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For any reasonable person, it was far too late to be awake—let alone doing anything more complicated than laying on their back, waiting for sleep to come. But alas, 2AM wasn’t the renowned hour for good decisions nor self discipline, so here you are, staring daggers into the barely visible top of your camping tent as you try valiantly to remember what the hell 5 times 4 equaled.
You sigh. You almost regretted coming on this camping trip with the rest of the team (key word here being ‘almost’), what with how the flimsy, waterproof lining of the tent did absolutely nothing to shield your back from the hard forest ground. But then you think back to a few hours earlier, when beer bottles began to pile up and the boys had absolutely no reason to resist enjoying themselves any longer, and you can’t quite bring yourself to complain just yet. In your line of work, it was a rarity to find anyone who was willing to let their guard down for more than a few minutes.
So even if you’ll almost definitely be in a back brace for the foreseeable future after tonight, your grit your teeth and return back to the question you’d been trying to answer for some time now: what is fucking 5 times 4?
Actually, a better question might be why you were even trying to figure that out in the first place. Sure, it’s a remarkably simple problem—and, yes, there was absolutely no reason you needed to urgently remember its answer. It’s just that your exhaustion drunk brain can’t seem to do anything more than be a useless, foggy pile of meat right now, and you desperately want to pretend like you have any common sense or reason left at this hour.
You sigh once again, picking at the loose threads on the hem of your thermal waffle shirt. You fall back and forth between awareness, lulled into a weird sense of peacefulness by the continuous white noise flowing from somewhere in your surroundings. It’s only after you attempt to refocus your vision on the murky, navy blue of the tent top do you realize the sound isn’t white noise at all.
It’s the crackling of a fire.
You furrow your brows. The camp fire was put out hours ago when the rest of the crew retired to their own tents for the night. If it was still going, then obviously whoever was in charge of that endeavour hadn’t checked the embers before they threw their two cents in, and called it a night.
You scoff as you pull back the cover of your sleeping back—once again, grimacing as your back gives a horrific pop with the unwarranted shuffling—and you move to unzip the screen divider.
You peek through the flap, squinting harshly at the orange and yellow light that flickers a few yards away, throwing dark outlines against every leaf and branch in the canopy overhead. The overbearing silence of nature comes crashing down on you as you survey the darkness, and you give a shiver when a stray gust of wind blows through your hair.
Nonetheless, you tug on some pants and sandals, before making your way towards where the fire pit was. Evidently, however, your earlier assumption was wrong. Whoever was in charge of putting out the fire was not (in fact) incompetent, just futile, seeing as Frankie had relit the fire, leaning back against a tree trunk with his feet propped up on a beer cooler.
You tug your shirt a little closer around yourself, waiting for him to notice you. Eventually, after a few twigs crack under your weight, he lifts his gaze, and you can see the light of the fire reflected in his brown eyes.
“I thought you finished drinking two hours ago,” you quip in greeting, moving to sit on a log next to where he was sitting.
He purses his lips as he pretends to read the label attached to the beer bottle in his hand before he answers, staring at you from under the brim of his cap.
“And I thought you’d be able to fall asleep in a tent—y’know, being a soldier and all—but I guess we were both wrong.”
He tips the bottle back against his mouth to take another swig, and you click your tongue at the light hearted teasing that never seemed to leave the group dynamic.
“So, what, you’re looking to be hungover for the hike tomorrow?” you continue on, watching the way his Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows, “With the way Santiago’s been on our asses about the schedule lately, I can’t say I’ll be sorry for you tomorrow when he has your head on a pike.”
Frankie laughs at that, bubbly and unbridled, the sort of laugh he only let out when he was half-drunk and couldn’t tell the difference between jokes and actual statements anymore.
“Don’t remind me,” he scoffs, taking another sip, “we’re on vacation but he’s still acting like we’re inbound to a fucking warzone or some shit. Classic Pope.”
You hum in agreement, leaning back in your chair and watching the fire as a subtle quiet envelops you the both of you. Frankie continues draining his bottle, you continue plucking at the loose threads of your shirt, and for the longest time neither of you say anything, when suddenly, he clears his throat, talking like he’s sober once again.
