Permission and plans

The sun hadn’t fully risen when I woke the next morning, the apartment dim and still quiet. I heard Vince’s voice in the other room, low and serious. I stayed in bed, listening.

“…Yeah,” Vince was saying into the phone to Bob—my brother. “I know. I wouldn’t be asking if it didn’t matter. I just—look, I’m not doing it tomorrow, or anything. But someday. I want your blessing to ask her to marry me.”

He paused, and I could hear the nervous shift in his weight, the way he paced when something mattered.

“Thanks, man. That means a lot.”

Obviously, I couldn’t hear what Bob said, but Vince’s tone was pleased—almost relieved. I smiled quietly into the pillow, heart fluttering. He was thinking about forever.

Around 7 AM, as I drifted in and out of sleep, I heard Vince make another call—this time to his friend, who also happened to be my boss.

“Hey. Yeah, I wanted to catch you early. Deppgrl and I are going away—twelve or thirteen days. When she comes back, I want her to have a raise.”

He paused again.

“Yeah. She deserves it. She works her ass off and I don’t want her coming back to the same old nonsense.”

By the time he hung up, I had slipped back into sleep again.

When I finally woke around 9, Vince was already dressed and sipping coffee with a cocky smile.

“Morning, beautiful,” he said. “Hope you’re in the mood for palm trees and tequila.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Pack your bag,” he grinned. “We’re going to Puerto Vallarta.”

Packing was a giddy mess—me rushing around tossing bikinis, soft cotton dresses, lacy underwear, sandals, sunscreen, sunglasses into a bag while Vince kept slipping in extra bottles of SPF and smirking like he had plans for me. He stood behind me while I bent over the suitcase, his hand sliding along my hip to palm my ass.

“You really think we’ll need this much sunscreen?” I teased.

“Maybe not,” he murmured in my ear. “But I’m planning on touching every inch of you. Might as well make it safe.”

The flight was indulgent—first class, champagne, the seats fully reclined. He watched me with soft eyes and a wicked smile while I dozed, legs tangled over his. His fingers never stopped tracing lazy shapes into my thigh.

Once we landed, a private driver took us straight to a hidden bungalow wrapped in trees and dappled in sunlight. It was secluded, peaceful, and ice-cold inside—everything we needed to get lost in each other.

Every day, we walked down to the beach. Vince made sure I was shaded, hydrated, coated in sunscreen. He’d adjust my chair, make me sip water, and always—always—look at me like I was the only woman alive. His hands wandered when he rubbed in the lotion. His mouth wandered even more. And I let him.

And we fucked. Constantly.

The cabana on the beach was our sanctuary. Gauzy curtains surrounded the padded bed, filtering light and sound, but not nearly enough to muffle me. Or him.

One afternoon, I was still glistening with saltwater when Vince pulled me onto the lounge chair, knelt between my legs, and devoured my pussy with a groan like he hadn’t eaten in days. I came fast and loud. He groaned, then stood, yanked down his swim trunks, and thrust into me in one brutal stroke.

We were too far gone to care who heard us. My moans echoed. His grunts turned to gasps, then curses. He grabbed my hips and fucked me into the cushion, hard and filthy, until he was shaking and coming deep inside me with a strangled shout.

Nights were for candlelit dinners at rooftop restaurants—cascading bougainvillea, Spanish guitar, glowing lanterns. We laughed, drank too much, kissed like no one was watching. And then went back to the bungalow and tore into each other like animals.

That night, after dinner, I was lying naked on the bed, skin flushed, hair damp from a quick shower. Vince stood at the edge, eyes devouring me. He traced the tan lines across my chest with his mouth, then moved lower, teasing my nipples until I was gasping and trembling beneath him.

“God, I love the way you respond to me,” he whispered against my skin.

He kissed me hard, then slid between my thighs—mounting me, taking me in one long, deep thrust.

I cried out, wrapping my legs around his waist as he rocked into me with raw urgency. His hands braced beside my head. My nails raked down his back.

“You like this?” he grunted. “You want me to ride you just like this?”

“Yes,” I gasped. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”

We moved together wildly. His thrusts grew harder, deeper. The bed shook. My moans turned to screams. Vince’s grunts turned ragged, until he was shouting, breaking apart inside me with a hoarse cry.

I came seconds after—spasming, trembling, sobbing his name like a prayer. We didn’t stop. We couldn’t. We fucked through the night, through sweat and laughter and whispered filth. On the bed, on the couch, on the floor, in the shower, on the patio.

He mounted me again in the morning. Took me in the shower that afternoon. Bent me over the sink, pinned me to the door, fucked me slow, fucked me fast. We lost count.

It was gluttonous, messy, beautiful.

We fucked our way through Puerto Vallarta.

When we returned—sun-kissed, dazed, and sore—I unpacked at Vince’s place, humming quietly. Then I saw it.

My birth control pack.

Still full. Still here. Sitting neatly beside the sink.

I picked it up, my pulse immediately spiking.

Thirteen days. Gone. Unprotected.

He hadn’t pulled out. Not once.

Tears welled before I could stop them. My hands trembled. I sat on the edge of the bed, holding the packet, chest tightening.

Vince walked in just as I broke.

“Hey—what happened?” he asked, instantly alert.

I looked up at him, blinking hard. “I… I forgot. I was so excited to go, I didn’t even realize I never packed my birth control. Vince—I was ovulating.”

He stared at me for a long moment. Then came closer, crouched down, his expression serious but calm.

“Okay,” he said, voice low. “Whatever happens, I’m here. I’ll support whatever you decide. No pressure. No bullshit. You’re not alone.”

As he said it, I couldn’t help noticing—his cock was hard. So hard it was pressing against the seam of his shorts.

I stared at his cock and then back at him. “Take your clothes off.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Take them off. Now. I want you to ride me.”

His eyes darkened immediately. “Jesus Christ, baby…”

I stripped while he did, and then we collided. He pushed me back onto the bed and mounted me roughly, sliding inside my swollen pussy in one fluid thrust like he belonged there.

We fucked hard, everywhere. For hours.

On the bed. Against the dresser. In the hallway. On the stairs.

His hands in my hair, my mouth on his throat, our bodies crashing together with wild, desperate heat.

He rode me like it was the last time. Like it was the only time. Like it meant everything.

And it did.

Because it might’ve meant more than either of us was ready to admit.