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The restorative power of doing absolutely fucking nothing is not to be understated.
Gerri finally admits to herself that she’s glad Roman convinced her to take this trip with him. She rolled her eyes at his assertion that they needed to “recharge” after the summer (sure, she did need to recharge, but of the two of them, she was probably the only one, because she actually had a job), but acquiesced when he mentioned it might be nice to be out of the city for Labor Day.
Reclined in a soft chaise lounge under a covered cabana, with a martini in one hand and a book in the other, she’s finding it unbelievable she ever didn’t want to come out here. On their own island, with their own small staff, it’s the closest she’s felt to bliss in years.
Her travel companion isn’t so bad either.
She watches in amusement as Roman occupies himself in the ocean. He pouted when she shooed him away to burn off some energy, but seems to be enjoying himself now just fine. Diving in and out of waves, he looks free.
“If you give a puppy some pussy..." and all that.
After his third or fourth glance at her, he exits the ocean and half-jogs his way up the beach toward her. Halfway back, he shakes water out of his hair, smiling like a wet dog who just ran through a sprinkler. The sight causes her chest to ache with a crushing amount of affection, reminding her just why she allowed this weird little freak to sweep her away (not that a reminder was ever needed). He plops down next to her on the chaise, causing droplets of water to land on her warm, dry skin. She scrunches her nose in mock disgust, coming across more cute than scary if he’s being honest, and looks at him disapprovingly over the top of her sunglasses.
“Sorry,” he says, but certainly doesn’t mean it, as he then presses nearly all of his soaking wet body against her to reach over her and grab his phone. She flinches at the cold, and wants to be annoyed or angry or something other than incredibly fond, but any ire melts away as quickly as it came when he retreats and places a sweet (tender? dare she say loving?) kiss to the corner of her mouth before settling back next to her—close, but not touching.
They sit like that for a bit, in a companionable silence while she reads and he scrolls on his phone. She’s not really paying attention to what he’s doing, so she doesn’t realize when he loses focus on whatever it is he’s doing and finds himself completely focused on her instead. Phone discarded, he snuggles closer to Gerri, the shocking chill and slickness of the ocean water long gone from the heat of the day, allowing him to press his body against her side. His cheek rests on her arm, his body angled into her side. He wishes he could burrow his whole self inside of her—crawl into her body at her hips and pitch a tent (or a mansion or a villa or a small metropolitan city) and live there.
She’s so warm, so solid against him, but he still needs her closer. He reaches his arm around and grabs her low on her hip. The grip allows him to pull her towards him, which elicits a soft gasp from Gerri, though she doesn’t look up from her book. Soon, he starts drawing shapes and writing words with his fingers on her bare thigh, invisible to her except for the sensation she feels in their wake. It sends pleasure shooting through her, and she wonders not for the first time how such an innocuous act could have such an impact on her, but only at the hands of Roman Roy.
It doesn’t take long for him to increase his efforts and employ the use of his mouth. That beautiful (talented, infuriating, exasperating, etc.) mouth. He starts peppering kisses up her arm and shoulder, each one increasing in intensity. When he reaches her neck, he sucks and nips at her flesh, swirling his tongue up and down against the tendons there. She leans into his touch, head lolling to the side to give him access to more skin. Her book ends up face down on the table next to her, as do her sunglasses, and any pretense of her not being interested in his advances is gone out the window the second she sighs and lets her eyes close. Emboldened by her response, he slides his hand up her thigh, over her hip, and around her waist, resting at the base of her spine. This position allows him to once again pull her towards him, giving him the perfect opportunity to get closer to her chest.
He brings his kisses to the front of her neck and travels down her sternum, igniting sparks on her skin as he goes. She arches her back, pushing her body into his touch, and he eagerly increases his enthusiasm as he kisses the top of each breast. She tastes like salt and the sea and artificial coconut and he might actually die from how starving he is for her.
She matches his lust; she desperately needs him everywhere, all over her, touching as much of her as possible. He’s so good, is always so good to her, paying attention and taking care of her because he wants to and not because he wants her to return the favor. When he looks at her, touches her, breathes near her it’s obvious that he is utterly devoted to her in a way she’s never known before. The power she has over him is intoxicating, but what is almost more thrilling is that he trusts her not to abuse it.
An ache creeps into her back from being in this position but she would quite honestly rather die than separate herself from his mouth, so she uses her free arm to sit up and swing her leg over his waist. She pulls herself onto his lap as he rolls onto his back. He takes a moment to situate them better on the lounge (a consideration many men in her past would not have taken), adjusting her position on his lap and his hold on her, but wary of jostling her too much. His careful movements cause emotion to flood her chest and her eyes, and she kisses him deeply as he leans against the back of the chair.