“But, no, I’m not just drinking to get wasted,” he moves his feet off the cooler, sitting straighter “Couldn’t sleep, so I figured what the hell, might as well finish off the case.”
He empties his bottle, tucking it into the cup holder of his chair while you try to pretend like what he says doesn’t worry you. In the end, though, you figure there’s no reason to get dark about the consequences of your careers, and side step the obvious path.
“Well, that makes two of us then.”
He smiles at you for that, genuine and a little flushed where the fire lights up his face. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you register how handsome he looks like that, but shake the thought away.
Breaking the silence, you start once again, “Would you mind passing me one of those?”
You gesture towards the cooler, but Frankie just chuckles.
“I got something even better.”
He reaches into the pocket of his windbreaker, throwing a small plastic packet at you from across the way. Thankfully, his reflexes haven’t suffered too much under the influence, and the packet makes it into your hands without burning to a crisp in the fire.
You peer through the plastic, and smirk at him with a raised eyebrow.
“Weed?” You scoff, “Where’d you even get this?”
“Fuckin’ Benny,” he says with a smile, eyes darkened by the brim of his hat, “I thought that’d be obvious.”
“I never took you for the type.”
“Well, I never took you for the type either, but we’re going in circles here, compañera. It’s not like we’re getting up in time tomorrow morning, anyway. Might as well.”
“What about Benny?” You ask, “won’t he be mad you smoked his shit when he wasn’t around?”
Frankie laughs, “Motherfucker left it under my jurisdiction, so if he’s upset in the morning, that’s his own fault.”
You giggle at the thought of it and peer salaciously at Frankie over the fire. You give it a few seconds, acting like you haven’t already made up your mind, before shrugging your shoulders with a small cheer from Frankie in the background.
Before you know it, Frankie’s got a package of rolling papers between his fingers and a few filters set aside. You watch the way his tongue flicks out to lick and glue the edges of the blunt together, and you try not to be overwhelmed by the sheer weight of the bubble currently surrounding you. It’s like there’s nothing but you, and him, and a pleasant warmth curling in the air between you, creeping up in temperature by the minute.
He stuffs the blunt between his lips, brows pulling together slightly with the movement, and you watch the way his lighter illuminates the planes of his face as he leans into the flame. He puffs several times, gray smoke curling into the air around him as he inhales deeply. Ash leaking from between his lips, he takes the blunt between two of his fingers, eyebrow quirked as he offers it to you.
You get up from your seat to move closer to him. When you reach for the blunt, your fingers brush against his, but you ignore it in favor of pretending some sort of tension isn’t slowly leaking into the airspace around you. You take a hit, vaguely aware that he’s watching the way your lips purse around the filter. Just to annoy him, you blow the smoke in his face, catching the sharp lines of his jaw when he leans back with a laugh.
You laugh too.
You go back and forth at this for a while, passing the blunt between yourselves until it’s nearly ashed out and your eyes are red. Your head is fuzzy with cotton and you can’t seem to stop smiling. You reach for the blunt one last time, but this time he leans in, too. Not expecting the movement, you inhale the tail end of his exhale, pulling the second-hand smoke into your mouth like you’d done this a thousand times over with him. Amused and slightly dazed, he gives you the blunt, suddenly aware that the original foot of space you’d had between your bodies had suddenly turned into mere inches in the time you’d been here.
The fire’s struggling, bathing the world in a weak light. You flick the bud of the blunt into the fire pit, staring at the sky instead of at Frankie, because you know that if you look at him too intensely when you’re like this (when he’s like this), you’ll end up saying something stupid.
“...end of story, I ended up stealing an entire box of Poptarts out of his pantry the morning after, and needless to say, he never texted me again.”
Frankie guffaws a little too loudly at the end of your little anecdote, smiling boyishly behind another beer bottle.
“Were they at least good?” He asks in between chortles, “That’s the least you deserve after that piss-poor excuse for a one night stand.”
You giggle as you lean back, hugging a leg to your chest, “No--they were a fucking year past the expiration date. Even fake strawberry jam can’t last that long, what’d you expect?”
