flora
The roguish tilt of Kaisel's mouth does something treacherous to her pulse, heat flushing up the back of her throat and settling low and molten beneath her ribs, and whatever clever retort she might have shaped dissolves the instant his thumb finds her. The first deliberate press sends a tremor skimming through her, sharp and liquid all at once, lips parting on a small, helpless gasp that feels stolen straight from her lungs. Her body answers him before pride ever could; hips tipping, back arching, fingers curling into the cushions as if she needs something solid to anchor herself against the current he’s just set loose.
Her eyes drink him in greedily—shirtless, pants undone, that maddening grin still hovering like he hasn’t already reduced her to this trembling thing beneath him—and there is a moment, brief but bright, where she considers surging up to claim him first, to drag him down and set the pace herself. But his hand holds her there, firm and certain, and the sound that spills from her mouth when his touch shifts is utterly unguarded, low and open and wanting in a way that makes her cheeks burn and her thighs tighten around the space he occupies.
Her breath comes in shallow pulls now, chest rising and falling against the cool air, and she tries to steady herself enough to meet his gaze without looking completely undone. The effort is valiant and mostly futile; her eyes are glassy with heat, lashes heavy, curls fanned wild against the couch as she lifts her chin just enough to make the challenge believable. "However much you tease me," she manages, voice husky and frayed at the edges, a hint of warning threading through the softness, "you’re getting it back tenfold." Her brows lift in emphasis, but the tremor still moving through her betrays the threat, and the look she fixes on him is less menace and more promise; bright, fevered, already plotting her retaliation even as her body arches shamelessly into the pace he’s choosing.
Her eyes drink him in greedily—shirtless, pants undone, that maddening grin still hovering like he hasn’t already reduced her to this trembling thing beneath him—and there is a moment, brief but bright, where she considers surging up to claim him first, to drag him down and set the pace herself. But his hand holds her there, firm and certain, and the sound that spills from her mouth when his touch shifts is utterly unguarded, low and open and wanting in a way that makes her cheeks burn and her thighs tighten around the space he occupies.
Her breath comes in shallow pulls now, chest rising and falling against the cool air, and she tries to steady herself enough to meet his gaze without looking completely undone. The effort is valiant and mostly futile; her eyes are glassy with heat, lashes heavy, curls fanned wild against the couch as she lifts her chin just enough to make the challenge believable. "However much you tease me," she manages, voice husky and frayed at the edges, a hint of warning threading through the softness, "you’re getting it back tenfold." Her brows lift in emphasis, but the tremor still moving through her betrays the threat, and the look she fixes on him is less menace and more promise; bright, fevered, already plotting her retaliation even as her body arches shamelessly into the pace he’s choosing.
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
