it’s basically spousal abuse to get me naked and then ask stupid questions instead of doing something about it."
With exaggerated offense she reaches up, plucks the fish hat from her head, and flings it at him like a thrown gauntlet, curls tumbling free as she settles back against the cushions, unashamed and entirely expectant.
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