“Probably better you got out, then,” he responds, “wouldn’t wanna date a guy who can’t even clean out his own kitchen.”
You hum along with him, taking another swig of beer. For a minute you sit in silence, watching the logs in the firepit sizzle with heat, ash wafting up into the air. But then…
“Still ate the entire box, though,” you say, almost whispering, and somehow he manages to pick it up.
That sends both of you into a laughing spiral, Frankie clutching his side as he tries desperately not to choke on his mouthful of alcohol. You’re not doing much better, barely able to breath in between hiccuping giggles. God, it’s not even funny, but somehow it is. Probably the drugs and alcohol, but you can’t find it in yourself to regret anything up to this point.
Eventually, however, the quiet is restored, only the crackling of the embers to be heard in the silence of the nighttime. You peer over at Frankie, drunkenly trying to act inconspicuous as your eyes rake over his face. His beard is patchy around his cheeks but full at the top of his lips. You can see orange spots of light dancing in his pupils as he stares up at the stars, curly brown hair sticking out of the edges of that hat he never seemed to take off.
Riding the high, you reach the breaking point.
“Has your hair gotten longer?” You ask him, trying to make the question sound passive and not like you’re hanging off of every word he says with his deep, scratchy voice.
He hums, pulling his hat off to run his fingers through his hair in contemplation. The movement makes the strands puff up around his forehead, and you’ve never been more endeared.
“Yeah. When we were active duty, I had to buzz it all the time. It was kind of a pain in the ass, so I just let it grow out.”
“It looks nice on you,” you reassure with a nod, “soft.”
You regret finishing that sentence the minute it comes out of your mouth; hopefully you’ll be able to blame the blush quickly creeping up over your cheeks on the chilled autumn air. He doesn’t put the hat back on. Instead, he clutches it in between both of his hands, fingers twiddling with the loose fabric.
He’s awkward, staring down at his lap instead of up at the sky like he was a second ago.
You bite your lip, trying to muster up the courage to apologize for the momentary lapse in judgement, but he clears his throat before you get the chance. He doesn’t meet your eye.
“Would you wanna touch it?”
You blink twice just to make sure you didn’t hallucinate him saying that last part.
“Huh?”
His fingers move to the brim of his hat instead, his left hand coming to swipe at his jawline idly.
“I asked if you wanted to touch it. I mean, you said it looked soft, so…”
He trails off, looking away from you. You’d laugh at how obviously intoxicated he was if you weren’t blindsided by what he was offering. Being the only woman in a group with five men--five strong, capable, military men no less--had never been good for your libido. But recently, something had had your eyes repeatedly returning to Frankie. Scruffy and soft in the places the others lacked, but even more intimidating and masculine in the confident way he carried himself. Hell, you’ll admit it, even if it embarasses you to your core: you’d had a few less than appropriate dreams about him in the pilot’s seat of a helicopter, forearms straining as he gripped something much less PG than a throttle.
You draw a blank.
Fuck it.
Frankie’s eyes go wide and deep when you slowly reach your hand out. Your movements are sloppy and uncoordinated with intoxication, but Frankie himself doesn’t seem to notice. He’s too busy following your motion with equally drunken chocolate pupils, hair-sticking up in every direction, looking more clueless and adorable than he has any right being.
When your fingers finally slide into one of about a thousand brown curls, it's like everything just falls into place. No longer is there a cloud of beer and weed to muddle your emotions; as soon as you have him within your reach, all the feelings come rushing back.
It’s so fucking soft. Seriously. You might just have to buy a bottle of whatever he’s using if it means you’d get the same silky, smooth locks. Even after years of constantly buzzing it and stuffing it beneath stiff military caps, his curls still stick up every which way, chaotic and irresistible and so, so Frankie. Almost inherently so, and you’d never be able to explain why.
As you drag your nails over Frankie’s scalp, his shoulders sag and his eyelids fall close. He goes entirely boneless, almost leaning into it, as if he couldn’t get enough. As maybe you couldn’t either. But for the sake of social norms, your body eventually reminds you he’s a man not a puppy, and it’d probably be bad etiquette to wish that he’d come a little closer when you’ve already got your hand buried in his hair and your noses are practically touching.
