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gomu-fer · 4 months

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Bathing suit

Sanji x reader

Warnings: afab reader, comfort fluff but a little suggestive, CW reader is not comfortable with her body so she talks terrible about it (don’t worry this has a happy ending)

Word count: 1.6k

Summary: In which you hate how you look in your bathing suit and Sanji comforts you

Masterlist

It was a hot sunny day, the waves of the ocean made their way to the shore in a calm rhythm, so steady that the Strawhats found themselves having to dock on the beach for the day, awaiting for the ocean’s ferocity to comeback so they could sail away to continue their adventure

A day in the beach, everyone was more than happy for the idea. Having to spend your days at sea with the same faces looking back at you every waking moment could be a little nagging, having this time to unravel and enjoy the beauty of the island was something everyone looked forward to. Franky and Ussop had even set up an improvised tiki bar, just an excuse for Sanji to make everyone drinks really

And there he was, mixing up a fruit drink that he handed Nami which she took gratefully, before making her way back to her assigned place under an umbrella besides Robin. A smile was quick to make its way to the cooks face, everyone seemed to be enjoying themselves, wether it be savoring his drinks, fooling around in the ocean or constructing an impressive sand castle near the shore

But his smile was quick to fade when he noticed you were nowhere to be found, how strange. Earlier that day, when Luffy happily shared the news of how the crew was going to spend the day, he clearly recalled your enthusiastic response, happy to finally have some sand under your feet and enjoy a relaxing day under the beaming sun; so… where were you?

Worry seemed to be building up on Sanji’s core when he asked about your whereabouts and no one really knew where or what were you doing

“Last time I saw her she was getting ready, said she’d catch up to us” Robin commented, which did nothing to ease his worries since that had happened when you had just docked

“I’m just going to make sure she’s ok” Sanji said after taking a drag of his cigarette that burned hastily under his fingertips. Robin smiled and nodded, knowing that whatever it was, Sanji would take good care of it

So he looked for you, all over and under The Sunny, but it seemed like you had dissipated into thin air, that was until he heard a sob reverb from behind the girls quarters door. Thinking something absolutely terrible and unthinkable had happened to the sweet sweet you, Sanji kicked open the door, making you jump out of your skin as his eyes examined the room

When he saw you, eyes puffy, nose red, wrapped under a blanket looking like a sad wet dog Sanji found himself stunned, glad you were in one piece, but his heart breaking at your sight

“My dear… what happened?” You stayed in place, only answering with a sad sob and a shiver, the blonde eased his position, softening as he approached gently “dear?”

“Nothing… I’m just, not feeling well” Sanji had never seen you like this, in his eyes you were a strong and brave woman that carried herself proudly, to see you so vulnerable made his heart clench. Hesitantly, he sat at your side of your bed, his eyes never leaving your form, taking note of your fingertips dragging your tears away in a hurry. A salience fell, deafening as you fought back the pain blossoming form your being, hiding into yourself

“Are you sure?” A sigh left your lips, your eyes watering meeting his blue worried ones, you shook your head slowly

“Do you want to talk about it?” His voice was barely a whisper, as if afraid you’ll get scared and run away again. You stayed still for a moment, hesitant but too hurt to even deny, you nodded shutting your eyes as new tears peeked at the sides

Sanji scooted closer, his hand reaching for your back rubbing confronting circles “I feel disgusting”- your voice came out broken and tired.- “I look so bad in my bathing suit, nothing like Nami and Robin… why am I like this?”

