#triple frontier

You'd been into Frankie Morales for a few months now but just like Romeo and Juliet you two couldn't be together. All because of your cockblocking brother Santi who stood in your way into Frankie's pants. Pants with a very prominent bulge at that!

Every time you checked out his hot best friend at a party or a casual get-together, Santi hissed into your ear, "Don't even think about it!" Every time you noticed Frankie's brown eyes linger on you, your brother would pull the man of your wet dreams aside and read him a lecture. Probably something about you being too young for him, or Frankie's lifestyle being too chaotic to share with his precious sister, yadda, yadda, yadda.

Of course, you still loved your brother and his concerns were reasonable. Santi wanted only the best for you, and dating a military guy, who was away most of the year, doing some risky shit, wasn't the life he envisioned for you. Still it was hard to suppress anger, burning in your chest. Who gave him the right to say who you could or couldn't date?

Being fed up with Santi's control, you finally decided to act and get Frankie to dick you down behind your brother's back.

A perfect opportunity arose when Santi left for a week-long work trip. Frankie and him were roommates so as soon as your brother’s plane took off you appeared on their apartment’s doorstep with your bags. Batting your lashes at the man, you lied that your building had a rat infestation and Santi offered you his room to stay in during the extermination. Frankie furrowed his eyebrows. He wasn’t an idiot and probably greatly doubted that his friend let his younger sister live with him but luckily for you there was no way to check it — Santi was in some remote country in the middle of nowhere, impossible to contact. You applied all your acting skills to sound convincing and your pleading eyes softened the man’s already tender heart.

“Thank you, Frankie,” you purred, stepping through the door, biting your lip and hiding a triumphant smile.

And just like that the game was on. Frankie and you began living together and you were doing everything in your power to seduce him. You made sure to wear as little clothing as possible, parading around the house with your ass and tits almost out but to your dismay Frankie avoided you like a plague. As soon as you would settle next to him on the sofa, ready to watch whatever he had on at that time, he fled to his room under some lame excuse.

You even tried to cook for him and he seemed grateful when you did, but always stayed respectful, praising you, while you needed him to disrespectfully bend you over the kitchen counter and fuck your brains out.

Nothing seemed to work. The week was almost over and you were getting desperate until an idea popped into your mind. The plan was quite ballsy but you saw no other option to get that cock. It was a matter of ‘go big or go home’. Literally.

One evening when Frankie was in the apartment you ran yourself a nice bubble bath in the shared bathroom, undressed, hoping it was the last time you wore clothes that night, and got in. You took a deep breath of the sweet strawberry scent and laid back comfortably in the hot tub. Show time!

“Frankieeee!” You shouted, calling your new roommate. “Frankieee!!”

A few seconds later you heard his velvet voice from behind the door.

“Yes?”

“Frankie, I need your help,” you whined loudly so he could hear. “I’m taking a bath and I already got in but .. ugh.. I forgot something in my room.”

“What? Towels?” Frankie’s voice was getting quieter — he was probably on his way to your bedroom.

“No-no-no! It’s … Can you get me my vibe, please.”

There was ringing silence behind the door until Frankie cleared his throat and asked,

“Your what?”

“My vibe! Vibrator, Frankie.… Can you bring it to me? The bedside table. Top drawer.”

His nervous chuckle followed your words.

“Sweetheart…,” he started saying but you interrupted him,

“Oh, c’mon! We’re both adults. Don’t be such a prude!”

That did it. His ego was probably hurt by your name calling and you heard a sigh.

“‘K. Second.”

Your lips spread into a grin. Everything was going according to plan.

A few moments later you heard footsteps.

“Here”, Frankie said and his hand appeared in the door gap. You giggled, seeing him carefully holding your toy only with his finger tips.

“Frankie, I’m in the tub,” you reminded him with a slight annoyance in your voice. “Can you give it to me, please?”

He seemed hesitant so you added,

“There’re lots of bubbles. You won’t see a thing.”

“Ok,” he said after another sigh and then raised his voice to announce, “I’m coming in!”

Oh poor, clueless Frankie! Thinking that you don’t want him to see you naked meanwhile that was the main thing you’d been after for months.

He walked in with his eyes squeezed shut, his head turned away from you, his cheeks rosy with embarrassment, and you smiled at how unbearably cute he was.

But adoration wasn’t the only thing you were feeling. Frankie was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a dark t-shirt and your hungry eyes immediately slid over his big strong body. Even submerged in water you got wetter, checking him out.

“Hey, don't be silly!” you giggled. “You can look, I’m all covered.”

The man slightly opened his eyes, holding his arm stretched so you’d take the vibe from him, yet you didn’t rush to do it. You waited until he was standing by the tub. His gaze quickly slid over the foamy water surface and his chest expanded. You hoped that a twitch of his brow was a sign of disappointment. He couldn’t take a peek and it was on purpose — you didn’t want to seem desperate though you definitely were.

“See? Nothing scandalous,” you said, giving him a sweet smile, and only then took the vibe from his big hand.

“Santi’d kill me if he saw us right now,” Frankie mumbled with a nervous smile, watching you grab the toy at the base and start ‘mindlessly’ gliding the other hand up and down the shaft. Of course, you knew what you were doing.

“Santi wouldn’t do shit,” you said confidently, playing with the sex toy in your hands. “And he’s not the boss of me. I’m a big girl.”

Frankie hummed, his eyes glued to your wet hand that was slowly jerking off the toy. When you swiped your thumb over the silicone tip, the man swallowed hard, and you had to drop your head to hide a happy smile.

To your joy Frankie wasn’t in a rush to leave the room. Instead he crossed his arms in front of his broad chest, and gliding his thumb over the lower lip, mused,

“Never seen this model before.”

Your surprise was so big that you almost dropped the vibe into the water. Having collected yourself quickly, you asked, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible,

“Really?” At that point your heart was pounding, your pussy was aching, your core was burning with desire. Being naked with the man you’d wanted for so long, you were a horny mess. Still you took a deep breath and said, looking up at him, “It’s a popular model. They call it ‘the rabbit’.”

“Rabbit?” Frankie chuckled, his cheeks growing red. You nodded. “Yeah, because of the ears I guess.” You immediately seized the opportunity to paint him a vivid picture.

“This part…,” you glided the tip of your finger up the shaft, “— goes inside me. And this one —,” you pinched a thinner, smaller part with little ‘ears’ - “—stimulates my clit.”

You glanced at Frankie as you finished talking, hoping to see the effect of your words. And hell yeah you did! The man was listening to you with his eyes half-lidded, rubbing his scruffy cheek with a big palm, while his chest was rising and falling rapidly. He was shifting on his bare feet, getting progressively hard, judging by the tent in his sweats.

When Frankie caught you looking at his crotch he cleared his throat and quickly grabbed a towel off the rack to hide his hard-on.

“I’m not getting out yet, Frankie,” you smiled. He was so cute when he was embarrassed.

“Oh, ok… yeah… just… this one’s not fresh,” he mumbled, nodding down at the towel in his arms. “I’ll get you a new one.”

You were afraid he’d leave under that shitty excuse, but Frankie surprised you again and stayed by the tub.

“And... won’t it malfunction? In the water I mean,” he said, his brows furrowed in concentration, as if he was talking about a car or something but his pupils were blown out, his forehead was sweaty and not from the heat of the bath.

“Oh no, it’s water-resistant. I use it all the time when I take a bath.”

You wanted— no, needed him to have those images flooding his mind, so you continued, still running your fingers over the toy.

“It helps me unwind after a long day. Being single, I have to find a way….” You sighed and glanced up at Frankie. It seemed like he wasn’t breathing, mesmerized by your words and movements, but you had no mercy for the man so you went for the kill.

“It’s a little thick for me though,” you complained, your lips in a pout. “I always need prep.”

Frankie let out a half hum-half moan and then coughed to cover up the noise he’d made. Meanwhile you kept going,

“See, I can’t put it in all at once, I usually let it buzz against my clit first, to slowly open me up.”

You could hear Frankie panting as he was listening to you. His hand darted to his crotch under the towel and he adjusted himself.

You knew that it was it, the moment for the final strike. You searched for Frankie’s eyes and then purred, as seductively as you could,

“Frankie…. Wanna watch me use it?”

The man opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water, and then chuckled nervously, probably thinking you were joking.

“I’m serious,” you stated, your eyes glued to his.

Frankie’s smile disappeared and he clutched the towel closer to his crotch.

“Santi..,” he started.

“…Isn’t here,” you finished his sentence with a wink and then lowered your voice to a whisper. “And I’m very good at keeping secrets.”

Frankie nervously bit his lower lip and shook his head.

“No— shit, I —,” he was inching back towards the exit and fear squeezed your heart — what if he leaves right now? What if your plan fails? What if he isn’t interested in you at all and you’ve been living in a delulu land, thinking that he likes you.

When Frankie came up to the door, you were ready to cry from embarrassment. ‘I’ll pack my shit and go home,’ you thought.

Frankie’s hand was on the handle for a few long as hell seconds. Then he slowly turned around and faced you.

His expression set your body on fire — his eyes were dark, they lacked the usual warmth, instead you saw fiery lust and need in his blown out pupils.

He leaned back against the door and breathed out, “Show me.”

Frankie’s order turned you on so much, you almost came on the spot. He looked incredibly hot at that moment — arms crossed, muscles bulging, sweatpants showcasing a fat boner, his cock’s outline visible even in the steamy bathroom. You needed all that meat inside you! The stakes were really high (and huge) so you decided to give Frankie a good show.

With a ‘shy’ smile you turned the rabbit on and soft buzzing filled the room. Frankie took a sharp breath when you submerged it in the water.

“Gonna start slow,” you announced, resting your head on the rim of the tub. Then you closed your eyes and pressed the working vibe to your clit.

“Ahhhh… feels so good,” you breathed out, telling the absolute truth. The toy was sending waves of pleasure through your body, already aroused to the maximum, and your crush watching you made it a million times hotter. Your eyes fluttered open and you looked at Frankie.

He was standing by the door, his expression concentrated, and despite his relaxed posture he seemed to be as tense as a guitar string.

Not breaking eye contact you let out a soft moan and Frankie visibly shuddered.

“Fuck…,” he murmured. “You playing with your …?”

“My clit, yeah,” you whimpered. “Shall I put it inside? What do you think?”

Frankie’s lips parted and he ran his hand through his damp curls.

“Shit, yeah… put it in.”

“Ohhh,” you suddenly whined with exaggeration, drawing your brows together and pouting your lips. “It’s gonna hurt.. my tight pussy ain’t ready yet.”

Frankie pushed himself off the door, his eyes widened, and walked closer to you, his hands raised.

“No, fuck, sweetie, I... please, don’t hurt yourself,” he said in panic.

You were staring at him for a few seconds, making him sweat, until your pout disappeared.

“I’m fucking with you, Frankie,” you giggled and his jaw dropped. Then he smiled and cursed under his breath, the tension leaving his body with a deep sigh of relief.

“You're pure evil,” he chuckled and rubbed his flashed face with both hands.

Your heart fluttered from how adorable he was, but your pussy was still empty so you got to work. You spread your thighs wider under the water and nudged the tip of the toy at your entrance.

“I’m putting it in, Frankie.”

He gave you a curt nod, his eyes intent.

You rested the back of your head on the bathtub rim, then slowly began pushing the shaft inside you, your eyes closed, lips parted. You let Frankie read your expression and imagine what was happening under the water.