You pull back with a soft clearing of your throat, and Frankie’s eyes flutter open tiredly. Your faces are barely inches apart, the hem of his flannel shirt looks just a little too tempting at the moment. You have to tuck your hand against your side just to avoid reaching out to tug on it.
Although, in all honesty, Frankie doesn’t look like he’d mind.
In fact, he looks like he might like it.
“Um…” you let your hand fall, not removing your gaze from him. Instead--and quite irresponsibly, if you might add--you keep staring into those chocolate eyes, lost in the red of his cheeks. Had they always been so rosy? Had he always looked so tempting? Had you always felt like this?
And in a moment of tremendous inspiration, you realize you really have. Sure, it had always been buried deep beneath detached military callsigns and the pompous formality of work relationships. But here, in the middle of the woods with nothing but a weak fire standing between you and him, he captivates you. There is no Catfish when you see him. Just a man, with curly hair and lips that are just begging to be kissed.
Unintentionally, your eyes fall to them at the thought, and your heart skips a beat when he mirrors the movement. You watch his breath materialize in the autumn air, and you’ll never forget the serenity you felt in that moment before he leaned in.
The first time Frankie kisses you, it’s slow: a soft squelching of flesh pushing together, the quiet eruption of years of forbidden pining encompassed in a way-too innocent, way-too small peck. You watch his eyes slowly open afterwards, almost like he was reluctant to fall away from the feeling of your skin.
Before a shred of a doubt can cross his eyes, you tug his neck forward with a hand and push into him once again, feeling his warmth and taste on your tongue. It takes a minute, but he finally moves against you. His arms pull you flush against him, your arms sliding around his shoulders, accidentally tipping his hat off kilter.
And then it’s like everything just implodes. Where there was softness moments ago, there is desperation. It’s tongue, teeth, skin. You’re touching everywhere your hands can reach, pushing your breasts up against his sturdy chest when he hums into your mouth. Frankie’s equally as bad; his hat falls to the forest ground as he tugs you forcefully towards him, swallowing the surprised sound you make as he dives back in. Suddenly, you can feel him everywhere. His legs underneath your thighs, his biceps around your hips, his teeth on your bottom lip.
And then...something else.
“Fuck--” you whisper in between kisses, managing to hazily shift back for just enough time to catch your breath. Frankie looks wrecked. His hair is even messier than it was before, pupils so far blown out they’re almost completely black, and you don’t think you’ve ever thought he was as handsome as in that moment. You’re practically breathing the same air, and that’s when you feel his hardness pushing into your hips.
You immediately go red with want.
“You--you want this?” Frankie’s still chasing your lips as you talk, and you barely manage to get the words out before he’s stealing your breath once again.
“Yes,” he says with another peck, “Yes, I want it.”
He speaks the words hurriedly, as if you’d disappear right where you sit if your lips were detached for too long.
“Fuck--I have wanted it. For so fucking long…” You moan at the tone of his voice, how weak he sounds beneath you. Your fingers cradle his face, hips pushing into his as you return his passion with a swipe of your tongue. God, you must look like teenagers to anybody else. Rushed, desperate, barely keeping it together. But somehow it works; somehow it’s a fitting conclusion to the circumstances.
You spread your legs wider, settling on one of Frankie’s thighs, like the feeling of something--anything--touching you would help you think any clearer. His grip turns to iron with the motion, and he bounces his knee a few times for good measure. He relishes in the shrill gasp you let out, practically devouring how dishevelled you look rubbing your clothed pussy on his leg, like a bitch in heat.
“Please, tell me you want this, too,” his hands move lower, settling on your waist as he bites down your clavicle, “Fuck, I need it, querida.”
“Fucking take it from me, Francisco.”
He uses his hands to drag you down his thigh, bucking up against you when his full first name is said in that breathy, high pitch. You reach between the two of you to try and touch him through his pants, but as soon as your fingertip can make contact with a wet-spot at his waistband, he’s pulling back.
“Frankie?” you call out, head spinning, “What--”
“Not here,” he pants, shoving you up with an urgency your shaking legs can’t seem to match, “I’m not fucking you for the first time on a goddamn log.”
