Playboy Splash - Episode 1

A man in crisp white swim trunks stepped out of the ocean and shook the salt from his hair. Water streamed down his chest and pooled at the edge of the fabric where it met his thighs. The sun pressed warm against his skin, catching on beads of moisture that slid lower, lower still, until they disappeared beneath the drawstring. Another man watched him from the shade of the palm, hand resting against his own thigh, fingers curled just shy of his zipper. The first man smiled, slow and deliberate, then tugged the string loose. His trunks slid an inch, the wet cotton clinging, the outline of him unmistakable against the fabric. He didn’t fix them. The second man stood. Walked over. Close enough to smell salt and citrus and sweat. He hooked a single finger under the waistband and eased it lower, exposing the pale skin beneath the tan line. The trunks dropped to the sand. The man in the shade dropped to his knees. Wet heat. Tongue flat. Hands gripping hips hard enough to leave prints. The man above hissed, then laughed low in his throat, fingers threading through damp hair, guiding but not forcing. The rhythm built, steady, obscene in its wet sounds and the soft creak of knees against driftwood. When he came it was sudden, thighs shaking, a choked sound swallowed by the crash of the next wave. Later, they lay tangled on a towel, limbs sticky with salt and come, the sun already shifting west. One lit a cigarette. The other traced idle circles on bare skin. Neither spoke. Neither needed to.