This is one of his favorite positions for them. Her weight keeps him centered, grounded, and (and this one is important for sex) out of his fucking head. He feels safe and calm with her on top of him, settled in his lap like a hot, scary lawyer monkey. It also secures him in place, keeping him at her mercy, which he knows gets her jazzed.
She relaxes into him, falling forward and pressing her chest against his. He loves when she pins him down like this. His hands move from bracketing her waist to resting on either hip, thumbs digging into the fold of skin where her thigh meets her torso. He kneads and squeezes the flesh there as they kiss, rubbing up and down and left and right all over every part of her that he can touch like he’s going for the world record for Square Footage Covered By Greedy Little Hands. He decides to convert to whichever God told Gerri to wear this swimsuit because her entire exposed upper back might actually make him believe.
It’s a little annoying for Gerri, because even in this position, she ends up arching into him again, grinding her pelvis down toward his. Roman pulls her closer and slides his hands down and around her ass as she moves above him. Their tongues wrestle in each other’s mouths for seconds before Gerri drags her hands up Roman’s shoulders and plants one at either side of his neck. Gently, she applies a bit of pressure to the middle of his throat. Without hesitation, Roman moans into their kiss, satisfaction oozing from the sound.
His hands move of their own accord from under her to the backs of her thighs. He remembers how, when this first started, and they finally saw each other, she timidly moved his hands from certain areas whenever they were together. They were too soft, she’d said, which bothered Roman because how could something too soft be bad? He didn’t understand, couldn’t fathom how someone could look at her curves and contours and think anything other than how badly they wanted to bite into her. Not, like, in a cannibal way. But fuck, he would want to devour her, and he doesn’t want anyone else to, but he does want everyone else to want to.
Speaking of devouring, he’s suddenly painfully reminded of how hungry he is. For her. Right now.
He holds her to him with his left hand and brings his right between them, palming her through her swimsuit. He tries to go further, getting so far as to have hooked his finger inside the material, but Gerri lowers her hand to his, stilling his movements.
“Absolutely not,” she whispers against his mouth. He actually groans as if she’s physically harmed him when she takes his hand and places it back around her waist.
“Gerri,” he whines, and oh, if she had just a bit less self-control, she would let this little weirdo fuck her on this beach. Maybe next year.
As of now, she has a certain standard.
“I’m not fucking you anywhere there’s a non-zero chance of me ending up with sand in my vagina.”
A laugh—loud and boisterous and happy and everything his father never wanted him to be—escapes out of him, and he flops his head back. Slowly, his hands start rubbing up and down her waist, the rhythmic motion lulling her further into relaxation.
“Fuck, that’s fair. Okay. So, yeah, next time I’ll just bring my pussy. Not a problem,” he says, voice smooth as honey on her skin. She chuckles despite herself. Neither one of them seems particularly interested in separating, and her knees haven’t begun to ache, so she cuddles closer to him, tucking one arm under her cheek and the other with her palm on Roman’s heart. Just because it’s the most comfortable position to be in. She closes her eyes, head nestled on Roman’s clavicle, and hovers in that comfortable daze between sleep and consciousness. Roman clasps his hands at the base of Gerri’s spine and does the same.
He feels his phone vibrate next to him, pulls it out and squints at the screen to see a text from Shiv. Once he opens the message, he’s greeted with a picture of his niece, mid-squirm and clothed in the onesie he bought her (it’s a dark burgundy color, with loopy, embossed white script across the front that says i’m the reason my mom is a MILF) (if pressed, Roman will insist it was a gag gift). He smiles to himself. Ugh. His sister made a cute fucking kid.
“Hey,” he says, turning the phone toward Gerri so she can see more clearly. “Baby proof of life.”
And, yeah, she’ll admit that something tugs on her heart when she looks down at the picture on his screen. She’s not unfeeling—she, too, once felt the all-encompassing love a mother feels once she finally looks at her own child’s face—and, besides, the Roy family has some good genes, which seem to have stomped out any evidence of Tom from showing up in the baby’s appearance, thank god.
“Oh, that little pout,” Gerri coos, using her fingers to zoom in (saying nothing of the wardrobe choice, surely finding it unsurprising because she was with Roman when he bought it) (there is also no mention of Roman’s reply which reads titties or gtfo. Though he did react to the photo with a heart, so she’s proud of him for that). She notes the baby’s slightly upturned nose and high, round cheeks. “She looks just like Shiv.”
Roman snorts. “Let’s hope it fucking stays that way.”
Gerri hums in agreement. From the slow way she’s blinking, Roman can tell she’s about to fall asleep. This is a vacation, and he thinks she should be allowed to take a nap if she needs to, even if she hates displaying any kind of vulnerability. He tosses his phone to somewhere down by his knee and brings his arms back around her.
He holds her until she falls into a peaceful sleep. He thinks maybe there’s a metaphor in that.