The hand that grabs yours almost hurts in yours with its intensity, and if he hadn’t pronounced his desire before, just the taut way he carries himself as he leads you towards the tent would do all the talking for him. The line of his shoulders, hair loose without the hat, jeans about two sizes too small at the front where a pretty impressive bulge makes itself known.
You gulp as you watch the deep shadows move over his frame with every terse step. God, you’re practically salivating. It’s all you need in the moment: him. His dick. His mouth. His attention. Literally anything he could give to you right now. You don’t care anymore. As long as it’s entirely Frankie, you’ll take like a champ.
You’re so focused on not tripping over yourself like a lovesick puppy to see his hands reaching for you. The last steps towards the tent are unstable and clumsy, hands tearing at every scrap of clothing you can get your hands on, his forearms hiking you up his body with a grunt.
His mouth is hot against your own, and at this rate, you’re a little worried you won’t make it to the tent in time. You tug him backwards and manage to climb inside, even as his fingers are tracing your waistband and fumbling with the button in tandem. As soon as the flap is zipped shut, every last piece of composure goes flying out the window.
“Fuck me,” you pant between kisses, his hands squeezing your ass hard enough to leave bruises, “Fuck me, Frankie--please, fuck me I need it so bad.”
He groans loud and long into your mouth, shoving your legs apart and climbing over you, just so he can press his arousal between your thighs in wordless confirmation. You gasp with the first thrust, dizzy and out of breath where he cages you in beneath his giant frame, using his palms to lock your wrists to the covered ground above your head.
“You’re so soft,” you think you hear him whisper, sucking a hickey under your jawline, but you’re a little too dizzy with how your panties are entirely soaked through now, and you can hardly focus on anything aside from how big he feels up against your cunt with every stunted grind.
You mewl right next to his ear when the seam of your pants rubs over your clit, and finally, Frankie’s doing something more than painting black and blue over your body. Your pants, shirt, and bra are off in an instant, and you get whiplash when the denim of his jeans touches your bare cunt.
You gasp, slapping a hand over your mouth. God, you can hear how slick you are, lips spread and clit swollen where Frankie’s jeans slowly rub back and forth. He shushes you with a gentle kiss, pulling your hand away from your mouth to swallow your sounds himself. The feeling is excruciating.
Above all, it’s degrading.
Frankie, fully clothed.
You, fully bare. His jeans pushed up against the most intimate part of your body, your wetness staining the cloth with every desperate drag of his body against yours.
You feel so small, legs spread, letting him do this to you. Your frame is completely shadowed by his broad shoulders and big hands, and your entire system thrums when he pushes two fingers in between you and his groin to feel the arousal leaking down your thighs.
“Shit, querida, you’re fucking soaked,” you watch in fascinated horror as he sucks his own two fingers into his mouth, tasting the evidence of your need, “Need me that bad, huh? Got your panties all wet ‘cause you couldn’t wait any longer?”
“Mm-hmm,” you hum, willing to fucking cry for it if it’ll get him to take his pants off any faster. He just studies the desperate look on your face before encompassing your waist in his strong arms, barely brushing his lips against yours as he leans in.
“Tell me,” he whispers against your cheek, breathing hard, “tell me how bad you fucking want me.”
“Francisco,” you plead, throwing your head back as you press your pussy to the front of his jeans--which look so strained it definitely can’t be comfortable, “I’ve wanted it for years. Thought about you every time I t-touched myself, imagined it was you. Even when we were working, I…I couldn’t control myself.”
A pause.
And then...
“Fuck,” he swears, abs clenching as he resists thrusting against you again. The tension is quite literally killing you.
“Say it again,” he bites out, sounding genuinely pained.
“Say what, Frankie?” you act coyly, trying to cross your legs.
He rejects the movement, forcefully shoving your knees to the ground with his hands so he can look at how your puffy, glistening pussy drips in the dim moonlight of the tent.
“You know what.”
He doesn’t meet your eyes, and you can barely breathe as you will your tongue to shape the letters.
