Punpun | she/hers | 20s

“Frank, it takes me like an hour to set this up the way I want it,” you grumble as you try to ignore the little pinprick of pain—though this is handled when he rolls over, letting you see the shelf of muscle in his stomach. And a great column of arm swings over you, dragging you across the landscape of the towel to him.

“What’s it matter, honey?” There’s a roguish element in his voice as he coaxes you closer, “it’s gonna come off you the same way in the end.”

You gasp as he growls behind that sensitive spot in your ear, and another wave of heat drums through you.

“Not here—not on the beach, baby,” you gasp in breathless manner—if you had sense, you’d be embarrassed.

“Don’t worry,” he mutters gruffly into your ear, “I’m patient. I can wait if you can.”

anyone sends you a look? oh, that's no problem, because you're too busy sittin' on that thick thigh of his nursing the shots that the two of you are currently enjoying. and his hand is so large and warm as it rasps up the length of your own, as the burn of that drink scalds down your throat.

the mote of his cologne that clings to the soft palate of your tongue a taste that you want to dedicate time to remembering how it savors. you can tell from the way that he's nosing behind your ear, taking a slow, circulatory breath of your bouquet: he's thinking the exact same thing.

as he murmurs into your ear, "wait 'til i fuckin' get you home, baby, just fuckin' wait."

He’s always the one who suggests something. “People like chocolate, how ‘bout chocolate? Or some’a those uh, fucking fruit flowers—“

He snaps his fingers in amusing display, trying to will the knowledge to arrive at the foreground of his mind. You can only barely resist the smirk as you supply him an answer.

“Edible arrangements?” You ask wryly; he brightens like the Fourth of July.

“Yeah—that good shit.” He snaps his fingers with ebullient manner. “People love that.”

“People,” you grin, “Or you?”

“Big man can’t have a reward every now and then?” He asks you, crossing over in easy stride. Leaning down to cage you within the spread of those big arms.

“What reward is that?” You smirk, having some inkling of the answer he’ll provide.

“Lookin’ at ‘em right now.” He grins. “Don’t need no other. Now come here.”

Who sloughs off the tough guy persona the second he meanders into your shared space, who becomes Frank again the second that his eyes settle on you—who knows that he’s home when he’s able to wrap you up in the swathe of his arms

“Missed you, honey,” he grunts in the tender spot behind your ear, his breath coaxing goosebumps up the vulnerable nape of your neck. “Y’miss me too?”