Every single word that came out of your mouth was like a dagger hitting Sanji’s stomach repeatedly, hurting him like nothing had ever before and leaving him confused

Every since Sanji had landed his eyes on you, he was absolutely star struck. He swears he had never crossed paths with someone like you, your beauty beyond compare. Sure he was known for his admiration for women and tossing around the word perfect almost to every single one he met, but you? Perfect was not enough of a word; it was not only your dazzling beauty with your star lit eyes and your addictive smile framed by those soft lips of yours, your sun kissed skin and your free hair waved by the ocean’s breeze the only thing leaving him breathless, it was your heart, your bravery and kindness that you always extended towards the people around you, your soul was even far more precious than anything Sanji had ever encountered in the vastness of the sea

It was really confusing to know that you couldn’t see what he did

An incredulous “What?”- was the only thing that slipped from his mouth at the idea of it, your eyes turning confused just as he was

“But, you’re gorgeous” Sanji expressed without hesitation, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, as if stating a clear fact

“You’re just saying that to be nice” he immediately shook his head repeatedly, his hands reaching to hold yours in hopes you’ll understand

“I mean it!”

“You don’t have to pretend, I know loving every woman on earth is part of who you are but be honest with me Sanji. I am not as skinny or gracious as all the girls you fawn over, I am not the kind of girl someone double takes at-“ you paused your rambling when you were met with something you had never seen before, Sanji was upset… upset with you; angry eyes piercing you in place, holding his breath hoping that the words you used to talk about yourself would stop flowing out of your mouth, he was fuming

“Sanji?” His strong grip shifted from your hands to your shoulders, blue eyes full of determination burning right into yours but not a word was spoken. The cook knew if he was to spill every thought that swam around his mind right now it would only bring to the surface his clear love for you, a feeling he had tried to bury deep down on his being and failing every time you’ll cross his line of vision; regardless, he weighs his options, you deserved better than him he said to himself but… maybe he wanted to be selfish

“Darling, it’s true… you’re not like Nami or Robin, but that’s exactly why you’re so…”- his heart jumped to his throat as he tried to get his words out, desires being held back by a thin rope about to snap.- “so perfect” Sanji’s words echoed trough the room, blush settling on top of your tear stained cheeks, but still you doubted him

“I am no-“

“Y/N!” he shook your shoulders in hopes you’ll come back to yourself

“You think I’m lying? Look!” You stood up getting away from his grip and tossing the blanket that shielded your body aside, opening your arms as you showed your bathing suit “My belly looks so bad, my thighs are huge and I have marks all over and…” your voice faded as Sanji admired you from his seat, ogling you form head to toe, his heart went from his throat to the floor reddening his face and hitching his breath

Fuck it

The cook stood up just to fall on his knees immediately after; there he was in front of you, his hands on your plum thighs as pure adoration looked back at you -“If you only knew what you do to me” your pink tinted cheeks turned red at his words and your heartbeat went wild, threatening to make your heart jump out of your ribcage. His slender hands touched your cold skin with pure devotion burning themselves into you, his eyes made another roll of your figure taking in every detail he was able to as he remained close. Sanji’s grip faltered only to move his hands around your legs, savoring the way your skin felt under his fingertips; his hands reached near your bottom making you jump immediately pulling his hands back to your thighs

“SORRY!” He exclaimed as his mind catches up with the actions of his body, hand pulling away from you leaving you cold.- “You’re just so… unreal”

There it was again, that twinkle in his eyes that made its appearance whenever he glanced at you, beaming over your insecurities and making them disappear on its wake, but why? why you? In your eyes you were just pathetic but for him… you were everything

“Sanji” you called and he answered without a doubt, raising to his feet as he awaited for your words.- “Do you mean it”

Finally, a shadow of a smile casted on your lips, melting the cook in a puddle at your feet, but he managed to not crumble because he needed to answer

“Sweetheart, theres so much more I want to say to you and nothing would be enough to show you how crazy you make me” hearing the thrumming in his chest sparked the idea to maybe just show you. Again, his hand took one of yours in his and placed in on his chest, there it was clear as day, his heart jumping around because of you… for you

You flushed at the feeling, another smile gracing Sanjis view as you thanked him in a whisper, both of your gazes staring back at each other lost on the feeling of one another, awaiting for time to take you

“I feel so much better now” taking advantage of your position, you jumped on the cooks arms, wrapping yourself on his tall frame smiling like an idiot which Sanji welcomed happier than ever, you body melting into his in a sweet hug that he would forever remember

“Glad to be of service”

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This was supposed to be a prompt with several characters but I got carried away… anyways Laws version is in the making

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wordywarriorwrites · 5 months

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Assignation

Title: Assignation | AO3 | Rating: M | Masterlist

Pairing: Frankie Morales x F! Reader

Summary: You meet Frankie on your dream vacation and sparks fly...