“Every time I t-touched myself, I imagined it was you…”
You can feel how red you go at the words themselves, but Frankie’s reaction makes up for the embarrassment. He straightens at once, shoving his hips forwards with a curse as he slaps the inside of your thigh.
The sound is too loud, especially when your friends are sleeping just a few feet over, but the way your cunt floods itself with wetness at the sting distracts you from how wrong this all is.
“Mala,” he growls, throwing his shirt to the ground as he furiously fiddles with the buttons on his jeans, “Fuckin’ need me so bad you can’t fucking contain yourself. Got your panties all wet just for me--bad girl.”
You watch his muscles strain, his hair sticking to his forehead with sweat, and you want nothing more than to lick your way up every inch of his skin until he’s begging for your pussy.
“Take your pants off,” you start, only to reiterate with more urgency as your move to help him rip off the offending article, “Take your fucking pants off.”
Together, with your uncoordinated fumbling in the dark, manage to get the jeans off, and you have to bite your lip just to hold in the sound you make when you take in just the sheer size of him. Fuck, you could cum just thinking about it.
“Please,” you whine, panting harder and harder and Frankie pushes you back with a hand between your breasts and the other on the base of his dick. You eagerly pull your thighs to your chest in presentation, and revel in the sound of his harsh breaths in the darkness.
And suddenly, he’s pushing into you. You moan loudly at the stretch, feeling all of your muscles clamp down on him immediately. Without any preparation, the sensation is brutal and you feel tears spring to your eyes. But, fuck, it’s so good. He’s straining where he holds himself up, trying not to move so you can get used to how he feels inside of you, eyes closed in bliss.
“So t-tight, querida,” he groans in a whisper as his head drops, hips on the back of your thighs now. You whimper and shudder when you look down, noticing his pelvis is already wet with your arousal.
“Move, Frankie,” you beg him, voice suddenly all too high.
With the first thrust, it’s more like he’s shattering the world itself rather than fucking you. It’s everything.
“Oh, f-fuck,” he bites out, shallowly pushing back in and out, reaching a thumb out to touch your clit. You moan at the sensation, feeling him touch every inch inside of you, feeling like your insides themselves are on fire with his every pass.
The black curls at the base of his dick push against your skin with every thrust, his sweat-slick hands grip your hips uselessly, and his eyes flutter with pleasure. You reach out for him, pushing your pussy up against him just to hear the way he groans with it, and fucks into you a bit harder. You try to reach out for him, but he slaps the hand away, using one of his to restrain you once again while he ducks to bite at your nipples.
You whine at the feeling, eyes shocking wide as you feel an orgasm creeping up quick on you. Every breath of yours is punctuated with stiff, high wails, muscles locked just so Frankie can slam his hips back in between your legs once again. The feeling of him inside you, fingers against your clit, mouth on your tits--it all becomes indistinguishable.
It’s one entity. A never-ending warmth that bubbles over in your stomach as the sound of skin slapping against skin amplifies the lonely atmosphere. It’s hot--so unbearably hot in the tent, but you wouldn’t trade it for anything.
When suddenly, Frankie pauses, shoving your legs higher up on his hips and raising onto his arms.
“You feel so good, querida. Such a sweet, little pussy.”
He kisses your cheek one more time before he lines himself back up and pushes in again. You stall your breath as he presses right into that spot inside of you. And you just about lose it right then and there.
You can’t keep your noises to yourself any longer as he pounds into you, wetness leaking around him with every grueling push, your hands shaking where they fly to hold onto his shoulders.
“Oh--oh fuck, querida,” he chuckles with a grunt, never easing his pace, “You’re so fucking wet. ‘Gonna make me…”
“Frankie,” you say probably a little too loudly, but you’re so close you can’t care any longer. You drag your nails down his shoulder blades, and he has to use his hands to push your legs apart when they try to slam closed around him. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t waver, doesn’t spare another second. He just keeps rocking your world, and maybe you’d be more careful about how loud you’re moaning, but you can’t think past anything but Francisco Morales, his cock, and how much you regret not doing this earlier.
That is, until the sound of a zipper has the both of you gasping. Frankie shoves you underneath him in a hurry, guarding you with his body against the tent ground like it would somehow hide the compromising position if anyone happened to walk in. Your breaths bleed together and everything stills.