“I’m so full already and it’s just half inside me,” you murmured, not opening your eyes. Frankie was breathing loudly, just like you and, your imagination drew you a delicious picture that it was his cock sliding inside you.

“Ahhhh, Frankie,” you whimpered, feeling yourself on the brink of ecstasy from the vision.

“I’m here, baby.” You heard him much closer and opened your eyes. Frankie was standing an arm length from you now, watching you as he was palming his huge bulge. The sight shot a lightning through your body and your pussy began pulsing around the toy.

“Are you..?” Frankie asked and you nodded, squeezing your eyes shut, and arching your back.

The movement made your tits jump out of the water and Frankie groaned.

“Sweetheart, I can see..”

“S’ok…want you to look,” trembling with ecstasy you begged him.

The pleasure waves were rolling over you for what felt like eternity and the foamy water was splashing on the floor while your body was shaking in the tub.

After one orgasm with Frankie by your side you were a mess. Your hair was wet, your breaths ragged and fast, your limbs shaking. But you had to concentrate. You needed to hit a homerun and come on Frankie’s cock.

He seemed wrecked, too, and you were afraid that he’d bust right into his sweatpants. You had to act fast. ‘That load must end up in my pussy,’ you thought. ‘Or in my mouth at least.’

You carefully pulled the toy out and whined glancing up at Frankie.

“It was good but it doesn’t compare to the real thing.” Frankie nodded absentmindedly, probably still shell shocked from the sight of his best friend’s sister coming in front of him.

“Frankie, baby, want to give me “the real thing”? You said loudly, waking him up. Frankie blinked a few times, took a deep breath and then sat on the edge of the tub. You could smell his cologne, that’s how close he was. He looked deep into your eyes and rasped,

“Come for me one more time. Then I’ll fuck you.”

Oh. Dear. God.

Frankie’s voice, usually soft and gentle, was now gruff and coated with lust. His tone and the order made you shiver even in the hot tub.

Suddenly you felt small, just a girl being under the command of this bigger stronger man. His sudden dominance shot electricity straight to your pussy.

You didn’t make him wait. Completely speechless you switched the toy on and brought it underwater and to your needy cunt.

“Frankie,” you whispered, putting your free hand over his, and feeling what you needed, the man got on one knee next to you right on the wet floor.

“M’here, sweetie,” he assured you, watching your face while you were inserting the vibe inside your core. “That’s it.. jus’ like that, babygirl. Make yourself feel good for me.”

His eyes —two black pits of desire — were sliding over your face, twisting with pleasure, your wet neck and glistening chest, now out of the water and fully exposed. Besides, the foam wasn’t as thick as before, it was floating here and there in patches, so Frankie could surely see your naked body, your hand holding the vibe between your legs, your folds spread open.

“You’re so hot,” he breathed out, almost choking on the words.

You could say the same about him. Your heart eyes were set on Frankie, the man you’d been craving for so long. His handsome face was inches from yours and you wanted to count every freckle, lick a stripe along his scruffy jawline, taste the wetness on his plush lips.

“Kiss me,” you muttered, your voice shaky with need. A little smile appeared on his lips before he pressed them to yours. The kiss was soft and slow at first but moments later animalistic hunger overtook you both and it grew desperate and intense. Your free hand wrapped around the back of his neck, holding him close, his tongue plunged into your mouth and tangled with yours. He was drinking your whimpers, leaving his own moans on your lips. You were plunged into an ocean of ecstasy with him kissing you, with your pussy being stimulated by the vibe.

Yet you needed more. You needed Frankie.

“Baby,” you whined, parting from his lips. “I don’t want the toy. I want you.”

Frankie looked into your pleading eyes and nodded.

“Pull it out.”

You did what he said and let the rabbit fall on the floor with a thud.

“How many fingers do you want, princess?”

The pet name made you purr. You were so turned on you could probably take his whole fist but it seemed too extreme for the first time so you replied,

“Two’s fine.”

Frankie nodded. He placed his big palm on your knee, then slowly slid it down your wet inner thigh and into the water. When his fingers reached your heat, you gasped softly and bucked your hips. Watching your face intently, Frankie cupped your pussy and gave it a light squeeze, making you moan.

“Oh yeahhhh..,” you whined as he was gently massaging your folds. Soon you started squirming with anticipation so Frankie leaned closer to your face and kissed you again. As you were sucking on his tongue, he pushed two of his fingers inside you. You took a sharp breath, swept away by the sensation of his thick digits plunging into your core, curling inside you and pushing on the soft spot. His thumb wasn’t resting either— he was rubbing your puffy clit slowly and steadily, bringing you closer to your orgasm with every stroke of his fingers.

When you started trembling on the brink of a second orgasm, Frankie parted from you to watch your ecstatic expression.

“You’re doing amazing, sweetheart. Opening up for me real good.”

He was scissoring your cunt with his two fingers, whispering into your ear,

“You think your little rabbit is a challenge to take? You haven’t seen my cock.”

Your jaw dropped and if your pussy could scream she would.

Then Frankie brought his free hand to your wet breast and his fingers closed on your pebbled nipple. He was twitching it with a perfect pressure, his eyes on your face, his other hand fingering your pussy under the water. A loud whine rang in the room as you started unraveling for a second time, while Frankie was making you see stars.

“Good girl,” he praised you and leaned down to suck your nipple into his hot mouth. He was swirling his tongue around your hardened bud, prolonging your orgasm, while your walls were clenching around his moving fingers.

When your body relaxed, Frankie kissed you again but as amazing as it was you couldn’t wait for what he’d promised.

“Frankie,” you whined. “Fuck me.”

He chuckled, rubbing the tip of his nose against yours and said the words you’d been dreaming of hearing — “Let’s get you to my room.”

You were grateful when Frankie stood up and offered you his hand because your legs were weak and shaky from all the climaxes.

When you slowly rose up, dripping water, Frankie froze.

“Wow,” he muttered, shamelessly ogling your dripping naked body.

“I hope it’s a good wow,” you said playfully.

“It is, princess. You’re beautiful.”

You could stand like that forever — being under Frankie’s gaze filled with admiration and lust made your heart sing and pussy purr but the ache in your core reminded you why you’d been doing all that. After you stepped out of the bath, Frankie dried you off with a towel, his hands running up and down your body carefully as if you were made of glass. Soon he was carrying you in his arms, bridal style, to his bedroom. Your arms were thrown around his neck and you were nuzzling it.

“You smell so good,” you whispered, darting your tongue out to get a taste of his skin. He chuckled and kissed your temple.

Frankie’s bedroom was typical for a bachelor- a little messy, with minimum of furniture and only practical things around. You had no time to appreciate the room decor though, your mind was set on one thing, your pussy was begging to be fucked.

Frankie strutted to the bed and as soon as he carefully lowered you on the covers you threw the towel off your body and sat on your knees stark naked. When you were with Frankie, a birthday suit was the only thing you wanted to wear.

“You’ll get cold,” Frankie muttered, looking concerned, but you shrugged his comment off. Your body was on fire because of him and putting on clothes was the last thing you wanted to do. So you pulled him onto the bed, straddled his lap and pressed your hungry pussy to his clothed hard-on.

“You’ll warm me,” you purred, pushing your tits against his torso. He whispered ‘naughty girl’ before his lips found yours. You were making out, your hips rolling, your heat grinding against his cockbulge, probably leaving stains all over his sweats.

Then your body betrayed you — you shivered in Frankie’s arms.

“Baby, you’re cold,” he said, parting from your eager lips.

“Ugh! sometimes I hate how sweet you are!” You grumbled and looked around. “Ah!” You jumped off his lap, hating it immediately, and grabbed a flannel shirt that was lying on a chair. You quickly threw it on and rushed to return to his lap.

“Happy now?” You asked him with a smile, your hands on Frankie’s shoulders. He swallowed hard as his eyes were travelling over your still barely covered body.

“You look so hot in my clothes.” The praise made you bite your lip and you purred,

“I bet you look hot without them.”

Frankie chuckled and pulled you close for another kiss. Meanwhile your hand slithered down to the hem of his shirt and you tugged it up and off him.

Your mouth began salivating right away — his chest was broad and strong, a little hairy just how you liked it, his soft belly with a happy trail made your brain short-circuit.

You glided your palms over his pecks down to his stomach, hooked your fingers under his sweats waistband and batted your lushes at him.

“Frankieeee, take them off,” you whined, tugging on his pants.

“Not so fast, babygirl,” he smiled, taking your hands in his.

You were ready to cry with frustration but he brought his lips to your ear and murmured.

“Lemme taste you first.”

Suddenly he let out a groan, flipped you on your back, and pinned you to the bed with his heavy body.

The whiplash made you gasp but you happily opened your legs and arms for his big frame.

He gave you a passionate kiss but soon his lips began traveling down your body.

Holy fuck! You thought, realizing where he was heading. You were buzzing with excitement when he opened his shirt on you to pepper open-mouth kisses all over your breasts. He sucked on your nipples, humming from pleasure, giving attention to both buds. You knew your pussy was going to be the best stop so when he climbed all the way down, your thighs were thrown apart, his meal already served.

“Damn,” he breathed out when his eyes landed on your blooming cunt. His jaw slackened, his gaze clouded, he was staring at your heat for a few moments.

You were barely breathing, waiting for what he was going to do next.

“Wanted to do it for so long,” Frankie murmured and looked up at you from between your legs.

You opened your mouth to ask “Really?” but only a moan escaped your mouth when his lips reached your pussy. He started leaving soft kisses over your folds, your inner thighs, slowly and sensually driving you crazy with lust. His beard and moustache were a bit tickly but you didn’t care. You knew you’d come the second he gave some love to your clit, but as if being aware Frankie of that avoided touching it.

“You wanted me?” You asked, trying to ground yourself to a conversation.

Frankie looked up at you and nodded.

“Since the day we’ve met.”

You couldn’t believe your ears. “What?”

“Yeah,” Frankie said quietly, his lips dancing all over your spread pussy. “Santi stopped me from asking you out.”

“Arghhhh, asshole,” you growled, your eyes rolling to the back of your head with pleasure, and Frankie chucked.

“Yeah. I feel a little bad though…he’s gonna be mad.” Frankie glanced up at you with a trace of worry in his dark eyes before his tongue licked a stripe from your hole to your clit.

“Fuck him,” you moaned.

Frankie smiled against your folds and then took a deep breath of your scent, his nose nudging your clit. He whimpered and the sound made you clench and gush right onto his bearded chin.

Frankie hungrily licked it off and began eating you out in earnest.

“Look at this little pussy…,” he mumbled to you or to himself in between kisses and licks. “Delicious. No one can keep me away from her now.”

You giggled but your cheer soon evaporated when Frankie pushed your thighs down with his strong hands, opened his mouth wide and fully covered your wet pussy with it. His tongue pushed between your folds and he started swirling it around your twitching clit, meanwhile sucking on your pussy like he wanted to eat it whole.

“Fuckkkkkkkkk,” you whined, losing your mind from the noises, the sensation and the sight between your legs. The hottest man you knew — Frankie Morales, was feasting on your leaking cunt, moaning and slurping, slurping and moaning.

“Frankieeee,” you screamed, clutching his soft curls in your clammy hands. The man groaned and said, still ears deep in your pussy,

“Just like that, baby, keep saying my name.”

“Frankie- Frankie- Frankie- Frankie,” you chanted, closing and opening your eyes, trembling from immense amounts of pleasure.

