MARIA

It has to be intentional, you think.

Nobody eats watermelon that seductively unless they’re plotting some kind of evil, tempting revenge.

For what? You’re not sure.

But Robby must’ve been plotting this for days. Shirtless, smug, the nerve. Like enduring his stupidly perfect body all week wasn’t enough. A little thicker in the middle now, hairy chest, the trail of temptation you keep accidentally-on-purpose staring at, leading straight down to places your brain is officially banned from visiting (at least in public spaces).

Normally, things between you are easy. Really easy. Just friends. Friends who sleep together and don’t make it weird (okay, maybe a tiny bit weird on your end, but he doesn’t need to know that).

But here, in this house, with your completely clueless brother basically breathing down your neck? Suddenly easy feels miles away, and gratification feels like some distant, unattainable dream. 

“Kid, you got a staring issue,” Robby suddenly grumbles, wiping juice from his scruffy beard. 

“I don’t have a staring problem. I have, like… eyes, Robby. Eyes you unfortunately happen to keep sitting in front of. So, really, who’s to blame here?”

The words tumble out casually, unfazed by his accusation because what does he expect? How could you possibly not look at him? Beard still a little damp, mouth annoyingly kissable, shoulders broad enough to drown in. 

As if you’re meant to sit here and politely avert your gaze while he keeps existing like some kind of hot, sweaty, overgrown wet dream in basketball shorts, devouring watermelon with a decoration that should be placed on you (preferably the lower half of you, to be exact).

You’re only human. And also, unfortunately, a woman with working vision and a recurring weakness for him.

So yes, you stare. A lot. Maybe a little hungrily. Fine, definitely hungrily. 

But at this point your self-control is less a real thing and more a fond little memory, and if Robby doesn’t like being looked at like a full meal then maybe he should stop looking so edible.

You eventually tack on: “Besides, staring makes sense. It’s efficient, actually. Saves time later, because now I know exactly where my hands are going to go.”

He pauses, mouth twitching as he tries (and fails) to look annoyed. “Yeah? Sounds like you’re planning ahead a little too much.”

You shrug, very innocent, very earnest. “It’s called being prepared, Robby. You wouldn’t understand.”

His eyebrow lifts, and there’s a cocky twist to his mouth as he leans back in his seat. “Guess we'll have to test just how prepared you are later.”

Something in your head is flashing red, warning lights going off like maybe this conversation has wandered into territory you should be a little more careful with, but unfortunately your mouth has never been especially interested in caution. 

“Well, if you think that’s what’s best, I’m not gonna argue.”

He hums low in his throat, pleased in a way that makes your stomach go funny, then licks the watermelon juice from his thumb. “Attagirl. I’ll take care of it later.”

Take care of it later is a dangerous sentence.

You realize that immediately. Later leaves entirely too much room for imagination, and your imagination has never once behaved in your favor. It grabs hold of that phrase and runs straight off a cliff with it.

You bite your lip hard, enough to hurt, because maybe pain will shut the whole thing down. It doesn’t. It just gives your body something else to throb around while your mind conjures up Robby dragging you into the bathroom and pinning you to the mirror, broad hand at your throat, mouth at your ear, fucking you from behind. 

Or maybe he’ll have you right in the garage, bent over the plethora of beach chairs and plastic bins and summer clutter and he’ll mutter something degrading and practical and hot like this is what you needed, right?

Your foot absentmindedly slides higher along Robby’s leg, teasing, inviting.

“Hell of a nice night to just sit out here, huh?”

You nearly come out of your skin, foot retreating to find safer ground as you whip your head around and find Jack propped against the sliding glass door, perfectly at ease, prosthetic off, posture loose, giving no indication he heard anything incriminating or has been standing there long enough to ruin your life.

Which is nice. Very nice. Love that.

You’re on your feet immediately, smoothing yourself back into something casual, something sisterly and not at all like a woman who was just mentally getting railed in the garage by his friend. 