Warnings: Language. Smut. Alcohol consumption.

The all-inclusive, adults-only resort is undeniably luxurious.

Clear-blue skies. White-sand beaches. Glorious accommodations. It’s an absolute dream vacation destination, and you – long overdue for a break – fully intend to spend your time in paradise eating food you’ve never tried, sleeping in as late as you want, and testing the limits of your liver.

The patio outside your suite offers a panoramic view of the Atlantic, along with a private pool, and gated access to the beachfront. Nearby, you can see people dancing and eating and playing games. You’re far enough away from the noise for it not to be bothersome, but close enough that you can join in any time you like.

Feet in the water. The apples of your cheeks slathered in sunscreen. You let your senses take in the salty air and chlorine, the echoes of laughter and revs of water skis, the sleep-inducing heat, and the chilled-to-perfection cocktail. The buzz in your veins has kickstarted your appetite, and your nose guides your gaze toward the tiki hut across the way, the delicious scent wafting from it prompting you to pocket your room key and make your way onto the sand.

You sip as you precariously swerve and dodge, mindful of your step and the revelry of the other vacationers. You’re being extra careful, so, it’s not your fault when the collision happens. In fact, you were well out of the way of the group of men drinking beer and playing volleyball, but the safe distance you kept wasn’t enough to stop the collision from happening.

The glass in your hand goes flying, the ice and tequila splashing on your face and chest just seconds before you’re entangled with muscled limbs. A blur of a hat and dark eyes, and then, it’s all hops and sweat and the unmistakable scent of coconut. Everything goes tilt-a-whirl, and you roll a few times before your back eventually meets cold water and wet sand. Waves rush forward, and the only thing that prevents you from swallowing a mouthful of brine is a broad-shouldered body blocking the spray.

“You alright?” a deep voice pants, low-timbered and tinged with concern.

A large, warm palm cups your cheek, prompting you to look up and drink in the sight of the man hovering above you. Dark, decadent brown eyes squinted against the bright, late-afternoon rays. Water drip-dropping from the tip of his sun-burned nose, the lobes of his ears, and his lush curls. Plush mouth, lips parted to take in gulps of air. A mustache. A patchy beard.

Christ, he’s beautiful, you think.

“There’s ice in my bra,” is what you say.

His handsome face is completely transformed by his smile. A rich laugh follows, revealing lines around his eyes and mouth that show he’s a good-natured man with a sense of humor, and something about that warms your insides better than any liquor ever could.

When he flops onto his back, exposing your now too-curious gaze to his throat and torso, your belly swoops and your heartbeat kicks up a notch. After a series of slow, deep breaths, he gathers himself, groaning slightly as he sits up and brushes his hair from his face with his forearm.

“Sorry about that,” he says, getting to his feet and offering you a sand-covered hand up. “Guess me and the boys got a little too into it.”

With a flex of his bicep, you’re standing, watching as he deftly retrieves his hat and plops it back onto his head with practiced ease. A moment later, the boys he referenced appear; three grown men, each possessing auras of calm authority as they introduce themselves and ask if either one of you needs a medic. He, who you discover is named Franscisco but-everyone-calls-me-Frankie is quick to wave them off, and so are you.

“Nothing broken,” you insist, tagging along with the group as they start walking as a unit toward dry sand. “Enjoy your game.”