When Frankie began sucking on your clit, massaging it with his lips, your back arched off the bed and clasping the covers between your fingers you started coming hard, your thighs tense under his palms. While you were thrashing and sobbing beneath him, Frankie brought his mouth lower and began drinking your juices which were seeping generously out of your clenching hole. Every nudge of his nose against your clit made you jerk with another ecstatic shock.

You’d never had such a perfect oral before and your lashes were covered in tears when Frankie plopped on the bed next to you.

“You ok?” He asked you as you were lying motionless and brain dead from all the orgasms. When you didn’t respond he cupped your face and rubbed your cheek with his thumb.

“We don’t have to continue today, princess. I see how spent you are …”

“Nonononono,” you hastily chanted, your eyes opened widely, your head shaking left and right frantically. “I’m good! Let’s fuck!”

Scared to death that Frankie’s cock would slip out of your hands, you sat up, threw his shirt off your body and quickly straddled Frankie’s hips.

He hissed and pulled you closer onto his stomach.

“Sorry, m’painfully hard,” he explained and you grinned at the thought.

“Then let me deal with it, baby,” you purred and lifted up on your knees. You moved behind his huge bulge and carefully slid his sweats and boxers down. As soon as your eyes ran down his happy trail, your pussy started tingling and you were ready to scream with excitement when Frankie’s cock was finally revealed to you. It made an epic entrance - it popped out of its confines eagerly, hit his lower belly, precum drops flying everywhere, and began bobbing in front of your widened eyes. You’d never thought you’d fall in love with a cock but at that moment you definitely did.

“Wow,” you commented, your lips parted in awe. Frankie smirked and grabbed the jumping dick by the base.

“Is it a good wow?” He repeated your earlier question and you giggled.

“Absolutely,” you nodded, still staring at the cock you’d been after. It was long and thick, bigger than anything you’d ever taken.

“I’ve been told it was too big a few times…I don’t know if you’ll enjoy… “ Frankie was looking up at you with concern in his eyes, chewing on his inner cheek.

Your jaw dropped. With every other man in the world you’d think it was a humble-brag. But not with Frankie. You were sure that his worry was genuine and real, that he cared about your pleasure and comfort more than about his own needs.

“Hey,” you gave Frankie a warm smile and wrapped your palm around his hand that was holding his cock. “You’re perfect. I’ll take as much as I can today but … a size queen title would suit me I think.”

Frankie laughed and you saw tension leaving his body.

“Yeah, please, stop if it hurts.”

Not scared at all, you scooted forward and pressed your mound to his thick shaft. His tip was at your navel and you both were gawking at how deep he’d be inside you. You swallowed hard but couldn’t wait to sink on all that meat.

Yet the desire to tease him overtook you. Frankie let out the neediest noise when you began grinding your pussy against his shaft, leaving your slick all over the soft skin there, his cock veins bulging underneath, glistening with your wetness. You played with him like this for some time, reveling in the sounds he was making, edging him and yourself.

“Princess, please…”, it was his turn to beg and when you heard his hoarse voice full of need and lust, you folded immediately.

Your hips flew up and you hovered over his waiting cock before your hole met his tip.

“Fuckkkkk,” you breathed out, taking his crown slowly but steadily, your hand splayed on his torso. He dipped his head into the pillow, his mouth opened, as you kept sinking on him inch by inch, your walls stretching around his girth.

“Is it all in?” You asked with your voice shaky, feeling unbelievably full.

“Ahh… not quite, baby. It’s ok, though… stop here,” Frankie blubbered, sounding drunk.

“No!” You whined. “Want all of you!”

Frankie choked on another moan, his stomach tense, hands gripping your hips tighter. You were driving him crazy with your pussy and you loved it.

“Ok, ok,” he gruffed and licked his thumb before bringing it to your clit. “Lemme help, my size queen.”

He began rubbing your slicked up bud with a perfect pace, not flicking it like a light switch like some of your exes had done, but drawing tight circles over it.

“So good…,” you whimpered, your pussy loosening up for his huge cock. Frankie’s caress really helped and soon you felt a cushion of his balls under your ass.

You both breathed out with satisfaction but soon Frankie pulled his brows together.

“I won’t last, baby. You’re so damn tight.”

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” you assured him and rolled your hips, drawing a moan out of the man. “Come inside me.. I’m on a pill.”

“Dios…” Frankie muttered, with his jaw slacked, his eyes hazy and dark. You were riding him and he placed his big hands on your bouncing tits. He was kneading them, twitching your nipples, groaning loudly.

You weren’t silent either, your moans were mixing with his, and the lewd music of your shared pleasure filled the room.

Frankie’s lustful gaze was hungrily sliding over your naked body, his puppy eyes gone, now you saw an animal in them, hungry and passionate.

“This is what you wanted, huh? My cock deep inside you? Right here…,” he placed his palm on your lower belly, probably feeling his huge cock under your sweaty skin.

You nodded eagerly, turned up to the maximum with the way he was talking to you.

“Yeah…played your little games, naughty little girl…lured me to the bathroom so I’d give it to you good…”

“You are… you feel so good, Frankie,” you chanted, dancing on his cock, moving sensually, giving him something to remember.

The adoration in his eyes added to your ecstasy, his thumb was still working your clit, and soon you began exploding in front of his clouded eyes, eagerly sliding up and down his long shaft, riding out the climax that was making you shake and moan. You’d probably collapse if not for Frankie’s big hands around your waist, holding you up.

“S’my—girllll,” Frankie praised you and immediately started squirting his cum against your fluttering walls, filling you like an eclair with his creamy load.

Your pussy milked him till the last drop, till his balls were empty, and happy with your work, you fell on Frankie’s chest.

He wrapped his muscular arms around you and held you close, while both of you were catching your breath.

You’d fall asleep like that, with him inside you, but Frankie turned onto his side, taking you with him. Then he covered both of your bodies with a blanket and pulled you closer.

You felt him nuzzling your hair and breathe in your scent. It made you smile.

Despite being content and well fucked, you couldn’t help but ask,

“Frankie… it’s not gonna be our last time, right?” You were looking at him with Bambi eyes, scared to hear the answer. After experiencing all that, you knew in your heart that you wouldn’t want to call Frankie just your brother’s best friend again.

“I told you…,” Frankie muttered, resting his forehead against yours. “No one can keep me away from you now. You’re mine.”

Mine!

You doubted that you’d ever smiled as widely as at that moment. His words filled your chest with so much joy you squeaked and threw your arms around his broad shoulders.

You finally had him, finally felt his heart beating against yours, finally had access to his huge cock, finally saw unconcealed admiration in his beautiful kind eyes.

Suddenly fear panged your heart. With all the scheming and thirsting over the man, you forgot to ask yourself. What’s next?

You parted from Frankie abruptly, your eyes widened.

“You know that Santi has a gun, yeah?”

Frankie chuckled.

“He has a few, actually.”

You whined and began chewing on your thumb nail nervously. You knew Santi wouldn’t do anything to you but to his friend? What if he’d want to fight him? What if they’d hurt each other. The consequences of your horny actions suddenly began to feel very real and upcoming.

Seeing your worried expression, Frankie cupped your cheek and leaned closer to your face, searching for your eyes.

“It’s gonna be fine, princess. I’ll fight for you if I had to.”

You mewled in terror and he added hastily, “not like that! Not physically. I’ll talk to Santi. I’ll make him accept it… accept us.”

You slowly nodded, feeling a little better. Then a thought popped into your naughty head so you clang to his body and whispered,

“But… can’t we sneak around for some time?”

“See each other in secret?”

You nodded, your mind drawing you pictures of forbidden hook-ups, fucking in the bathroom at parties, Frankie’s palm over your mouth, keeping your moans from being heard.

“It’ll be so hot…,” you mumbled with your eyes clouded by lust.

“It will be,” Frankie groaned, grabbing your asscheek with his hand and pushing his already hard cock against you. “But until Santi’s back…” he pinned you to the bed, settled between your legs, and whispered, brushing your lips with his, “I’m gonna use every second I have to make you scream as loudly as you can.”

Frankie swallowed your needy “yes, please” and pierced your wet pussy with his big cock.

Thank you for reading! Please comment and reblog if you enjoyed the fic! I'd love to know what you think💞

Frankie Morales Masterlist || MASTERLIST

Tag list: @/milla-frenchy @harriedandharassed @nervousmumbling @bbyanarchist @stevie75 @puduvallee @mountainsandmayhem @senoratess @flamingochick55 @theoraekenslover @schnarfer @mermaidgirl30 @staywildflowahchild @yesjazzywazzylove-blog @keylimebeag @pascaltesaye @meetmeatyourworst @callmebyyournick-name @tateypots @pedrofan @chloeee20 @ess-evo @upintheclouds95 @ashleyfilm @shadowqueen2024 @time-for-my-weekly-spanking @libre-sol @iamladyp

Frankie stood frozen, gaze sliding from your thighs to the curve of your mouth as you licked the spoon clean.

You jumped slightly at the sound of the door behind him.

“Shit—I didn’t hear you come in.”

Frankie didn’t speak right away.

His jaw ticked, a slow grind beneath the trimmed edge of his beard. He looked broader somehow in the soft kitchen light—shoulders stretching his jacket, forearms solid beneath the rolled sleeves of a faded button-up he hadn’t bothered to tuck in. He smelled like sweat and smoke and something warmer underneath, something that always made you want to lean in closer.

His eyes dragged over you slowly. Not in a way that felt cheap. Like he was taking inventory. Like he was memorizing. Those eyes—always a little tired, always a little heavy—looked darker now. Sharper.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he finally asked, voice low and rough, like gravel warmed in the sun.

You shrugged, the spoon still in your hand. “Was craving something sweet.”

His gaze flicked to it—then back to your mouth. Slower this time. Like he was following the path of a thought he didn’t want to say out loud.

“You find it?”

You smiled at the innuendo—maybe a little tipsy yourself from the two glasses of wine you’d had with dinner.

“Not yet.”

Frankie took a step closer.

And another.

Your body tensed instinctively. Not from fear. From anticipation.

He wasn’t smiling.

He wasn’t drunk, not exactly. But loose-limbed and hungry, eyes glazed just enough that you knew something had been building all night. Maybe from the minute he left.

“Y’know,” he said, stopping just inches in front of you, “you walk around my kitchen like this… lickin’ that off your fingers…”

His voice was quieter now, but rougher. Like he was holding something back.

He reached forward, slow and sure, eyes never leaving yours as his fingers brushed yours and took the spoon. His touch was warm. Brief. Enough to make you shiver.

Then he brought it to his mouth.

Licked the last bit from it—tongue dragging over the metal, slow and deliberate—and you gasped before you could stop yourself. Soft. Involuntary. Like your body gave you away.

He didn’t react. Just turned, tossed the spoon in the sink with a soft clang.

And then, still so calm it nearly made you ache:

“You lookin’ to get fucked, or you just like testin’ my patience?”

Your breath caught.

You tilted your head a little, lashes dipping low as you looked up at him through the kitchen light. The shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder. You didn’t fix it.

You gave him a look—wide-eyed, a little coy, a little knowing. Sweet enough to play innocent. Sharp enough to let him know you weren’t.

“Can’t it be both?”

Frankie made a low sound in his throat—half groan, half growl—and then his hands were on you.

You barely had time to brace yourself before he spun you and hoisted you up onto the kitchen counter, your bare thighs spreading instinctively around his hips. His mouth was on yours before you could speak—tongue hot and insistent, tasting like whiskey and something darker, deeper. His beard scraped along your jaw, and you whimpered as he kissed you like he owned you.

