flora
Kai's curse against her pulls a soft, smug huff of laughter from her, a flicker of wicked delight at having undone him so completely, but it vanishes almost as quickly as it’s born when he moves again and the world narrows to the heat and pull of him. Praise replaces cleverness, spilling from her in broken sounds that have no structure, no wit, only the truth of how good he feels, how perfectly he finds her as though he has memorized every hidden contour. The rhythm of him gathers her up, and she clings to him not because she is fragile but because she wants to feel every collision, every breath, every tremor that travels through him and into her.
Something bright begins to rise inside her, not sudden but inevitable, like a tide swelling under a full moon, and it starts at the base of her spine before unfurling upward in a molten ribbon. It feels almost like a scream rooting itself in the back of her throat, a star collapsing inward and outward at once, and the force of it steals the edges of her sight. Her nails press into him harder, her hips answering his with helpless urgency, and it would be so easy—so blissfully easy—to let it take her entirely. But her eyes flash open through the haze, clarity cutting through pleasure just enough for her to reach for him, palm against his cheek, thumb brushing the line of his jaw. "Wait," she breathes, though her body betrays the word, rocking into him as if it has a will separate from her voice. She says it again, softer but steadier, lips nearly brushing his. "I want to try something," she adds, the request trembling between them like a live wire.
It feels almost sacrilegious to pause something this good, and yet the thought won’t leave her, curiosity and trust braided tightly together in her chest. "Sit on the couch," she instructs, and if and when she shifts, she'll follow him immediately, rising with him so there is no moment where she is not touching him. The second he settles, she is there, astride him, hips lowering slowly over his cock before sinking back into him, her breath uneven not only from the pleasure still humming through her but from the vulnerability of what she is about to ask.
She takes one of his hands, fingers threading through his, and her chest rises and falls against him as she meets his eyes. There is no coyness in her gaze now, only heat and trust and something rawer. "If you're not okay with this, just let me know." Because this goes both ways, and gods knows there are enough ways that he makes her feel good for her not to need to cling to this one. So saying, she guides his hand upward, careful and deliberate, placing his palm against her throat beneath her jaw and wrapping his fingers around her neck.
Her skin is warm beneath his touch, pulse fluttering against his fingers, and a flush spreads across her cheeks that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with being seen. She tightens his hand there gently, just enough to suggest pressure without force, and keeps her eyes on his, searching for hesitation and finding none. "It isn't about not being able to breathe," she murmurs, voice hushed but steady, her own hand cupping his cheek as if to anchor them both. "It's about the release of it when I cum." The way the added intensity sharpens everything else, how it makes the pleasure feel wilder, brighter, almost untamed.
There is a tremor in her when she says it, not fear but anticipation, and the vulnerability of asking makes her pulse thrum even harder beneath his palm. She holds his gaze as her hips begin to move again in a slow, deliberate rhythm that is less frantic now and more intentional. In the cradle of his hands and the cage of his arms, she feels not small but incandescent, a star leaning willingly into the gravity of another and trusting that neither of them will let the other fall.
Something bright begins to rise inside her, not sudden but inevitable, like a tide swelling under a full moon, and it starts at the base of her spine before unfurling upward in a molten ribbon. It feels almost like a scream rooting itself in the back of her throat, a star collapsing inward and outward at once, and the force of it steals the edges of her sight. Her nails press into him harder, her hips answering his with helpless urgency, and it would be so easy—so blissfully easy—to let it take her entirely. But her eyes flash open through the haze, clarity cutting through pleasure just enough for her to reach for him, palm against his cheek, thumb brushing the line of his jaw. "Wait," she breathes, though her body betrays the word, rocking into him as if it has a will separate from her voice. She says it again, softer but steadier, lips nearly brushing his. "I want to try something," she adds, the request trembling between them like a live wire.
It feels almost sacrilegious to pause something this good, and yet the thought won’t leave her, curiosity and trust braided tightly together in her chest. "Sit on the couch," she instructs, and if and when she shifts, she'll follow him immediately, rising with him so there is no moment where she is not touching him. The second he settles, she is there, astride him, hips lowering slowly over his cock before sinking back into him, her breath uneven not only from the pleasure still humming through her but from the vulnerability of what she is about to ask.
She takes one of his hands, fingers threading through his, and her chest rises and falls against him as she meets his eyes. There is no coyness in her gaze now, only heat and trust and something rawer. "If you're not okay with this, just let me know." Because this goes both ways, and gods knows there are enough ways that he makes her feel good for her not to need to cling to this one. So saying, she guides his hand upward, careful and deliberate, placing his palm against her throat beneath her jaw and wrapping his fingers around her neck.
Her skin is warm beneath his touch, pulse fluttering against his fingers, and a flush spreads across her cheeks that has nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with being seen. She tightens his hand there gently, just enough to suggest pressure without force, and keeps her eyes on his, searching for hesitation and finding none. "It isn't about not being able to breathe," she murmurs, voice hushed but steady, her own hand cupping his cheek as if to anchor them both. "It's about the release of it when I cum." The way the added intensity sharpens everything else, how it makes the pleasure feel wilder, brighter, almost untamed.
There is a tremor in her when she says it, not fear but anticipation, and the vulnerability of asking makes her pulse thrum even harder beneath his palm. She holds his gaze as her hips begin to move again in a slow, deliberate rhythm that is less frantic now and more intentional. In the cradle of his hands and the cage of his arms, she feels not small but incandescent, a star leaning willingly into the gravity of another and trusting that neither of them will let the other fall.
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