They wave. You wave. Adrenaline waning, you’re a bit wobbly as you move toward the restaurant, and promptly collapse into the first vacant seat you find. A kind attendant brings you a towel and a bottle of water, and after you catch your bearings, your stomach reminds you of your original mission.

Spiny lobster. Yaroa. You’re pretty sure you eat your weight in both, washing it down with a nice, full-bodied chardonnay before topping it all off with bizcocho that is criminally delicious. The journey back to your room is uneventful – though this time, when you pass the volleyball pit, they halt their play, and Frankie nods at you rather sheepishly.

After a quick shower to rinse away the sand and lingering stench of alcohol, you fall into bed and are asleep almost as soon as your head hits the feathered pillow. When you wake, it’s to an unfamiliar ringing and a darkening room. A bit disoriented, you fumble around for the bedside lamp, clicking it on before leaning over to grab the receiver of the room telephone.

“Hello?” you croak.

“Good evening, madam, this is the concierge,” a polite, feminine voice greets. “Sorry to disturb you, but a delivery has arrived for you. May I have it sent to your suite?”

You rub sleep from your eyes and sit up slowly, “Uh, sure. That’s fine.”

There’s no time to ask what it is or who it’s from because all you hear is a cheery thank you, followed by a chirped goodbye and a click as the call is ended. You hang up and take note of the time, and the knock announcing the arrival of the delivery comes a handful of minutes later. Still bleary-eyed and fuzzy-minded, you stumble out of bed and forget all about checking the eyelet before answering.

And to say you’re surprised to find Frankie just beyond the threshold of your hotel suite is an understatement.

Sporting cargo shorts, a maroon-colored t-shirt, and a soft smile. Curls on full display. Sunscreen traded for fabric softener and deodorant. He’s casually, disarmingly handsome, and the bouquet of wildflowers in his hand, coupled with that strong jaw and charming smile that makes you feel all gooey-in-the-middle?

Christ, you’re going to swoon.

“Were you sleeping?” he wonders, tone curious, if not entirely innocent.

You blink slowly. He looks right back at you, now fully smirking, revealing a dimple you hadn’t noticed before – one that somehow insinuates that your appearance has sparked both a keen interest and great amusement. It’s then that you remember how you’d crawled into bed earlier in just a t-shirt and underwear, and now, your bare legs, unsupported cleavage, and unkempt hair are currently on display for him.

“You can see all my cash and prizes, can’t you?” you blurt.

Frankie laughs, but it’s not cruel. He’s also not crude, insisting nothing X-rated is visible, and when he holds the flowers out toward you, you take them without hesitation. Face on fire, you bring the bouquet to your nose and inhale slowly.

“These are lovely,” you murmur, holding them to your chest. “I take it you’re the delivery the front desk called me about?”

“Yeah, Benny charmed the clerk. Got me your room number,” he confesses, left shoulder shrugging. He clears his throat. Rubs his hands on his shorts. “Look, I just – I wanted to say I’m sorry. And make sure you’re okay. I feel bad, you know, for earlier.”

Taken aback, you trace a fingertip along a petal on one of the blooms and swallow hard. It’s a beautiful array. Pale pink, red, yellow, and orange – traditional for the area and likely bought at one of the many on-site gift shops. It’s a kind gesture that flummoxes you because it’s so unexpected and completely unnecessary.

And you don’t know what to say.

You’re a take-charge kind of gal – firing on all cylinders, always ready with a solution or an answer. You’re fully capable of having a conversation with an attractive, amiable man. One with broad shoulders that strain against the seams of his shirt. One who has a bedroom voice, even in the middle of a brightly lit hallway. One who makes you keenly aware with every passing second in his presence that you’re a woman – not just some high-paid, high-powered, pencil-skirt-wearing cog in a corporate machine.

Frankie fiddles with his watch before shoving his hands into his pockets. Effortlessly gracious, he’s forthcoming with another apology – this time, for interrupting your sleep. He jerks a thumb over his shoulder, indicating his intention to leave you be, and you watch him take a few steps toward the elevator before you find your voice and rediscover your spine.

