flora
Kaisel says he is giving her options and she tries—honestly, she does—to spear him with a look sharp enough to call him out on the lie, to let her eyes say you're so full of shit your eyes are brown, but the accusation never quite makes it to her mouth. Not when he draws his thumb between his lips, slow and deliberate, and something in her goes molten and feral and absurdly jealous of his thumb for being where his tongue is. The sight of it steals the air from her lungs in a way that feels unfair, like he has reached inside her chest and rearranged the rhythm there just because he can.
Heat rushes up her throat and across her cheeks as he moves closer, the weight and warmth of him aligning with her in a way that makes her stomach tighten and her pulse throb everywhere at once. When he presses in against her, when the space between them vanishes and becomes something else entirely, the sound that leaves her is greedy and low, unashamed in its hunger. Her gaze climbs him slowly—over the taut line of his abdomen, the flex of muscle, the stubborn lift of his chin—until it finds his face, and there is no need for secret languages, no coded glances, no cleverness at all. Her eyes are wide and bright and unguarded, and whatever challenge lived there before has melted into something more primal, more honest, more demanding.
As he moves into her, slow and deliberate, the sensation blooms outward like a match dropped into oil, catching along her spine and down her thighs in a shimmering wave. Her head tips back, throat exposed, the moan that spills from her long and low and threaded with relief and need all at once. It dissolves into a shiver that runs through her ribs and hips, and she finds she can't stay still even if she tries. The couch feels too small, too passive beneath her, and she lifts toward him despite the way gravity is pulling her down, hands sliding up his shoulders, nails pressing into warm skin as if she might pull him deeper, closer, might erase whatever last breath of distance exists between them.
There is something dizzying about it, this way her body answers him without negotiation, the way the earlier storm of worry and strategy has burned off entirely, leaving only heat and certainty. She arches into him again, not coy now, not plotting retaliation or teasing the next move, but openly reaching, openly wanting, every nerve tuned to the sound of his breath and the feel of him moving with her. Every other name and plan they'd discussed has been entirely forgotten, because right now the only thing that exists is the rise and fall of his chest over hers, the press of his hands at her hips, and the wild, breathless truth that she has never wanted anything more than this exact closeness, this exact moment, this exact man.
Heat rushes up her throat and across her cheeks as he moves closer, the weight and warmth of him aligning with her in a way that makes her stomach tighten and her pulse throb everywhere at once. When he presses in against her, when the space between them vanishes and becomes something else entirely, the sound that leaves her is greedy and low, unashamed in its hunger. Her gaze climbs him slowly—over the taut line of his abdomen, the flex of muscle, the stubborn lift of his chin—until it finds his face, and there is no need for secret languages, no coded glances, no cleverness at all. Her eyes are wide and bright and unguarded, and whatever challenge lived there before has melted into something more primal, more honest, more demanding.
As he moves into her, slow and deliberate, the sensation blooms outward like a match dropped into oil, catching along her spine and down her thighs in a shimmering wave. Her head tips back, throat exposed, the moan that spills from her long and low and threaded with relief and need all at once. It dissolves into a shiver that runs through her ribs and hips, and she finds she can't stay still even if she tries. The couch feels too small, too passive beneath her, and she lifts toward him despite the way gravity is pulling her down, hands sliding up his shoulders, nails pressing into warm skin as if she might pull him deeper, closer, might erase whatever last breath of distance exists between them.
There is something dizzying about it, this way her body answers him without negotiation, the way the earlier storm of worry and strategy has burned off entirely, leaving only heat and certainty. She arches into him again, not coy now, not plotting retaliation or teasing the next move, but openly reaching, openly wanting, every nerve tuned to the sound of his breath and the feel of him moving with her. Every other name and plan they'd discussed has been entirely forgotten, because right now the only thing that exists is the rise and fall of his chest over hers, the press of his hands at her hips, and the wild, breathless truth that she has never wanted anything more than this exact closeness, this exact moment, this exact man.
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