“You miss me?” he rasped, lips dragging to your neck.

“Yes,” you breathed. “So much.”

“You sittin’ here all soft and sweet like this, fuckin’ waitin’ for me, preciosa?”

Your head tipped back as he sucked at your pulse, teeth just grazing.

“Frankie—”

He slid one hand under the hem of the shirt and groaned.

“No fuckin’ panties?”

“I didn’t think I’d need—”

He pulled back just enough to look at you. “You were right.”

His fingers found your slit—already slick—and he pressed in with a slow, filthy drag. You gasped, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Goddamn,” he muttered. “This pussy drives me crazy. Siempre tan lista para mí.”

You moaned as two fingers slid inside, slow and steady. His thumb rubbed tight circles on your clit, and your hips rolled into his palm with instinct more than thought.

“You been thinkin’ about me since I left?”

You nodded, breath catching.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Been thinking about you all night.”

His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Thinkin’ about what?”

“About this,” you whined. “Your mouth. Your hands. How good you fuck me—”

That was all it took.

Frankie dropped to his knees without warning.

Your breath hitched.

“Frankie—”

“Shh,” he murmured, already coaxing your thighs apart with strong, steady hands. His palms were warm, calloused, dragging up the soft skin of your inner thighs in a slow glide that made your whole body tense.

Then—his fingers.

They slid through your folds, unhurried, like he was savoring the way you opened for him. He stroked you with confidence, curling just enough to make your back arch, pressing deep and dragging out with purpose.

And then you felt it.

His breath—hot and humid—ghosting over your cunt as he leaned in, mouth hovering so close you swore you could feel the outline of every word he was about to say.

Then came the brush of his beard.

Rough, warm, grazing the crease of your thigh like a promise. The soft scrape made your whole body twitch, the contrast of textures—his stubble and your slick heat—almost too much before he even touched you with his mouth.

“Gonna taste what’s mine,” he said softly, voice like gravel and smoke and sex. “Don’t move.”

He grabbed your thighs and dragged you forward, his mouth finding your cunt like it was a fucking destination. There was no hesitation. No teasing. Just need.

You reached for his head as he dropped between your legs—and paused just long enough to pull off that worn, sweat-soft Standard Oil cap. You tossed it somewhere behind you, and your fingers dove straight into his curls.

Thick, soft, still warm from the cap.

You gripped tight when the first swipe of his tongue dragged through your folds—long and slow, like he was savoring the way you opened for him. His beard scraped rough against your skin, and the contrast made your hips jerk.

Then he moaned.

The sound vibrated against you, deep and hungry, and he pressed in harder—tongue working deep, licking and sucking like he needed it. He buried his face in you, messy and starved, groaning into your pussy with every wet flick of his tongue over your clit.

Your fingers clenched tighter in his hair, tugging instinctively. He groaned louder.

“Frankie—fuck—oh my god—”

You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. He held you open, his hands gripping above your knees, thumbs digging into your thighs like he dared you to try and close them.

When you came, it crashed through you like fire—white-hot, clenching, loud. You sobbed, your thighs shaking around his head, but he didn’t stop. He licked you through it, swallowing every twitch, every cry.

“Good girl,” he growled against your cunt. “Come for me.”

You pushed at his shoulder, overwhelmed. Your head fell back against the cabinets as your whole body trembled.

Finally, finally—he pulled back.

He rose slow, licking his lips, beard soaked and glinting in the low kitchen light. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then sucked his thumb clean.

His eyes were dark.

Hungry.

“Bedroom,” you whispered, still shaking.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

Frankie was already unzipping his jeans, his cock springing free—thick and flushed and already leaking.

“I’m fuckin’ you right here,” he said. “On my counter.”

He stepped between your legs again. Palmed your jaw with one hand, the other stroking the head of his cock through your wetness.

“Right where you were sittin’,” he muttered, “eatin’ my food… wearin’ my fuckin’ shirt…”

His cock sprang free—thick, flushed, already leaking. Your breath hitched at the sight of it, your thighs twitching open wider without conscious thought. Need pooled hot and low in your belly.

He didn’t take the shirt off you.

Didn’t even speak.

Just stepped closer, hands sliding up your thighs—slow, steady—and lined himself up. The head of his cock slipped through your slick folds, dragging heat and friction that made your breath catch.

Then he pressed in.

All at once.

One deep, deliberate thrust, and he was buried to the hilt.

You gasped—mouth falling open, hands gripping his biceps for balance.

“F–fuck, Frankie—”

Your voice was barely a whisper, like you didn’t want to break the hush of the house around you. He didn’t groan—just exhaled, long and low, forehead dipping to yours as he stayed there, cock pulsing inside you.

“So fuckin’ warm,” he murmured, breath hot against your cheek. “Like you’ve been waitin’ for me.”

“I have,” you whispered.

He kissed you then. Lingering and slow. Like he didn’t need to prove anything except that you were his to come home to.

He started to roll his hips. Deep. Rhythm heavy and slow, like he was savoring every inch, every pulse of your body around him. Every time he bottomed out, you could feel the tension in his back, in his jaw—holding it all in, like he didn’t want to rush.

“You always let me in like this?” he asked softly, mouth brushing your ear. “So easy, baby.”

You nodded, lips brushing his jaw. “Only you.”

A quiet groan left him. His grip on your waist tightened.

“Can feel how much you want it,” he whispered, hips pressing deeper, harder. “So fuckin’ wet for me.”

Your eyes fluttered shut.

Every slow thrust dragged pleasure out of you like he was pulling it, coaxing it from deep inside. You could feel your orgasm building—slow and warm, like being pulled under.

“I’m gonna come,” you whispered.

“I know,” he murmured. “I can feel it.”

He pressed a kiss to your jaw. Then another behind your ear. His rhythm didn’t change—just stayed steady, patient, fucking you through it like he had all the time in the world.

“Let go for me,” he said, breath thick against your throat. “Come on me, baby.”

You came soft, gasping, eyes wet, arms wrapped around him as you pulsed around his cock. Frankie held you through it—moaning low in your ear, hips still moving, his forehead resting against yours.

“Gonna fill you up,” he whispered, almost a promise. “Nice and slow.”

“Fill me up,” you whispered, voice trembling. “Come inside me, Frankie, please.”

That was all it took.

He groaned—low, guttural, like it punched straight from his chest—and thrust one final time, holding deep, cock buried to the hilt. You felt it before you heard it—the way he tensed, the shudder of his breath, the sudden pulse inside you as he came.

Thick, hot spurts flooded you, deep and slow, each one making you clench tighter around him. You moaned softly against his shoulder, arms wrapped around his back, heart hammering as his hips gave one last grind, like he didn’t want to leave.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice thick and low against your ear. “God, baby…”

He stayed there a moment longer—just breathing, body pressed to yours, both of you slick and warm, flushed from head to toe.

Then he kissed you. Slow. Delicate. His mouth was still wet from you, and it made the kiss all the more tender—like he was sealing something in. Not claiming. Keeping.

His hand slid down to your thigh, stroking gently. You shivered.

When he finally pulled out, you whimpered at the loss. He didn’t say anything—just watched, eyes dark and soft, as his cum began to drip down your thigh.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Look at you.”

You could barely hold his gaze. Your limbs were loose, body trembling, ruined in the best way.

He reached for a dishtowel—soft and faded from use—and crouched to wipe between your legs, slow and careful. Gentle enough not to make you flinch. He didn’t say anything while he did it. Just looked at you like you were something he’d never get over.

Then—without a word—he leaned in and scooped you up. Bridal-style, arms steady, chest warm against your cheek.

You clung to him without thinking. Drowsy. Wet. Safe.

He started down the hallway, bare feet quiet against the wood floor.

“You carry all your midnight snacks to bed like this?” you mumbled, your voice worn out but teasing, lips brushing the skin above his collarbone.

His chest rumbled with a soft laugh.

𝐂𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐎𝐅 𝐃𝐔𝐓𝐘

CAPT. JOHN PRICE ⋆｡°✩

⋆ sleep tight, love – john helps you fall asleep. (+18)

SGT. KYLE GAZ GARRICK ⋆｡°✩

⋆ suck – kyle asks a favor. (+18)

⋆ eat out – kyle doesn't understand. (18+)

SGT./CAPT. JOHNNY SOAP MACTAVISH ⋆｡°✩

⋆ making out – you and soap make out on simon. (+18; feat. soap)

⋆ moping – you help soap feel better (18+; feat. tf 141)

⋆ snacks – soap misunderstands you. (+18)

⋆ first date – you kiss soap on your first date.

⋆ sudoku – soap plays dumb.

L.T. SIMON GHOST RILEY ⋆｡°✩

⋆ THE RILEY FAMILY (1) (2) (3) – they're creepy and they're moody. mysterious and spooky. they're all together ooky. the riley family! (the addams family inspired au)

⋆ pillow – simon catches you in the act. (+18)

⋆ making out – you and soap make out on simon. (+18; feat. soap)

⋆ movie star (1) (2) (3) – you're simon's personal movie star. (18+)

⋆ 69ing – you have a competition with simon. (18+)

⋆ the pharmacy (1) – simon embarrasses himself. (+18)

POLY!141/EXTRAS/ETC. ⋆｡°✩

⋆ THE ESCAPE – your small sleepy town has never been enough for you. maybe that’s what makes it so easy for inmate soap, his cellmate ghost, ad their friends on the outside to convince you to help sneak them out of prison. (CONTINUED ON AO3)

⋆ casual dominance – the boys try to figure out dinner. (roomates!au)

⋆ nails – you take the boys to get their nails done. (roomates!au)

⋆ undies – soap is reprimanded for stealing your underwear. (18+)

⋆ tears – how the 141 would comfort you when you're crying.

⋆ sailor tats – the 141 "rescue" you.

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐁𝐄𝐀𝐑

CARMEN CARMY BERZATTO ⋆｡°✩

⋆ deep – carmen goes down on you. (+18)

⋆ v-lines – you show carmen a little appreciation. (+18)

⋆ dance – you and carmen try a some new things. (+18)

⋆ no work, all play – carmen distracts you from work. (+18)

⋆ roommate!carmen – life with carmen berzatto as your roommate. (+18)

⋆ after work – you help carmen after a hard day at the bear. (+18)

⋆ phone one in – carmen calls you with a throbbing dilemma. (+18)

⋆ frankenstein's bride – carmen loves your halloween costume. (+18)

THE BUNNY AND THE BEAR – the life of bunny and her boyfriend bear

⋆ hair - carmen helps bunny with her hair.

⋆ couch - carmen comes home to find bunny on his couch.

⋆ gentleman - carmen shows off his manners.