You pat Jack’s shoulder as you pass, because that feels normal, probably. 

“Sure is, Jackie. You enjoy it for me,” you say lightly, flashing him a smile on your way inside, praying your face isn’t glowing with enough guilt and lust to light the whole rental. 

And when Robby followed, waiting just long enough that nobody could reasonably accuse either of you of anything, he’d had you exactly the way he said he would. 

Taking care of it.

On his knees in between your legs with your fingers in his hair and your whole body going loose and helpless while he ate you out like he had all the time in the world.

You’d spent half the evening staring at his mouth and, in the end, that turned out to be a good instinct on your part.

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

TEQUILA SUNRISE - got dared to skinny dip with

ESPRESSO MARTINI - had a 2 a.m. kitchen confession with

SANGRIA - had to share the last available bed with

PINA COLADA - got trapped in a resort elevator with

LIMONCELLO SPRITZ - got roped into karaoke with

DIRTY SHIRLEY - got carried home drunk by

APEROL SPRITZ - got caught sneaking into the pool after hours with

WATERMELON MARGARITA - accidentally sent a drunk text to

MAI TAI - got caught making out in the villa hallway with

APPLE MARTINI - had a situationship crisis with

MOJITO - lost your passport and had to be rescued by

WHISKEY SOUR - got caught in the tide and pulled back in by

STRAWBERRY LEMONDE MOCKTAIL - got stranded on a boat with

MANGO MULE - got talked into doing body shots with

PALOMA - shared a cigarette on the balcony with

COSMOPOLITAN - had a jealous spat in front of everyone with

MARASCHINO CHERRY - heather collins

PEACH SLICE - samira mohan

TOASTED COCONUT RIM - emma nolan

STRAWBERRY HEART - melissa king

LEMON TWIST - michael robinavitch

MANGO CUBE - cassie mckay

SPICY PEPPER GARNISH - dana evans

OLIVE - victoria javadi

LIME WEDGE - donnie donahue

ROCK CANDY STICK - baran al-hashimi

TINY UMBRELLA - jack abbot

EDIBLE GLITTER RIM - frank langdon

MINT SPRIG -trinity santos

SALT RIM - john shen

HONEY DRIZZLE - jesse van horn

FANCY ICE CUBE - parker ellis

ORANGE PEEL - mateo diaz

PANSIES - princess dela cruz

ROSEMARY - dennis whitaker

SUGAR RIM - yolanda garcia

FROZEN GRAPE - perlah alawi

HIBISCUS PETAL - james ogilvie

BLUEBERRY SKEWER - monica peters

this was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

You were never one to believe in the concept of guilty pleasures.

You are, by nature, a pleasure-positive person. A follow-your-heart, life-is-short-buy-the-perfume, yes-you-do-need-the-expensive-dessert kind of person.

Guilty pleasure is what people say when they want to feel tortured and interesting about liking reality television or whipped cream straight from the can at midnight.

Guilt is ugly. Guilt is dehydrating. Guilt gives you forehead lines. 

But this, here, with Frank’s hand between your thighs, his body crowded into yours in the tiny below-deck cabin, the boat rocking just enough to make everything feel unstable, and everyone else upstairs in the sun, including the woman he is very much still with, is… less spiritually aligned with who you believe yourself to be. 

If this is not the dictionary definition of guilty pleasure, then the dictionary is useless and should be thrown into the sea.

The boat rocks suddenly. You do too. Everything sways a little, the room tipping just enough to make the world feel loose on its hinges. 

Franks pushes himself closer, a broad frame looming over you with one hand planted behind your head against fading wood as his fingers sink deeper into your cunt and whatever coherent, ethically sound argument you were in the middle of assembling gets blown to pieces on impact.

Gone. Obliterated. Presented to the court and immediately shredded. The imaginary moral tribunal in your head, the one full of stern women in sensible shoes who absolutely do not approve of fucking around with doctors who still have girlfriends, barely gets the chance to clear its throat before you stop caring. 