“Hey, you, uh, want to get a drink?” you call after him. “With me? Or some food?”

He stops. Turns around. That smile and that damn dimple are back, and you just can’t help but grin at him in return.

“I dunno,” he murmurs playfully, thumb rubbing absentmindedly at his chin. “You gonna put some pants on?”

You shrug, “Maybe. And if you’re nice, I’ll might even brush my hair.”

Fannkie’s deep chuckle prompts you to insist that you can be ready in five minutes. Content to wait in the hall, he lifts his wrist, and pointedly eyes his watch.

“I’m timing you, gatita,” Frankie says.

You hurry back into the room, dropping the flowers into the bedside water pitcher before digging frantically through your suitcase and putting on a clean bra and a sundress. You multitask and push your feet into a pair of sandals as you wrangle your tresses. An oversized claw clip saves the day, and after a dab of perfume and a swipe of deodorant, you’ve got your handbag, and are stuffing your phone and room key into it as the door clicks shut behind you.

Leaning against the wall near the elevator, arms casually crossed over his chest; Frankie straightens when he spots you, all smiles as he jabs the button with his thumb, prompting the doors to slide open.

“Four minutes, thirty-three seconds,” he remarks, stepping in after you. “Cuttin’ it close, gatita.” You arch a brow. Purse your lips. Jab the button for the ground floor. You’re amused and failing to hide it, and Frankie knows it, but he doesn’t say anything – he just stands close enough to you to make the butterflies in your stomach go frantic, the teasing wink he tosses in your direction perfectly timed with the doors reopening.

The two of you disembark, walking side-by-side out of the lobby and onto the hotel grounds. Guided by spine-shaking music, past a colorfully lit dance floor, and into the restaurant area proper. Bass and cheering are traded for clinking utensils and quiet conversations, making it easier for the two of you to chat as you peruse. There are menus to be found outside the door of each place, and you and Frankie are quick to agree on a spot about halfway across the property.

The roar of the ocean is smothered by the chatter of guests, who are strategically seated throughout the wide-open, dimly lit space. Frankie hones in on a relatively quiet spot toward the back, and once he’s guided you into a chair, it doesn’t take long for the tiny, modestly set table to become invisible beneath a smorgasbord of food and drink.

A couple of shots of Mama Juana. A cocktail for you. A beer for him. La Bandera and Sancocho. Cassava dumplings and tostones. Spanish flows naturally from Frankie’s mouth, and somehow, it all tastes better when he’s the one ordering and explaining what’s in each dish.

Time passing. Chairs inching closer. Idle chit-chat easing into an interesting conversation. A touch to your forearm. A squeeze to his shoulder. He takes from your plate, and you take from his. The two of you – laughing just a little too loudly, sharing a bottle of wine, and then, a bottle of champagne. Splitting a plate of fresh fruit, with warm, dark chocolate for dipping. Furtive glances, morphing into lingering looks…

“How long are you staying?” you wonder.

“Fly out tomorrow night,” he says, popping a piece of pineapple into his mouth. “You?”

You reach for a slice of mango, “Three weeks. I got here two days ago, and I’m already thinking of ways to stay longer.”

He hums and nods, “I’ll drink to that.”

Glasses raised, the two of you clink and sip, finishing off the bottle with ease. Frankie’s attentive, and quick to offer a top-up, or to order you something more, but you shake your head and decline. You’re comfortably full, pleasantly buzzed, and you let him know it.

“It’s a nice night,” you remark, eyes searching for the waves in the dark. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

Frankie sits back and tosses his napkin on the table, “Want some company?”

You nod, and the two of you set out, meandering down and beyond the main drag, strolling by fountains and decorative greenery before hitting the gardens. The two of you stick to the lit paths, strides matching, easily picking up where you left off.

“My ex and I – we split up about five years ago,” he says without a trace of upset. “And I told you about my daughter.”