⋆ FRIENDSHIP ⇁ crying | first kiss | ladder | nickname | first sight

⋆ DATING ⇁ hot girl bunny | how long have they been together? | hand creams | carmen's hot gf | nervous!carmen | bunny and richie | carmen's tattoos | bunny's favorite spot | bunny's tattoos | birthaversary | favorite things | grizzly bear | why the tears? | nurse!carmen | come home pt. 1 | sick!bunny | easter eggs | sidewalk rule | punch | pretty boy | sleepy!bunny | tickets | smoking | hobbyist!bunny | 5 in 1 | short circuit

𝐗-𝐌𝐄𝐍

LOGAN WOLVERINE HOWLETT ⋆｡°✩

⋆ on his six – logan can't get enough of the xavier's school for the gifted youngesters' newest hire–you. (+18)

⋆ fridays – your fuck buddy makes his weekly visit. (+18)

⋆ busy signal – a phone call interrupts a relaxing logan. (+18)

⋆ rooftops – logan can't live without you. (+18)

OLDER BF!LOGAN ⋆｡°✩

⋆ older bf!logan sees how many times he can make you come

⋆ older bf!logan finds your vibrator

⋆ older bf!logan manhandling you

⋆ going down on (mean) older bf!logan

⋆ older bf!logan squeezing your soft parts

⋆ older bf!logan letting you take the lead

⋆ wearing a sundress around older bf!logan

⋆ older bf!logan being rough with you

⋆ older bf!logan helping you de-stress

⋆ older bf!logan walks in on you touching yourself

⋆ prone bone with older bf!logan

⋆ older bf!logan saying "fuck, i missed you"

⋆ older bf!logan being handsy

⋆ oiled massages with older bf!logan

⋆ older bf!logan fucking you right after a mission

⋆ you and older bf!logan welcome a new family member

⋆ "daddy, can you pass me the pepper?"

⋆ you and older bf!logan welcome a new arrival

⋆ older bf!logan is addicted to you

BOUNCER!LOGAN HOWLETT ⋆｡°✩

⋆ you make a deal with bouncer!logan

⋆ you bring bouncer!logan dinner at work

⋆ you clean bouncer!logan up after he fights in your honor.

𝐌𝐈𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐄𝐎𝐔𝐒

Forehead.

Chest.

Shoulder.

Shoulder.

It’s like memory, like breathing. It lives in you so intimately it barely feels chosen, more reflex than thought, something your body learned before language. It moves through you, closer than anything else, closer than your own blood, than the dark rivers that pulse in your neck, the jugular carrying life itself. Even that is not as near as the Spirit.

You slide into a pew and kneel against the rough wood pressing through your skirt, welcoming the familiar ache of your worship. It echoes the ache of it in your bones. It feels earned, deserved. You let it bloom in your knees and stay there, a small penance.

You want to feel your faith like this, the only physical proof you have of your conviction. It is the choice you make again and again to be good. To feel as if you belong to something higher than your own desire. It keeps your heart pointed upward, not outward. It burns in your knees.

Above you, Christ hangs in His stillness, ribs pulled taut beneath skin, head bowed under the weight of mercy made flesh. His eyes are cast downward, simply watching. He's not accusatory but He still lacks a gentleness. He bears a violent witness. You think of how much blood there must have been. How slow.

Your throat tightens as you close your eyes. You know you have been careless with memory. You know you have lingered where you should not let your thoughts linger, allowed your mind to drift back into a time when things like love and desire clouded your mind. You stop yourself again, now, before your mind's eye takes his shape again.

You reach into your bag and draw out your rosary, the beads cool at first, then warming as they settle into your palms. You wrap them around your fingers, letting the string pull snug until it presses into your skin. You tighten it. The pressure feels good. Corrective. You like the way it demands your attention. It keeps you present, anchored in the here and now instead of drifting back into longing.

You bow your head.

Thank you. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for the path you laid out when I could not see my way through it myself. Thank you for discipline when comfort would have ruined me.

You think of your savior again, His final surrender. You think of how good He was, how He gave everything so you could be forgiven when you wandered into sin. Weakness in the form of nostalgia, desire that insists on resurfacing for a man you nearly gave everything to before he left. The awareness of Christ's eyes on you presses down on the back of your neck, making you feel small. Exposed and unworthy.

Please.

Please keep me faithful, even when my thoughts start to wander. Please guard me and my family from harm, from the things seen and unseen. Keep my heart turned away from what is evil, from sin and predilection. Show me discipline where I am weak, and clarity when I am confused. For now I know that all I want is to be with you, in the kingdom of heaven.

Amen.

After evening Mass, you stop at the doors of St. Anthony’s as the last of the parishioners say their farewells. It's quiet outside now, evening like a blanket of stars over the quietening chapel.

Father Paul takes your hand, thanks you again for your help this weekend, asks after your family with the same gentle attentiveness he always does. You answer quietly, promise to return in the morning for the food pantry, assuring him you’ll bring coffee, and step aside into the night.

You descend the steps and pull your coat tighter around yourself, breath fogging faintly in the cold. The street is mostly empty, the chapel behind you dark now except for a single light near the sacristy. You start toward home, your footsteps the only sound accompanying you in the dark.

Tomorrow will be the food pantry, and how much there always seems to do even when the night gives you the reprieve of silence. You hear the crickets, a lone car passing by once. You'll need to get to church early to set up, make sure all the boxes are in order. Father is always so sweet and you'll stop for his favorite coffee to wake him like you always do.

Your rosary beads knock softly against the zipper of your bag as you walk—a faint, familiar sound that keeps time with your steps. A car passes again, then the street returns to stillness. The quiet settles around you, deep and expansive, and you feel how easily it opens space inside your head.

Sometimes the quiet of night is welcome, but sometimes it allows for too much time to think. About things, about…about times before. About… him.

You tighten your grip on the strap of your bag and begin to pray again, the words rising instinctively, protective, filling you.

Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.

Whenever you feel your mind straying from you, from good, you say it again. You let the words occupy your mouth, your tongue, the soft hollow behind your teeth.

Thy Kingdom come. Thy Will be done, on earth, as it is in Heaven.

The night feels very still around you, the sidewalk stretched long and empty ahead, your breath a fog in front of you, steadying with the cadence of prayer. You are halfway through the next line when something changes. The sound of the passing car lingers longer than before, tires not moving away. There's an engine idling too close.

Give us this day our daily bread and —

There is the sharp scrape of metal, a sliding door pulled open with no hesitation, and then light explodes across the sidewalk, headlights washing over you so suddenly it steals your vision. You turn instinctively, already stepping backward, heart leaping hard into your throat. A figure moves out of the glare, tall and broad, its outline sharpening too quickly, too near for your mind to catch up.

Your arms pull in tight to your chest, shoulders hunching, fear driving straight down your spine like a nail hammered down. You feel it everywhere at once, white and electric, every nerve lit.

“What do you want?” you hear yourself say, shocked that your voice works at all.

The shape does not slow. Footsteps eat the distance between you, purposeful, unhurried. A hand reaches for you.

Then you remember how to scream.

It tears out of you raw and loud as you kick and thrash, hands striking at anything you can reach. It does nothing. You are lifted easily, hauled up and over a broad shoulder, the world tilting as your stomach lurches violently. Your fists pound against the man's back, but he's so solid, and your blows get absorbed without reaction. His arm clamps around your legs, locking your knees together so your feet can’t swing free.

“Let me go!” you scream, the words breaking apart in your mouth.

Your wishes are granted, but only to be thrown into the dark van, where there are three more men in all black with ski masks waiting. You scream again, but the door slides shut, making you blind to their reaching hands, which clasp around your wrists, a thin harsh plastic wrapping around you. This isn't like the rosary, a calming pressure of worship and devotion, this is a zip tie.

You are still fighting when rough fabric is dragged down over your eyes, smothering and close, stealing what little light remains. Your breath turns frantic inside it, the air hot and stale. They catch your ankles next, cinching them tight, stealing your balance completely, your body reduced to something contained and helpless.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” a voice curses beside you as they struggle to finish restraining you.

“Mind your tongue,” you spit back, the reprimand tearing free before you can stop it. For a fleeting second, anger steadies you, gives you something solid to hold. Hearing the Lord’s name said in vain snaps you back into yourself, into who you are, into what you belong to.

"Haven't changed much, has she, boys?"

There's something about the voices that piques a curiosity in you. If the blood wasn't pounding so loudly in your ears, if your skin wasn't buzzing with adrenaline, maybe you'd have recognized them.

But the voices overlap now, a laugh to your left, a chortle to your right from the front seat, "There's no way this is gonna work if—"

"Shut up," another one of them cuts in.

The buzzing in your ears is too loud to place any of it, drowning out all logical thought and the ability to think. Whatever recognition tries to surface slips away again under the fear.

You curl inward as much as the restraints allow, folding yourself small, clasping your bound hands together. You draw your knees up, pressing your forehead against them, turning inward, then downward, the way you were taught. The way you have always done when the world feels dangerous and out of your control. You begin to pray.

Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy Name.

The time passes without meaning.

The van, and time, seem to move and stop, then move again. You can feel every turn in your stomach as you pray, every brake against your spine. At some point your throat is hoarse from whispering your orisons, your hands clenched so hard together they lose their feeling. No one else speaks, the silence stretches. You're not sure for how long, whether it's twenty minutes or twenty hours. It feels a bit like forever.

Then there's another sound, distant. A vibration more than noise at first, something you feel through the floor of the van, like the tires beneath are on a fault line. The van is slowing, you're sure of it, and the sound is louder, thick and filling the space. A mechanical thrum that presses against your chest and hums behind your covered eyes.

Your heart stutters when the van door slides open.

No.

No, no no.

Air rushes in hard and cold, whipping across your skin, carrying the sharp bite of fuel and night. It feels violent after the sealed quiet of the van, too much all at once. Someone reaches for you, and you let them. You do not resist this time. Your body moves because it is moved, pliant and strange, as your mind is seized by a sudden, terrible certainty.

“Careful,” a voice says close to your ear as your feet are positioned outside the door and the zip ties are cut from your ankles.

Your feet are positioned at the edge, then lowered, the ground solid beneath you. The zip ties around your ankles are cut away, the release abrupt and disorienting. Hands grip your arms, lifting you upright, keeping you steady. Your wrists remain bound. The blindfold stays in place.

They guide you forward.

The sound swells into a roar that consumes everything. It vibrates through your ribs, your skull, your teeth. You can barely hear your own breathing over it, shallow and uneven inside your chest. You can't see. You can't hear clearly. But you know.

You know that sound.

It brings back memories, flooding you. Your body reacts as your mind swims with them, dread pouring through you, cold and absolute. And threaded through it like a warm current in the turn of two oceans meeting, is something else. Something you refuse to name, that you've prayed to extinguish for the past year. It feels as if the hands at your sides and the sound ahead is submerging you into those memories, like being held under and lifted out again. A baptism.

Your stomach flips and your knees threaten to give out as the person beside you tightens their grip and says something you can't make out over the noise. You stumble forward a bit, guided step by step, until you're being lifted again and strapped into a seat.

And finally, when you're no longer being pinned or guided or restrained by hands, you bow your head and begin to cry in the passenger seat of the helicopter.

You’re only half aware of the trip through the sky.

It’s too dark to make sense of anything, the strip of fabric around your eyes starting to itch, sweat collecting beneath it as you try, uselessly, to peer through the narrow gap it leaves against your cheekbone. There’s nothing to see anyway. Just darkness. No lights or landmarks below, no sense of height or distance. The helicopter vibrates through the bench seat and into your bones, rattling your skin, turning your stomach over and over until you can’t tell if you’re afraid or just sick.

Maybe you’re over the ocean.

The thought comes unbidden, but it sticks, makes sense. Endless black water beneath you, nothing solid for miles. You swallow hard, throat tight, and curl your shoulders in against the cold that seeps through the metal.

Eventually, the vibration changes, the pitch dropping and movement shifting, and the descent throws your belly into your throat with sudden pressure. When you touch down, the rotors kick the air into a frenzy, wind and grit blasting through the open door as it’s wrenched wide. You turn your face away, tucking your chin down, bracing.

"What the fuck did you do to her?"

The shout cuts through the mechanical roar like a blade.

Oh god.

No, no no no.