Your brain goes sugary-white and useless with pleasure. Just full to the brim with him.

Frank, Frank, Frank.

“Frank,” you shape the word in your head, a fragile whisper against his jaw, “I hate this. I hate you. I hate how much this is —”

His hand covers your mouth in one quick motion, eyes cutting sharp in warning. “You want everyone upstairs to hear you?” 

Your lashes flutter, innocent as cherubs and about ten times more deceptive.

His palm smothers whatever was about to come out of you next. Whatever it was wouldn’t help the situation.

It would make it worse, actually. Much worse. You can feel the words on your tongue anyway, pressing against the inside of his hand, desperate to get out and ruin your life in a silk little bow.

Frank lowers his face closer to yours until you can feel the breath on your top lip. “Use your head.”

The irony of that is almost enough to make you laugh.

Almost.

Instead, your teeth drag lightly along the calluses of his palm.

The moment his palm loosens, you turn your mouth just enough to speak and murmur, “Oh, I can use my head in a way you’d actually enjoy, you know.”

Your hips jerk into his wrist as he pinches your clit. “You talk too much.”

You whimper, nails digging into his tanned arms.

“I literally always talk too much,” you breathe back, “That’s not new information at all. You were completely aware of that when this started.” 

“Yes,” he says, dragging his thumb over your bottom lip now, eyes fixed there, “you’re right.” His hand slips from your mouth completely, only for him to catch your chin between his fingers and tilt your face up. “Doesn’t mean I haven’t thought about ways to shut you up.” 

You exhale shakily, letting your head drop against the wood as his fingers curl inside you, your thighs tightening around his wrist before he nudges them apart again. 

“You probably shouldn’t threaten me with things that sound so fun,” you say.

A floorboard creaks overhead and the sound drops into the room like divine judgment. 

You and Frank spring apart instantly, two guilty little animals caught in the beam of a flashlight. Frank reacts first. He’s already pulling his hand from between your legs before you can mourn the loss, already stepping back, already putting his face back on, that cool practiced one he wears like he was born in it.

He smooths your hair back into place, fingertips catching lightly at your temple, then at your ends, erasing the visible evidence of your collective moral collapse.

His gaze drops to your lips, and before you can say something stupid, he hushes you with the slightest press of one finger to your lower lip. The same finger that was deep inside you not two seconds before.

He removes it before placing it between his lips and sucking.

Then he steps back. Once, twice. Just like that, the room rearranges itself into something almost innocent until Shen appears at the foot of the stairs, one hand resting loosely on the railing.

His eyes pass over the two of you without so much as a raised brow.

“Oh. Hey,” he says, tone flat with disinterest. “Bathroom’s down here, right?”

You stare at him, unable to produce an answer.

“Yeah. Through there.”

Frank’s voice is so calm that if you did not still physically feel the absence of him being knuckle-deep inside you, you might actually start to believe you hallucinated the whole thing.

Maybe you hit your head on the cabin wall. Maybe this is a concussion fantasy. Maybe you died, actually, and this is hell, which would explain a lot. 

“Thanks.” Shen gives a little nod and walks past, already fishing his phone out of his pocket. 

In another second, he’s vanished down the narrow hall.

Frank drags a hand over his mouth, eyes slipping shut for one brief second, and the sight of him looking even a little disordered, even a little knocked off-balance, sends a hot pulse through your body so fast it almost feels mean. Vindictive, even. Like finally, finally, something got to him too. 

He opens his eyes and catches you staring.

“Don’t,” he says.

You blink up at him, still breathless enough to be a little stupid. “Don’t what?” 

“Look at me like that.”

Upstairs, you hear Donnie shout something unintelligible over the music. The boat rocks again and you hate that the motion makes you think of him.

The toilet flushes down the hall.

Frank glances toward the sound, then back at you. “We’re going upstairs.”

You lift your chin. “And then what?”