“Maya, starting first grade in the fall, hates crunchy peanut butter,” you recite.

Frankie chuckles. Goes on to say that she’s the reason he stays in Florida. That work (helicopter tours) is easier to come by in a state with a lot of tourism, and it’s heavily populated by impatient people with disposable incomes, meaning he makes good money on chartered flights as well.

“Makes sense,” you agree. “And the guys – you said you’re all from the same unit?”

He nods, “We do this once a year – pack up and go somewhere to blow off steam. We made it a thing after… Well, anyway. Enough about me. What about you?”

You shrug, “I work. A lot.”

“Family?”

“Either dead or out of state.”

“Friends?”

“Believe it or not, I do have a few,” you insist.

Frankie makes a sound of skepticism, and you swear you have friends – that you were, in fact, a bridesmaid at a wedding last year, and present for a baby shower a few months ago, but he doesn’t believe you. You prove it to him, showing him a video of your gift being unwrapped, followed by several snaps of the wedding party, all donning western-themed garb.

“Look,” you point out. “I even wore a bonnet and petticoats.”

“You most certainly did,” he half-laughs, half-snorts.

A playful swat to his shoulder, and then, he’s grinning and hooking his pinky around yours. A nonchalant thing – a flirtatious, silent request to touch, to get just a little bit closer, and you like it. By the time you’re headed back toward the resort, your fingers are intertwined, and the steps the two of you take become progressively slower as you approach a discreetly hidden path lit up by tiny, white lights.

Frankie gently, carefully, pulls you into his arms. You go, all too willingly, goosebumps spreading at the heat and proximity of his body so close to yours. He crooks a finger under your chin, prompting you to tilt your head back and lift your eyes up so you can witness his intentions for yourself.

“Are you going to let me kiss you, gatita?” he wonders.

“I was hoping you would,” you reply.

Another smile – this one slow and sweeter than syrup. Then, your face is cupped in his warm hands, and he’s closing the little distance that remains. Frankie kisses you like he means it – unbridled, but not unskilled, tongue dipping and teeth nipping in such a way that you’re left reeling, unable to anchor yourself as he slowly retreats and rushes in for more. You know this time with him is finite, that tomorrow, he’ll be gone, but for now, in this moment, he’s yours.

A pause – quiet and searching, but still seeking, his mouth eager to return, as if he can’t help himself, lips chasing even though you’re not running. Hands now gripping your waist, squeezing, throat bobbing as he swallows hard and lets out a ragged breath against your neck.

“Do you – I want – I’ll stop,” he rasps. His actions immediately contradict his words when he brings your hips together, pressing up against you as his mouth runs along your jaw and the shell of your ear. “I’m – shit. I’m sorry. I’ll stop.”

You shake your head and dig your nails into the meat of his shoulders, “Don’t stop.”

A groan, and then, he’s kissing you again, and the ache that’s begun to settle between your legs is becoming an insistent, unbearable throb – one you want Frankie to alleviate with a passion that’s bordering on desperation. You pry yourself from him, pressing a hand over his mouth to hide his tempting, kiss-swollen lips from your view.

“My room,” you insist. “Let’s go.”

Hand-in-hand this time, the two of you practically jog back to the resort. Frankie stops off at a shop near the entrance, emerging a few minutes later with a bag containing a package of condoms, some gum, and a touristy-looking baseball cap.

“I’m sure the clerk has no clue what we’re about to get up to,” you deadpan.

Frankie grunts and swats your ass. You yelp and hiss at him, but he just grins and unceremoniously shuffles you toward the elevator. The doors shut, and he doesn’t hesitate to crowd you, eyes never leaving yours, the tension palpable as his gaze sweeps over you like a caress. The other passengers either don’t notice or don’t care, and the anticipation builds even more as you disembark and head to your suite.

“Can you just – let me – Frankie,” you whimper, keycard bumping up against the lock for the umpteenth time.