Some part of you had prayed you were wrong, desperately hoping. Somewhere between the van and the sky, you had begged to be mistaken. You wish you still had your rosary. You don’t know where your bag is. You wish you could have knelt, pressed your forehead to the floor, prayed harder, prayed better.

Hands grab at your wrists, wrenching the ties free, and relief comes quickly but painful, pins and needles racing through your fingers as blood rushes back. The hands move to fumble at your head, and you flinch, jerking away, keeping your eyes squeezed shut as the fabric comes away. If you don’t look, you don’t have to see who it is. Who you know it is. You feel like you knew all along, from the first words uttered in the van. From the broad expanse of the shoulders you were hauled over when they took you.

But then the two broad hands are back to your face even without restraints. Thumbs brush along your temples, gentle, reverent, moving your hair back like he’s done a hundred times before. Your breath stutters. You turn your head away, squeezing your eyes shut so hard your vision sparks, blood pounding so loud in your ears it feels like a scream. The hands leave your face and close gently around your wrists instead, steadying you, lifting you from the seat.

Your feet hit the ground and you gasp.

The earth beneath is…soft. Not the jolt of blacktop or cement you expect. Your shoes sink slightly, the surface shifting under your weight. You open your eyes without meaning to, a curse of human curiosity, and look down.

Sand.

You make sure to advert your eyes again, away from…him, because you can't yet. You need to occupy your vision with something else, anything else. You turn to see the helicopter crouched on the beach just behind you, rotors still churning, the ocean stretched out behind it, black and endless, moonlight breaking across its surface in silver ripples. You raise a hand to shield your eyes as grit lashes past your face.

Then the helicopter lifts.

Someone in the cockpit raises a hand in a quick, casual wave, their face hidden by the glare of the moon, and then it’s gone, rising into the dark until it disappears completely, black against black sky. The wind settles to a gentle breeze as the sound of waves crashing against the shore fill your ears.

You can't turn around. You think maybe you were looking for more in the blanket of stars, looking for someone to come and rescue from what you know was waiting behind you. Praying to God or the archangel Michael to save you from this fate.

A hand touches yours, and you flinch away as if burned. Your hands lift to cover your face, hiding your eyes as you realize no one is coming.

"Look at me, 'mor,"

'Mor. That nickname. Mi amor. My love. And that voice. It throws you back into your minds eye, so hard you have to force your eyes to open so the back of your eyelids won’t paint your vision in memories.

"What have you done, Frankie?"

Frankie

You wouldn't look at him—why wouldn't you look at him?

"'mor, please," he says gently, staring at your back. Your pretty blouse flutters, fabric tugging against your waist, your hair lifting and falling in the sea wind like it used to when you’d walk ahead of him down the street and he’d reach out just to feel it. His fingers twitch uselessly at his sides now at the memory of it. You’re here. You’re actually here. In front of him. Real, alive, beautiful.

If only you'd turn around.

He opens his mouth again, already full of everything he wants to tell you, but he stops when you drop your hands from your face.

The red marks on your wrist glow in the light of the candles he'd set up, the burns angry against your skin, and the sight of them twists something hot and violent in his gut. His jaw locks, his hands curl into tight fists, he thinks he might kill his friends for one fleeting moment. The candlesticks stretch ahead of you in a soft path along the sand, petals scattered out of place from the helicopter, the arch waiting at the edge of the beach like a promise that’s suddenly gone wrong.

He wants to take your hands, kiss the redness away and swear it never happened.

"I told them to be careful," he began, softly, his voice thick with apology, "I didn't know Ben would…and Redfly, I didn't think—"

"Take me home." you whispered.

"Baby—"

"Take. Me. Home." you still wouldn't look at him. But he could see your shoulders shaking.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says, panic changing his tone. “You wouldn’t answer my calls. You wouldn’t see me. I had to— I had to do something, just to see you.”

"So you kidnapped me."

He shakes his head. This is not what he pictured. He'd pictured you coming off his fellow pilot's helicopter, eyes lighting up like they once did for him and jumping into his arms. He pictured your lips against his, soft and warm and all the memories of before washing away in a beautiful twilight proposal on the beach.

"I fixed everything, 'mor," he insists, and his words start to tumble over one another, "I'm clean, I have money now to take care of you. I bought—" his hands shoot out around him. He wishes you'd just fucking turn around and look at him. "this entire place, baby, it's ours."

"I don't want this." you whisper, "I don't want any of this."

The words are sharp and cruel, even in your sweet voice.

"Look at me, 'mor," he pleads, stepping closer, "por favor,"

"Stop calling me that."

"Please."

You let out a shaky sigh, and finally oblige.

You turn, and god, your face, it's like seeing god. An angel, carved from every dream he'd ever had. All the sleepless nights he'd thought of you over the past year did nothing to compare to you, now, bathed in the moonlight, the wind from the sea blowing your hair around. The cross at your throat flashes silver when you move, and something tightens painfully in his chest at the sight of it, something aching and possessive all tangled together.

"Marry me," he says. His voice is barely loud enough over the water crashing at the shore.

It isn't how he meant to say it. He should’ve taken you to the arch first. Gotten down on one knee. Why did he let it go on this long? Why didn’t he just take your hands and walk you down the candlelit path, show you everything he built for you? He glances at it now, distant and waiting, but his eyes come right back to your face. He can’t look away, he never wants to look away.

"This was supposed to be perfect—I wanted it to be—"

"No."

He freezes, his eyes search your face, your pretty eyes, your sweet plump lips he remembers like the back of his hand, the feeling, the taste. The way they felt that night when you'd…

He shakes his head.

"What?"

“No, Frankie.” Your voice is steadier now, even as tears build in your eyes. “I’m not going to marry you.”

Something like the devil on his shoulder makes him laugh.

“You don’t mean that,” he says. “We—we're always meant to be together, 'mor.”

"I mean it," you snap, your tone sharp and serious, though your voice is shaky and wet. He can't help but think how absolutely adorable you are, even when you're angry with him.

"I don't want to be with you, Frankie."

"You're scared," he cuts in, stepping closer, shaking his head harder, his hands wanting so badly to come up and touch you. He hears your breath hitch, your body leaning away. He pushes down the anger that boils in him.

"You're scared, baby, I know. I know I scared you." he tries to force a calmness over himself, over the situation. Forcing reason. "The guys were never supposed treat you like that, I wanted them to talk to you about coming, about seeing me. They were meant to only pick you up and tell you there was a surprise, I'm sorry. I know you're scared, but that's over now. It's just us."

“I can't,” you say suddenly, brows furrowing, a hand coming up to clutch your cross necklace, and the words hit him sideways. “God has made me realize this is wrong.”

His stomach clenches.

“Don’t,” he pleads. “Don’t do that.”

“I can't be with you,” you continue, tears spilling now, your hands clasped tight. “I’ve prayed about it every day. I’ve prayed so much. This—it isn’t right.”

The only thing he hears is that you thought of him every day. In your most intimate time, between you and Christ.

"So that's it?" he asks, "You and God have decided, huh? Don't I get a say?"

"Frankie, please," you sob, "I don't want to fight you. I don't want to be punished for picking the wrong thing."

"You think I'm the wrong thing." he echoes, flat and wounded.

You don't answer, and it feels like confirmation.

"I got clean for you," he says, louder now, stepping even closer, chests nearly brushing, and your breath stops. You close your eyes tightly.

"I left all that behind—the coke, the partying, the bullshit." you wince at his curse, "I'm sorry, baby. I know." he lifts his hands so they hover over your arms, wanting, so badly, to touch. "I lost my license and my career, but here I am. I fixed it. All of it."

"I never asked—" you shook your head, squeezing your eyes shut before glaring at him glassy eyed, "I told you to not come back."

"I love you," he says, desperate, shaking from fingers to his toes, "I love you so much, I'm trying to show you—I'm ready to give you everything. I have the money, I bought this island for us, I have this ring." he reaches into his pocket, pulling out the box.

You take a step back, "You're scaring me, Francisco."

“I would never hurt you,” he says fiercely. “Never. I would die before I let anything happen to you.”

“You already did,” you say, voice barely there. “You left for Colombia with your friends on a suicide mission. I had to live with the fact that I thought you died.”

He stares at you, chest heaving, the candles flickering wildly behind you, the ocean roaring like it’s listening.

“We're supposed to be happy,” he says, almost to himself. “This was supposed to make you happy. I didn't die, 'mor, I'm back, I'm clean, I can take care of you.”

You shake your head again, helpless. “Take me home.”

The word home hits him like a betrayal again and again.

“We can make this home,” he says, voice shaking as he reaches into his pocket, “We can make a life here. Or anyway, I don't care. Just—just let me show you. Please.”

"Don't—" your voice cracks, "I don't want a reason to be angry at God. Please, Frankie, stop—I've m-moved on."

That stops him cold like he'd just been plunged into the ocean.

There's a silence between you, thick and ringing in his ears. Frankie's hands fall uselessly to his sides with the velvet box clenched tight in his fist.

His chest constricts around his heart, something sour crawling up his throat.

“Who?” he asks.

Your shoulders tense, hesitating just a fraction too long.

“It doesn’t matter,” you say quickly. “That’s not—this isn’t about that.”

“It matters to me,” he snaps, the edge in his voice cutting through the night before he can soften it. He sees you flinch again and it only makes everything inside him feel louder. “Who is he?”

"I don't want to do this. Take me home."

But he's already there, already doing this, his thoughts spinning, green and fevered. Santiago said no one ever saw you with anyone. The days he'd been going insane and sent his friends to check on you at the church, at your house without being seen. Were you lying?

"Tell me the truth."

You look up at him, a glare on your sweet face, "I am. I went on a few dates with a man from church. Stop being mean. I only wanted to—I was trying to not…"

Your face pinched, and you shook your head, as if willing the thoughts away. Your cheeks glistened wet in the moonlight.

"Say it." Frankie demanded, his eyes trying to bend to find your gaze now that you'd looked away again. It was so close—your confession. He was your confessional, you, his little sinner wanting to do right. Always.

You took a few breaths, and Frankie, not for the first time, but maybe more desperately than ever before, prayed that you'd just say it.

"I've been praying…" you breathe out slowly, and tears were rolling down your face as you looked up, "I've been trying anything just to stop thinking of you, Frankie."

He rushes towards you now, velvet box shoved back in his pocket, forgotten, and he's pulling you into him. You squawk in protest, pushing your hands up, but they only fold in between your chests.

"Frankie," you whine, a rush of breath leaving your body as he squeezes you to himself, "stop it, Frankie, please,"

"Did you let that man touch you, baby?" he coos, "tell me you didn't give him what's mine, hermosa, por favor mi amor, amor amor amor," he's kissing your face, babbling away, and his kisses—they're wet. He'd do anything to make you stop crying, he's never wanted to make you sad. It cleaves his chest in two to think he created them.

"I'd never—I'd only ever wanted—but Francisco, I can't—not—"

"Let's get married," he pleads, arms tightening around you, bringing you even closer, "'mor, please, it's what I'm tryna tell you, then you'll never have to worry, you'll never be apart from me," he kisses your face harder, your breasts push up into him, "kiss me back, say yes, 'mor, por favor, ángel mía, hermosa,"

"Frankie," you sob, gripping his shirt. You look up at him, finally, you're taking him in, drinking in his closeness, he can see it. And your eyes, they're glassy, full of something— and then he knows.

And he kisses you.

He doesn’t give you time to second guess him, to recover from the shock of his mouth smothering yours. If anything, you pull him closer, nails biting into his shoulders where you cling to him, dragging him in like instinct has finally won. The moment your resistance softens, though, he takes it as permission, as proof. Silly thing, always fighting him, his sweet angel, trying so hard to be good for your god.

