Flower Delivery

Spencer carries in a truckload of fresh blooms and sets them on the lighting tables. The set needs someone on the other side of her lens. Siri rings the agency twice, but every model slot is already booked. She tosses the phone onto the couch, frustration tight between her brows. When she turns back, the arrangement stops her cold. Tall stems curve around the chaise like brushstrokes, colors sitting rich and warm under the softbox glow. Spencer is still adjusting the final bunch, sleeves pushed to her elbows. Tattoos trace down her forearms, dark ink over smooth skin. Siri studies the line of her shoulders and the swell of her chest beneath the thin cotton shirt. Spencer catches the stare and laughs, self-conscious. She says she’s only here to arrange flowers, nothing else. Siri steps closer, voice low, and asks her to stay exactly like that for a few shots. After a pause Spencer strips down to black cotton briefs and a matching bra, nipples pressing faintly through the fabric. She lifts the bouquet, arms framing her full, natural breasts. The camera clicks. Spencer shifts weight from hip to hip, letting the stems brush her thigh. Each new frame brings them nearer. Siri’s free hand rests on Spencer’s waist to guide the angle; fingers linger. Spencer’s breath catches. Soon the bouquet lies forgotten at the edge of the bed. Siri’s palm slides beneath the waistband, finds wet heat, strokes slow and deep. Spencer answers with a soft moan and pushes forward, hips rolling against the rhythm. They tangle together, skin against skin, mouths open, legs locked. Spencer’s fingers trace the ink on Siri’s ribs, then dip between her thighs, matching each stroke with one of her own. The afternoon light catches on sweat-slicked curves, the scent of flowers still heavy in the air. Every thrust and whimper turns the simple delivery into something neither of them planned on forgetting.