Just A Little Chaos, As A Treat

You call him from a hotel balcony. It’s late where he is, early evening where you are. The air around you sounds open — distant traffic, maybe waves, maybe wind through palm trees. He answers on the third ring.

“Hey,” he says, voice already softer than usual.

You know he’s not the best at phone calls, but he offered that you could call him if you wanted to. The trip you’re on was booked months in advance, long before you met Frankie. You hadn’t planned for him to become this important in your life so fast, but here you are.

You ask about his day, and he tells you about his tense shoulders again, how they ache from sitting in the cramped helicopter seat that’s definitely not made for a broad man like him. There’s a pause at some point. A different kind of pause.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah,” you say. Then quieter, “I just… miss you a little.”

You can almost hear him swallow.

“Yeah?” he murmurs. “I was trying not to say that.”

“Why?”

He hesitates. And this is so him — not smooth, not cocky, just careful.

“Didn’t wanna come on too strong. You’re out there living your life. Didn’t want to be the guy who makes it weird. But I do miss you too. It’s easy being around you. Makes my brain shut up for once.”

You lean back against the railing, smiling to yourself, worrying your lower lip to contain the bright grin forming on your face.

“You could never make it weird.”

Another silence follows, but it’s warmer now.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he finally admits. The words come low, almost embarrassed. “And I hope that’s not creepy.”

Your laugh is soft, breathy. “Frankie. Why would that be creepy?”

“Because,” he exhales, “the last time I saw you, you were under me on your couch, and I’ve replayed that kiss about fifty times.”

He doesn’t describe your body or your reactions. He doesn’t catalog parts. He talks about moments.

“The way you pulled me closer,” he continues, voice rougher now. “Like you weren’t sure if you were allowed to want me that much. That felt really good.”

Your stomach flips at that.

“I was allowed,” you whisper. “And it felt good for me too.”

“I know,” he says gently. “I just… wanted you to know I wasn’t rushing you. I’m not in a hurry. I want you to enjoy this.”

That’s the thing about Frankie you admired from the start. The desire is there — thick and real — but it’s anchored in respect. In constant check-ins and reassurances that go far beyond bodily sensations. And quite honestly, it makes him even more attractive to you. You like that he really tunes in to your needs instead of just taking what he so clearly wants.

You shift, crossing one leg over the other, heat blooming under your skin as you look out over the horizon.

“I’ve been thinking about you too,” you admit.

A quiet inhale on his end.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. About how your hands felt. How you didn’t grab. You just… held.”

He lets out a soft huff of a laugh. “I was trying real hard not to mess that up.”

“You didn’t, promise. But it kind of made me wonder what else these hands are capable of…”

His voice drops a notch. Not graphic, just intimate.

“If you were here,” he says slowly, “I’d probably still be taking it slow. But I wouldn’t stop kissing you. I would let them explore you slowly, your softest parts, feeling you melt under me, watching goosebumps forming on your skin when I kiss your neck.”

Your breath stutters as your imagination follows where he leads you both.

“I would really like that,” you say.

There’s a stretch of silence filled only with breathing. It’s charged, but tender.

“Can I say something?” he asks.

“Always.”

“I like how you feel in your own skin,” he says. “You don’t hide. Even when you’re nervous. That’s… it does something to me. It’s magnetic and by God, it’s hot as fuck too.”

You laugh quietly at that, a little bashful. He doesn’t treat your body like an object or something that needs to be conquered. It’s about your presence. Your confidence. The way you hold his intense gaze, the way you challenge him.

“I think about your mouth too,” he admits. “Not just on me. But the way it curves when you’re about to tease me. How you bite your lip when you swallow something down you’re not sure is appropriate to say.”

You snicker, flustered and pleased all at once.

“You noticed that?”

“I notice everything.”

You inhale sharply. “You’re dangerous, Morales.”

“No,” he replies gently. “I’m just honest.”

Another beat.

“If this is too much,” he adds quickly, “you tell me. I don’t wanna cross lines.”

And that’s it. That’s the difference.

He wants you completely. He’s absolutely thinking about you under him, hands in your hair, your thighs around his waist. But he never assumes access. He never talks like you owe him anything.

He makes you feel chosen, not consumed.

By the end of the call, nothing explicit has been said. No graphic play-by-play. Just low voices, shared breathing, promises of “when you get back.”

And when you hang up?

Frankie’s lying states away, staring at the ceiling, smiling like an idiot. Because for him, the hottest part wasn’t the suggestion or the whispered promises. It was that you wanted him too and weren’t afraid to let him know.

And that did something dangerous to his heart, not just his body.

thanks for reading 💌

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