His gaze holds yours for one punishing second too long. “Then you’re going to stay away from me.”

That should sting. Or sober you. Or maybe scare you a little. Instead something hot and helpless blooms through your sternum and stomach and legs, because he says it like a man making demands of his own body, not yours.

You smile. “That seems unlikely.”

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!

You’re laughing from something Jack had said when the rain starts.

You’ve learned, in the short week you’ve been overseas, that the weather here turns on a dime.

Perfect one moment, furious the next.

And at first, it’s almost lovely; cool, scattered droplets like tiny crystal fairies kissing sun-toasted skin.

And it’s hard not to smile wider when Jack’s face tightens into that annoyed little scowl of his, because really, there is something delightful about a man as handsome as him looking inconvenienced by a little nature.

But the humor dies fast when those same droplets warp into biting sheets, lashing down as if angry for being laughed at.

You both scramble at once, quick steps and frantic eyes, until you’re packed beneath a narrow archway with barely enough room, shoulder pressed to thicker shoulder, hair plastered damply to your foreheads while the rain still sprays you both anyway.

“You okay?” He’s looking down at you. Eyes big and brows wrinkled.

“‘M fine,” you manage through clattering teeth, each syllable clicking against the next. 

Not your best work. Not even believable enough to count as lying properly. 

He doesn’t even bother pretending to buy it, just gives you a look that says, sure you are. 

You’re dressed for balmy afternoons and golden-hour strolling and being admired properly, not this.

Your thin sundress is pasted cold against your skin, and your sandals (the ones he said made your legs look endless), are now doing nothing for you now except sliding around on wet stone.

“What about you?” you ask, nudging him an elbow tucked against your side. “Know you hate rain.”

“I’m tougher than I look,” he teases, lips twitching. 

“That feels unlikely, seeing as you look pretty tough.”

The smile he gives you is a killer. A proper smile, too, cracking through his usually composed surface like sunlight slicing clouds.

He's quiet while he shucks off his overshirt to drape it over your shoulders. A very sweet thought, if not super practical, because the thing's already soaked through and instantaneously cold against your skin. But, well, it's still better than nothing.

And also, now you smell like Jack, which is never a bad thing.

“Plus body heat is a beautiful thing, you know,” he says, completely ignoring your obvious plight. “I’ll just stay right here and steal yours.” 

He makes a grab for your sides and tugs you flush against him, sealing the whole heist with a swift, soft nip at your bottom lip.

You hum in surprised approval, feeling all the chill being sucked from your limbs straight into the pool of heat collecting in your toes.

He shifts slightly, taking the brunt of it on his back in order to keep you drier.

“That’s very parasitic of you,” you finally respond into his lips, feigning accusation even as you lean in, every excuse welcomed, fingers curled loosely into the wet cotton of his shirt.

His eyes glitter. “Yeah, well,” he continues, pulling you a little closer, “I’m cold and you’re pretty. Tough combination.”

Heat climbs into your neck. You duck your head a little, like maybe the rain and the dark and the fact that he’s looking at you like that will do you the courtesy of swallowing the reaction whole. 

“You really do just say whatever pops into your head, don't you?” you mutter, mostly to his chest because making eye contact now would probably be the end of you.

“What?” he says, voice dripping with exaggerated innocence as he pulls you another tiny, entirely unnecessary inch closer. “You know you’re my pretty girl. Wanna hear you say it too.”

A helpless little laugh bubbles out of you, muffled as you try to hide your face. “Jack —”

“C’mon.”

You hide for one more second, then surrender with a mumbled, “I’m your pretty girl.”

He smiles again, and this time it's smug and triumphant and entirely too charming. He always manages to get exactly what he wants. You included.

“Yeah,” he says. “That’s right.” Then he presses a kiss to your mouth and starts guiding you out from the archway. “Now let’s get my pretty girl inside before she gets sick.”

this fic was part of my 2 year celebration: maria's summer in santorini 𓆉°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ to learn more, click here!