—𓏲𑁘 Damian yachting with his ridiculously spoiled wife
The Italian coast glittered around you. The sun turning the white cliffs and water to diamonds.
The sea was impossibly blue, bright enough to burn through your closed eyelids. You had melted bonelessly into the vinyl cushions at the bow with no intention of moving. Not from the overwhelming heat. The sun was warming its way through your skin to the marrow of you, turning your body loose and golden and heavy.
You were too hot. Overheated, definitely. Your breathing had gone shallow from it.
But it felt so good.
Eventually, you would roll off the side of the anchored yacht like some dramatic, half-dead thing and crash into the water to cool yourself down.
For now, you were content to sun like a spoiled lizard.
Till a shadow fell over you.
You did not open your eyes.
“You’re going to burn,” Damian said. “When’s the last time you applied sunscreen or drank water?”
“Mm.”
There was a disapproving sound above you. A click of his tongue. The sound your long-suffering husband always made when you were being unreasonable on purpose.
Then his hands were on you.
You whined, immediately going limp in protest. “Nooo, ’m all sweaty.”
He ignored you, of course. Gathered you to him with appalling ease, as if you were not a grown woman but some indignant cat. You made yourself dead weight just to be difficult, and he handled you anyway. He settled against the cushioned backrest and arranged you so you were lying atop him, front to his bare chest. His heartbeat slow under your squished cheek.
You huffed but made no attempt to move.
He tugged the strings of your bikini top, tossing the pesky thing away so he could run his broad hand lazily up and down the length of your spine uninterrupted.
“Open, beloved.”
You opened your mouth without opening your eyes to see what it was.
Blood orange burst over your tongue, sharply sweet and cold. Juice ran down the corner of your mouth before you could catch it.
Damian simply ducked his head, licking the red trail clean for you.
“Greedy,” you mumbled. Your eyes opened halfway to look up at him.
“My wife makes restraint difficult.” He placed another slice between his teeth and leaned close enough to make you lift your head for it. You took it from his mouth, licking your lips.
You inspected the plate that sat beside you. Washed fruit, cut neat and pretty because he had no capacity to do anything carelessly. “Cherries next.” You demanded, because you had him wrapped around your finger and you both knew it.
And next came black cherries, dark and glossy as polished stones and already pitted. He hand-fed them to you one by one, letting your lips brush his fingertips every time. Crisp pears, cold and pale. Then blood orange again, peeled and segmented, ruby-bright and dripping between his fingers. He ate what you did not, had you lick the juice from his now sticky fingers, and kept his other possessive hand spread across the bare, sun-hot skin of your back.
Waves licked at the sides of the yacht and the whole world smelled like salt, sweat, citrus, and him.
You were still too hot. Still drowsy with it. Half-planning your escape to slip into the water.
But Damian’s chest rose and fell beneath you, steady and hot. His mouth pressed once to the crown of your head. His muscular arms wrapped around you, as if he had all the time in the world to keep you exactly where he wanted you.
So, you closed your eyes again.
WC: 619 (drabble)
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