The sound of footfalls in the fallen leaves outside leave your heart pounding, and you can feel the way Frankie tenses against you.
“Frankie?” Santiago’s sleep-gruff voice calls out, and the man swears against your neck.
“Yeah?” he manages, trying not to sound too out of breath, what with his dick harder than it’s ever been and the woman of his dreams tucked underneath him.
“¿Estas bien, hermano? I thought I heard you cry out or something...” thankfully, Santiago sounds half-asleep and doesn’t move to open the tent flap; you grip Frankie’s shoulders like a lifeline.
“Si, todo esta bien,” he answers calmly, but you can feel his lungs stutter against you, “I just had a nightmare...I’m fine now, though.”
“Y’sure?” you roll your eyes at Santi’s insistence, desperate to pick up where you left off, “‘Sounded kinda rough for a second there.”
You raise your hips to reposition yourself, and Frankie’s dick twitches inside of you. You can feel his balls tighten where they’re pressed into your skin, and you bite back a grin. You repeat the movement just to watch the veins in his neck bulge.
“I’m sure,” Frankie grits out, sounding absolutely infuriated. Hopefully Santiago isn’t awake enough to capture the emotion.
“Alright,” you hear him yawn outside the tent and stifle a giggle when Frankie’s fingers dig into your hip in warning, “G’night, Frankie.”
“Night, Santi,” he says, body stock still and flushed. Meanwhile, you’re still wiggling beneath him, whimpering quietly against his shoulder as you brush over his back, sinking down on his dick a little further, just to feel the way his abs clench against your stomach.
Santiago’s footsteps fade away, and without missing a beat, Frankie’s hand wraps around your throat to shove you back against the floor…and it’s like you were never interrupted in the first place. He stands tall on his hunches, using his weight to pin you down and force you to take him fast and hard. Your hands shakily wrap around his wrist, unable to make a noise with the restraints.
“Fuckin’ slut,” he growls, pistoning into your cunt, wetness splattering onto the ground with every brutal thrust, “Rubbing up on me just to watch me slip up in front of my friend. ‘Couldn’t fuckin’ wait, could you?”
You shake your head no, feeling your orgasm just seconds away, frozen with the overwhelming feeling of him absolutely mounting you.
He watches your face with interest, groaning when you clench around him. He falters, and the facade drops. His rhythm loses its way, and he’s hardly pulling out anymore, just rutting into your pussy as hard as you’ll let him.
“Cum for me, querida,” he whispers against your lips, swallowing a moan before kissing your cheek clumsily, “L-let me have it, baby.”
And that’s all it takes. White explodes behind your eyes, and your arch up against his chest, pushing all the way down his shaft with a shrill gasp. Frankie chokes at the sudden tightness, using his hands to lock your hips against his pelvis, shoving your body up on the ground with desperate, forceful grinds. You moan long when he cums with you, filling you up with warmth deep inside.
In the morning, you’ll lament the mess leaking out of you and your ruined panties...but in the moment, it’s everything you need.
Frankie collapses against you with a grunt, and you bury your hands in his hair one last time. Without even thinking, your lips connect once again. This time, it’s sweet and slow, as if you’ve been doing it for years rather than hours. Well, perhaps there’s something to be said about making up for lost time.
You pull back to look him in the eye, taking in his frizzy hair and swollen lips. You huff out a small laugh as you lean up to kiss him on the cheek, and he just holds you a little closer. He presses his forehead into yours as he turns you on your side, making sure to stay inside of you as he cuddles up to your chest.
“You think Santiago will realize what happened by morning?” you whisper sometime later, once again petting Frankie’s hair now that you know how wonderful it feels between your fingers.
He groans and buries his face in the valley of your breasts, “Don’t fucking remind me. The idiot’ll have my balls in the morning for waking him up that late just ‘cause we were being too loud.”
“You’ll survive,” you say with a chuckle, and settle back into the blankets on the tent floor. Frankie makes a noncommittal, sleepy sound, and you submit to the pull of sleep before the commotion of the morning begins.