His hand comes up into your hair, threading through the locks to hold you tight, pressing you even closer to him. Your gasp breaks loose as he clenches his fingers harder, as if the breath was knocked from your lungs. He feels it immediately, the give of your wet lips, and something both feral and relieved floods him at once. He leans into you more, plunging his tongue into your waiting mouth, claiming the opening without hesitation. The kiss deepens until it’s nothing but heat and breath and want, until he feels a little unhinged, pouring himself into you like there’s no end to his need.

“Frankie—” you breathe when he finally breaks away, his mouth trailing over your jaw, down the soft curve of your neck.

"—Frankie, we shouldn't—"

“I’ve waited so long for you, ’mor,” he murmurs, his tongue flattening against your pulse. You tilt your head back without meaning to, exposing yourself, and he feels like if he could unhinge his jaw he’d swallow you whole. The red apple of Eden, offered straight into his mouth.

"Not here, Frankie, oh please, I can't—"

"I don't give a fuck," he demands.

You cry out when he tugs your blouse aside, teeth grazing the place where your neck meets your shoulder, biting just enough to make you gasp.

“I just love you so much,” he corrects softly. “Will you marry me, baby? Make me the happiest man alive.”

He says it between kisses as he lowers himself in front of you, hands everywhere, strong and sure as they grip and pull you close. His palms are broad, and you fit into them so perfectly, like he'd never forgotten the map of you, even as your knees threaten to give out.

You're looking down at him, chest heaving, blouse askew.

He's never thought you more beautiful in his life.

He kisses your stomach, lifting the hem of your top so his mouth can touch your hot skin. You shiver as he moans against you, nuzzling into your navel. He wants every sound you make, and you give them to him, soft and breathy, whining little noises as his hands tighten. His hands come down to your ass, groping and spreading even through your skirt.

“I’m gonna fall, Frankie,” you whimper, clutching his shoulders. “This is wrong. We shouldn’t. It’s a sin.”

He groans as he looks up, fists full of you. He must look a little unmoored, half-mad, because your eyes widen, your tongue slipping out to wet your lips. You swallow around the feeling climbing your throat. The moon above you halos your head as he kneels.

“Mi ángel,” he whispers, “I’d never let Lucifer take you. God loves you, but he’ll never save you from me.”

You frown deeply at that.

“Admit it,” he murmurs. “You’ve been angry with him for a long time.”

“No,” you whimper, pushing at him now, but he holds you fast, mouth returning to your stomach.

“You’re angry because you want me just as much as I want you,” he says quietly. “Because he made you fall in love with me. Because you want my cock just as badly as I want your sweet little—”

“Frankie!” you cry out, covering your face.

He raises to his feet, cupping your face over your hands.

“Look at me, ’mor.”

You peek through your fingers. Your eyes are shining again.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Wanting’s natural, baby.”

You shake your head.

“Tell me,” he whispers, “are you wet right now?”

You hide again, like you might disappear, like God himself might be watching.

“If I reached down between your legs,” he murmurs, “would I feel you soaked for me? You remember that night, baby? When you let me touch her?”

Your head dips lower, the tips of your fingers brushing his chest.

“Remember how good it felt, hermosa,” he whispers, arms wrapping around you, holding you close, kissing the crown of your head. “When you let me taste you. How bad you wanted me, but told yourself you couldn’t. Not until we were married. But I let you taste me too, didn’t I?”

“I’m going to hell, Francisco.” you whisper.

“Never,” he says, kissing your head again, squeezing you harder. “You’re too good. Too perfect.”

He pulls your hands down so he can see your face, memorizing you again. Those eyes, they bring all the memories back, burned into him. The day he met you. The day he told you he loved you. The day he left, how you cried. He’ll never forget those eyes.

"I've missed you." he says finally.

“I miss you,” you confess back, a secret carried out to sea. “It hurts just to think about you.”

"I know, 'mor," he says, kissing your top lip so carefully, gently. Your eyes close, lashes fluttering against your cheekbone.

"I love you, Frankie," you say finally.

Finally.

He leans down, wraps his arms around your body, and lifts you against him.

“I love you so much,” he says, carrying you toward the archway, where everything should’ve begun.

And finally, finally, you're smiling down at him. Enough of the secrets, of trying to stay away, of trying to fight this. Finally, he had you.

Your hands move to his hair, petting and pulling, his curls a little unruly from the wind and sweat.

He sets you down gently, only taking his hands away to reach into his pocket again, and gets down on one knee.

"Marry me, 'mor?"

Your hand flies to your mouth as you stare at the ring. Ten carats, blazing in a halo of diamonds. He never cared about the price. It was you the moment he saw it.

“Oh, Frankie,” you breathe, offering him your hand.

“That a yes?”

You nod, laughing through tears. “Yes. Of course.”

He slides the ring onto your finger, already pulling you close again, kissing you like restraint was never part of him. He draws you down to kneel with him on the red rug beneath the arch, candlelight warming your skin, the night pressing close.

He eases you back onto the ground.

"Frankie—" you whisper. "What're you doing?"

"Want you," he moans, "now."

"What? Here? Frankie—" you gasp as your back hits the red rug on the sand, "Not here—anyone can see us—"

"Didn't you hear me, hermosa?" he smiles, "I bought this entire island. For you. It's just us."

You turn your head to look around, left and right, as if testing if he was right, before looking back at him and smiling. Your cross necklace is askew on your chest, bathed in candlelight and the brush of the moon. You're beautiful.

Frankie kisses you again, no longer waiting, pushing his tongue into your mouth. He sits between your legs, your skirt bunching up higher and higher as your knees fall open and let him in.

He doesn’t waste a second before shoving the fabric up around your hips, moaning softly at the feel of your skin under his palms. He kneads you, grips you hard enough to pull a whimper from your throat, the last of your tears still drying on your cheeks, catching silver in the moonlight.

When his hands reach the apex of your thighs, you’re shaking. Trembling. Nervous, but fuck—

"You're wet, mi amor, just like I knew—"

“Don’t make me feel bad,” you whisper.

“Never,” he says immediately, shaking his head. He kisses your chin carefully, before lowering himself again.

You watch him, holding your breath. His eyes stay on yours until he can’t help it anymore, until he’s kneeling between your legs, staring openly at the way your cotton underwear clings to you, darkened where it presses against your folds.

"Ohhh," he breathes. He nudges your skirt even higher, guiding your knees over his shoulders, locking you there. He presses a kiss to your covered mound, slow and sweet, inhaling, and you gasp, your hands flying into his hair.

The sound he makes startles him, slipping out before he realizes it’s his own. His tongue presses flat through the fabric, and he groans again, helpless. Nectar. The nectar of the gods. His own ambrosia. He thinks, with sudden certainty, that he could die here and know heaven could never come close.

“Fuck,” he breathes, mind gone, undone by the feeling of you, by the sounds you make for him. He hooks a finger into the gusset of your panties, tugging them aside just enough, and finally lets his tongue have what it’s been begging for.

Your back arches immediately, a broken moan tearing free into the night. Frankie devours you, eating, licking, taking his fill.

To be fair, dear reader, he had done this before. He remembers it now better than ever. The taste, the smell of your honey invading his memory.

It was Santiago’s birthday. You’d loosened up with a little help from his friends, wine poured generously, laughter spilling from you easier than usual. By the time midnight crept close, you were giggly, flushed, your hands restless in a way they never were when you were being good. Your devout Catholic hands, always folded, always careful. That night they weren’t careful at all.

When the party thinned out and it was just the guys left, you’d slipped away with him, quiet as a secret, into Santiago’s bathroom of all places. You’d tasted like Malbec and something unreal, warm and plush in his arms as he kissed you against the door the second it closed behind you. You’d begged then, he can hear your voice in his memory now, sweet and breathless, asking to be touched like it was a confession you couldn’t keep anymore. And Frankie—God—he hadn’t stood a chance.

With one word, and he was on his knees at the altar of your hips, worshipping you the same way he is now, mouth full, mind gone. Afterward, you’d wanted to try more, curiosity shining in your eyes when you whispered it. He nearly came just hearing you say it. He let you taste him, just a little, guiding you with a steady hand, petting your hair, letting you cradle what god had given him. That was all, though. He’d drawn the line there.

Not because he couldn’t have taken more.

Because he decided he wouldn’t. He couldn't risk the fallout of your penance.

And then a few days later, Santiago had told him and the guys about his plans. To take down Lorea for once and for all. And when Frankie told you he'd said yes, he'd never seen you so angry. Almost as angry as tonight when you'd touched down and finally looked at him.

But he’d known then, the same way he knows now.

You would forgive him.

No matter what he did—whether he stayed up all night coked out of his mind, or came to you with beer on his tongue, slurring his words as he kissed you—you always forgave him. You forgave him the day he told you god wasn’t real, though even now he isn’t sure he meant it. He’d just been angry and hungover. He remembers shaking with the early ache of trying to quit the snow.

All it ever took was reminding you how much he loved you. Telling you he was the only one for you. That his devotion was sacred, set apart, something god himself would have to understand. He liked that part best—the moment your resistance gave way, the instant your certainty cracked and you looked at him like he was both the wound and the cure.

His tongue flattens against your clit now, swollen and pulsing beneath him, and he snaps back into the present as you gush around his mouth, hands locked tight in his hair. He hadn’t even realized he’d been grinding a hollow into the sand, his cock dragging against the ground beneath him, desperate for friction.

Frankie, Frankie, Frankie you chant. He groans, lifting his head to look at you, reaching up to tear your blouse down your chest, freeing your breasts so he can watch them rise and fall as you gulp in the night air. Your nipples pebble instantly in the cool ocean breeze, and he crawls back over you, taking one into his warm, wet mouth. His lips tingle where he’s tasted your orgasm, like a constellation bursting across his tongue. Heaven.

Your hands never leave his hair as he circles his tongue around you, greedy, unwilling to choose just one. He squeezes your breasts together, nuzzling between them, shaking his head, burying himself in the valley of your warmth.

“Hermosa,” he moans, his covered cock grinding up into your wet, open cunt.

“Frankie, please,” you cry after a particularly rough thrust of his hips. He knows his jeans are too rough for you, knows you’re sensitive there, but he wants to see your eyes when he pushes just a little harder.

“You’re so beautiful, ’mor,” he murmurs. “Let me have her. Please. Let me give you everything.”

You pause, watching him, your forehead dappled with cold sweat in your hairline. You're still breathing hard, coming down from your high.

"You're just so perfect, 'mor," he says, "so perfect, it's only going to be you and me, forever. You know that. Me and you. Always. I love you."

"I love you, Frankie," you whisper, "yes, okay, just please—be gentle—please,"

You sound so soft and sweet he could eat you alive, he might, he wants to. His mouth opens wider, taking your breast fully this time, wondering dimly if he could bite hard enough to see your heart, the way it swells for him, the way it hammers faster and faster as he convinces himself he’s giving you everything.

A high buzz fills his ears as he lifts back onto his knees, fumbling with his belt. He frees himself and rests against your hip, forcing himself to pause, to ground his mind back into his body. Your hand is already reaching for him. You say something sweet, something whispered, half-lost to the sound of the waves—something about remembering him, about how he once felt like velvet in your mouth. He wishes you wouldn't say such things, because one more minute he'll combust then and there.