“What?” comes his reply, all cheeky, feigned innocence, hands and lips exploring every inch of you he can reach. “Trouble with the door?”

Anticipation wreaking havoc, you groan when he thumbs your nipple through your dress, his actions deft, but doing absolutely nothing to help matters. By the time you manage it, and the light on the lock goes from red to green, you’re writhing and so turned on, it’s almost shameful. When the door shuts again, the do-not-disturb hanger is on the outside, and the security latch is firmly in place.

“Say it,” he insists, tossing the bag onto the bed. “Say that you want this.”

You toss your purse aside and kick off your sandals, “I want this.”

“Because we’ve had a lot to drink,” Frankie continues, fingertips seeking out the rounds of your shoulders and the line of your collarbone. “And I’ve been thinking about this since the moment I crashed into you on the beach, but I gotta – you gotta be sure.”

Tongue heavy and throat tight, you twist your fingers into the skirt of your dress, pulling it up, up, up, until it’s high enough to guide one of Frankie’s wandering hands beneath it. Beyond the fabric of your panties and between your legs – the proof of your want, of your desire, is unmistakable. Frankie inhales sharply at what you encourage him to find and exhales a baritone-deep sound that can’t be mistaken for anything other than approval.

His rough, whiskered cheek against yours. His heavy palm slides up your spine, seeking, until the clip in your hair is removed and sent clattering and bouncing against the tile. A tug to your tresses. A nip to your jaw. Swirling fingertips that breach deep and curl just right. Gaze fixated, expression ravenous in the ambient glow of the pool light, Frankie’s the epitome of a quick study – learning you like a flight plan, mapping out the quickest route to what will make you take off and fly for him.

Knees trembling and calves burning, you’re being coaxed toward a precipice, and it feels so good that it’s overwhelming. Spine-bowing pleasure rushes forward, impossibly fast, and with a pointed strum to your clit, you’re lost to it. The muscle of his forearm flexes as he guides you through a heady surge of bliss, and while you fall apart, Frankie watches you – lower lip tugged between his teeth, head slowly nodding as if he agrees with your complete and utter surrender to your climax.

“More of this?” he murmurs, voice a gravelly rumble against your hairline. “Or do you want me?”

Quicker than lightning, the word ‘you’ slips out from between your lips, and your answer, filled with unmistakable, unreserved eagerness, prompts the reappearance of his smile. Only this time, it’s all cat-got-the-canary as he eases his hand out from between your legs and unflinchingly slips the pleasure-soaked digits past his lips. Lashes fluttering, his expression becomes reminiscent of how he looked at dinner, all appreciative, as if the flavor of you is just as satiating.

“You taste good, gatita,” he murmurs.

“Jesus, Frankie,” you breathe shakily.

Hands trembling, you reach for his shirt, and he allows you to help him out of it. This time, he guides your touch, prompting you to splay your fingers across the expanse of his chest and down his stomach. Eyes hooded, he watches you slip his belt open, pop the button beneath his naval, and ease the zipper down. The shorts fall away easily, and a careful tug at the waistband of his boxers is all it takes to see him free from the confines.

Reaching for him, taking the heft of him in hand, you find him hot and hard for you. You grasp. Squeeze. Experiment until he starts to kick in your palm, letting you know with each groan, with each involuntary thrust of his hips, that you’re doing it right. Tip leaking furiously, precum easing the way, you cup and fondle his heavy sac until he’s cursing against the seam of your mouth.

“You’re gonna,” he huffs, voice muffled around your tongue. “Fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”

“Want me to stop?” you wonder.

You nip his chin. Twist your wrist. Frankie’s brow draws tight, face warring with conflicting desires, but eventually, he pulls himself back from that ledge. The straps of your dress and your panties suffer for it, though, as he practically tears at them to get at you. A tangle of limbs and laughter, the two of you fall onto the messy bed, the bag with the condoms snagged just before it can be crushed beneath your combined weight.

Hat and gum discarded. The condom box torn open. The package crinkles, and then, it’s tossed aside. You offer to help, but Frankie insists on doing it himself, and the strained edge in his voice lets you know that his control is hanging by a precarious thread, and it’s all because of you.

“Still with me?” he checks, thumbs rubbing your kneecaps.

You nod and squeeze his wrist, “Yes.”

A deep, languid kiss, and then, you’re guiding him to you. Body sensitive, nerves alight, you tilt your hips up in anticipation. And Frankie’s careful – so, so careful – forehead pressed to yours, all wide-eyed, as if he’s anticipating – practically expecting – the exact opposite of the welcoming sound you make when he eases forward and begins to rock his hips.

“More,” you plead, voice needy – even to your own ears.

The request soon becomes a demand, one he doesn’t give in to until you promise him you can take it – that you can take all of him. Only then does Frankie roll you onto your stomach. In a display of strength and prowess, he gets you up on your hands and knees, and guides you back onto him with a thrust-and-roll that has you keening.

“Good?” Frankie pants against the hinge of your jaw.

“Yes,” you insist, the warmth of your impending orgasm spreading through your body and loosening your tongue. “Want you to fuck me, Frankie.”

“Greedy,” he grits out sharply. “Codicioso, pequeño gatito…”

It’s impossible to answer with your chin grasped hard in his hand and your neck craned to the side. Frankie’s kiss is sloppy, all carnality, and absolutely no finesse – still, it takes your breath away and makes you feel desired. There’s an edge to his touch, now; a bite in the way his fingertips pinch at your nipple, sending a zing of pleasure directly to your core. Caresses turn into gropes and heavy-handed squeezes until he’s pressing your spine into an impossibly deep arch that forces you to take him just a little bit deeper, the tip of him bumping, bumping, bumping the parts of you that make your bones rattle.

“Want you to come,” Frankie grits out, voice a breathless, strained thing as his teeth dig into the round of your shoulder. “Come for me again.”

You’re already there, but you can’t formulate the words because it happens slowly, and then, all at once. He seeks out your clit, drawing circles with the pressure and ruthless precision of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing. You hear your heartbeat thundering in your ears, and then, it’s a free fall. You’re soaring, high above the clouds, euphoric beyond all comprehension. And he’s right there with you – pulling you back and up against his chest, arms banding around your waist as he grinds into you, prolonging your release and taking pleasure in his own.

A careful parting, followed by twin sighs of satisfaction. Frankie makes quick work of the condom, and then, you’re back in his arms. He’s soft again, sleepy eyes finding yours in the dark, fingertips lazing over your brow, your cheeks, your lips. He lingers and you bask in it, but you know what this is.

This is the goodbye.

And a twinge of something – not pain, not regret, but something – fills your chest and makes your eyes sting. Your lower lip wobbles and it’s stupid. Stupid enough to prompt you to roll onto your back to put a bit of distance between yourself and this beautiful, beautiful man stretched out next to you. You stare up at the ornate ceiling fan and cough lightly in a vain attempt to clear the tightness in your throat.

“Two hours and thirty-five minutes,” he says.

You furrow your brow, “What?”

“A flight from Illinois to Florida,” Frankie explains. “Assuming average speed accounting for eastward headwinds… Yeah, two hours and thirty-five minutes.”

You take a deep breath. Let it out slowly. Frankie’s pinky finds yours amongst the sheets, and you turn onto your side to face him. There’s something between you. An attraction, to be sure, but now, an unexpected, mutual desire to see each other again. To not let this moment be the last moment. Even if it doesn’t make any sense, even if it’s crazy, even if you don’t know him, he doesn’t know you, and neither one of you knows where it’ll lead…

“I’ve never been in a helicopter before,” you tell him. “What’s it like?”

“Amazing. Loud. Windy,” he replies, lips twitching. “You might need your bonnet.”

You smile. And Frankie smiles back.

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