You’re a mess beneath him. Clothes torn and shifted, blouse pulled away, skirt hiked up. Blasphemous. He can’t do it like this.

"Baby," he whispers.

"Yes, Francisco?"

"Let me—let's get these things off of you, I wanna see you—"

You nod, beginning to pull your top over your head.

"Can I see you too, 'mor?" you ask quietly. His heart swells in his chest, his skin warming, finally, finally, finally.

“Of course, mi ángel,” he says, pulling his shirt free. Your hands roam him immediately—hands he’s watched clutch a rosary, fold in prayer, open for the Spirit—now holding him like treasure.

“Ohhh,” you whisper as he slides your skirt down your legs. “You're so warm.”

“I know,” he murmurs, folding over you, arms slipping beneath your body to hold you tight. “I’ve got you. Let me love you. Let me have you.”

"You already do," you say, kissing his nose, kissing the bend of his cupid's bow. You watch him, your eyes, so pretty, god how he ever went a year without them, he's not sure. Your hands cradle his face. “Make love to me, Francisco.”

He guides himself to your weeping entrance, and pushes in.

Your brows shoot up quickly before pulling together. He mimics the look on your face, his brows pulling tight at the feeling of your velvet keep—so tight it's almost resisting his intrusion.

"S'alright," he slurs, drunk on the feeling, "s'gonna feel funny, 'mor, s'okay, s'okay," he chants, kissing your frowning lips.

You whine softly, almost feline as you mewl, discomfort threading through the sound, but your arms fold around his neck, pulling him close. He can’t move, only his hips are free to push in.

"Oh, oh, oh," you whisper, "oh God,"

It's the first time he's ever heard you say the name in vain. He thinks he might go insane for it. He wants to hear it again.

"Fuck," he swears, he can't help it.

"Oh, God, Frankie, oh—"

Yes yes yes.

He pushes deeper. Your pussy grips him like a fist, and his vision flashes white. He can feel the head of his cock brushing your womb, pressing there, claiming it, whispering promises to it only he believes. You pulse around him, fluttering, and he stays still, pressed hip to hip, closer than he’s ever been to you. It's like nothing he's ever felt. This is the kingdom of heaven, he realizes. On this beach. In your tight keep, and god is looking back at him through your eyes.

"¿Cómo te sientes?" he whispers, kissing your open mouth, "Cuéntame."

"So—" you sigh out, a breath held too long, "it's so—"

He kisses your gasping lips again.

"So good, b-but funny—"

He nods, gently urging you on as he holds you.

"Feels, so—like I'm being split in half. So full in my belly. I feel like…like God is…"

Frankie feels a rush of nerves, will you tell him this is a mistake now? Not save him with grace and tell him after?

"This is what God created, this…this feeling, and oh, it's wonderful."

Frankie pulls his cock out as his mouth covers your in urgency, eating your whines, as he begins fucking you—no—how did you put it? Makes love to you. You moan now, louder, unable to hold his kiss, your head is thrown back, and you're gasping, sobbing now in earnest, and he watches you like you’re a vision, fucking you into the sand, into the rug beneath you, your bodies carving a hollow the tide will erase by morning.

"You are so perfect, 'mor," he breathes, skin slapping skin, his cock growing and tightening. He can feel you fluttering around him.

"I've only ever wanted you," he says, "you're the only thing that's ever fucking mattered, my girl, mi amor, I love you,"

"I love you Frankie," and he realizes you're crying again, hands tight around his neck, "I love you so much—oh, I think I'm gonna—oh! Say it again, 'mor, por favor,"

"I love you, I love you, my sweet baby, you're everything, come on my cock, let me feel her, let me feel you, I need it, give it to me." his lips curl and he's baring his teeth, he can't help it, he's so close it's making him animal, "give it to me,"

Your eyes are wide, and he doesn't think it's fear, but maybe awe, because your body is tightening, your pussy latching onto him so hard he's barely able to move, and your back bends, he feels it under his hands. And your breasts, now slick with sweat, push into him and bear your neck to him as you come.

He follows, a raw sound tearing from his chest as he spills into you without hesitation. If it’s god’s will, he’ll give you children, ten more if you ask. The sensation stretches on endlessly, too much, too full, stars bursting behind his eyes as your body holds him.

He thinks he sees God.

Or maybe it’s just the way you look at him in the moonlight as you take everything he gives.

The world eventually comes back to him, the crashing sound of waves filling his ears, steady and eternal. The candles flicker low now, dripping down into the sand. He's breathing hard over you, still inside the circle of your body, but he's quiet, and you're quiet, both of you soaking in the moment. It's like the stillness after prayer, when you don't move, the silence almost holy.

Your chest rises and falls beneath his, uneven, your fingers slack in his hair now, petting lazy shapes against his scalp. He can feel your heartbeat everywhere—against his mouth, his neck, the place where your bodies are still joined.

He presses his forehead to yours.

For a long moment neither of you speak. There’s nothing urgent left to say, everything feels already decided.

"Frankie," you finally whisper.

"Yes?" he murmurs immediately, softly.

You swallow, your hand comes up to his cheek, thumb brushing along his mouth, slow and loving.

"If God…" you swallow again, "if He was watching…do you think He's angry with me?"

The question settles between you, fragile as breath.

Frankie’s chest tightens. He kisses your temple first, then your cheek, the corner of your mouth, gentle where his lips brush.

“No,” he says, low and sure. “No, mi ángel.”

You search his face, still unsure, your eyes still wet with question.

“I just—” Your voice trembles. “I don’t feel ruined. I feel…” You trail off, embarrassed by the honesty of it.

“Loved,” he supplies gently.

You nod, relief breaking across your face.

“Yes,” you whisper,

"Loved."

You don’t remember the last time you had five uninterrupted minutes alone with your husband Frankie.

Not in the kitchen.

Not in the shower.

Not even in your own damn thoughts.

The twins are teething. Mateo needed help with homework. Ava cried because someone at school said something mean and Solana demanded the exact pink unicorn pyjamas that were in the wash. The laundry is multiplying like it’s sentient. There are sippy cups in places that defy physics.

And Frankie is three states away for work.

You’re sitting on the edge of your bed when he calls, it’s late. The house is finally quiet in that sacred, fragile kind of quiet that makes you afraid to breathe too loudly. 

“Hey,” he says.

And it’s ridiculous how just that one word softens something in your chest.

“Hi,” you murmur, voice tired, small around the edges. “Are you done for today?”

“Yeah. Hotel room’s ugly. Bed’s too big.” A pause. Then, lower, honest. “I hate this.”

You close your eyes, rubbing your temple.

“Yeah?”

“I hate being away from you.” His voice roughens. Not dramatic. Not poetic. Just real. “I miss you. I miss the chaos. I miss you stealing the blankets. I miss the way you sigh when you’re half-asleep.”

You swallow.

“You’re the one who starfishes,” you whisper.

“Don’t deflect.”

You can hear him shifting, probably sitting on the edge of that lonely hotel bed, rubbing his hand over his face like he does when he’s holding too much in. Which he does a lot lately, but you see through the act anyway. 

“It feels wrong,” he says quietly. “Like I left something important behind.”

“You did,” you breathe. “Me.”

What follows is silence, the heavy meaningful kind.

“You okay?” he asks softly.

You hesitate. You don’t want to add to the weight he’s already carrying, but he knows you too well. He always has. Frankie has always been sharp like that—quietly observant, reading a room the way other people skim headlines. Maybe it’s something the military carved into him. Maybe it’s simply the way he’s built. 

“I’m just tired,” you admit. It’s not a lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. “I don’t remember the last time we were just… us. Not Mom and Dad. Not crisis managers. Just magnets, like we used to be.”

He exhales. Slow and controlled.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “God. Yeah, I know.”

You can hear the smile in his voice when he says it.

“We used to not be able to keep our hands off each other.”

“Still can’t,” he mutters before he adds. “At least not if I have any saying in that.”

That lands. Heat creeps into your spine despite the exhaustion. Even after five children Frankie’s still hungry for you, no matter how much your body changed shapes and sizes. 

“Oh?” you say lightly. “Mr. Morales struggling over there in your shitty hotel room?”

He huffs a quiet laugh. Low, dangerous. The one that always lures you in.

“You have no idea.”

You shift on the bed, suddenly hyper-aware of the way your shirt has ridden up on your thighs. You gently trace along the exposed soft skin. Soothing, not arousing.

“You miss me that bad?”

He goes quiet again but this time it’s different. Thicker.

“Mi amor,” he says softly, like a warning and a confession all at once. “I miss your body too.”

The air changes, tightens and your stomach flips.

“You do?” you tease, though your voice betrays you in its softer and breathier tilt. “Are you trying to seduce me over the phone now?”

“Maybe.”

You grin into the dark.

“That so?”

“I’m alone,” he says. “You’re alone. No one’s crying. No one’s knocking. Feels like a missed opportunity, if you ask me.”

You laugh under your breath. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Tell me what you’re wearing.”

“Francisco—”

“Just tell me.” A beat. ”Please.“

You hesitate for effect.

“Your old t-shirt,” you say finally. “The one that barely reaches my thighs, the pale blue one.”

The inhale on the other end is immediate. Sharp.

“Dios.”

You smile. Victory.

“Do you sleep in it when I’m home too ?”

“No,” you admit. “Because you usually take it off me when I do.”

There’s a low sound in his throat. Not loud, but you feel it everywhere you wish his hands would be instead.

“You’re evil,” he mutters.

“Me?” You laugh softly. “You’re the one who started this.”

“You started it the second you said you miss being like magnets.”

His voice drops another octave.

“I keep thinking about how you feel under my hands,” he says quietly. “How you melt. How you look at me like I hung the moon when I haven’t done anything but kiss your neck. How you moan when I reach that spot—”

Your breath stutters.

“That’s not fair,” you whisper.

“I know.”

Silence again but this one is pulsing.

“Do you touch yourself when I’m gone?” he asks, low and careful.

You bite your lip.

“Maybe.”

“Baby,” he growls.

You let him sit in it before you say: “I think you have to come home to find out.”

He groans softly — half frustration, half longing.

“I swear to God, when I get back—”

“You’ll what?” you challenge.

“I’ll remind you,” he says. “Exactly what being magnets feels like.”

Your thighs press together without permission.

“You’re all talk, Morales.”

“Oh yeah?” His voice is velvet and steel. “You’re the one who’s breathing heavier and I am alone in that fucking hotel room, hard as a rock—”

You freeze.

“…shut up.”

He laughs. Soft. Intimate. There’s this flutter in your chest that never quite died down.

“I miss you,” he says again, but this time it’s threaded through with heat and ache and something deeper than either. “Not just like this. All of you.”

Your chest tightens.

“I miss you too. A lot, actually. Not just as the best dad in the world but as my partner. My lover. Just— you.”

Another long pause on his end. The kind that feels like lying together in the dark. Which you desperately wish you’d do now instead.

“I’m counting down the days,” he says. “As soon as I’m home, we’re locking the bedroom door. Let the kids watch a movie. I don’t care. I need five minutes alone with my wife.”

You smile, eyes stinging as you blink the residue of tears away.

“Five?”

He scoffs. “Minimum.”

You laugh quietly.

“Come back to me,” you whisper.

“Always,” he answers immediately.

“I love you,” you say, already moving the phone a little away from your face to hang up. 

“I love you more, always more. Talk soon, yeah?”

“Talk soon,” you hum and hang up, placing the phone face down on the nightstand and let the ache settle as a reminder that no matter the distance, some hearts still beat in sync.

thanks for reading 💌

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