Lover To Lover, a White Collar fanfiction.
May. 2nd, 2016 09:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
s2309Title: Lover To Lover
Characters (Pairings): Alex Hunter
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 235
Disclaimer: White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
Summary: France is the best lover she's found in a while.
Author's Note: For Day 2 of The Merry Month of Masturbation. Title's from the song of the same name by Florence + the Machine.
She's been making sweet love to France all summer long.
Okay, no, she's been making sweet love to herself. But France helped. (Probably.) She's been hopping from city to city, looking for an undefinable something, when she should have stayed put in Sardinia.
Retirement's starting to look like a bad idea.
But right now, she's in Saint-Tropez, at one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, lying half in, half out of the water.
The water is a gentle lover at this distance. It brushes against her skin and relaxes her body. All except for her breasts. They're itching like ants decided to feast on them.
She undoes her bikini top, disgusted, and flings it somewhere onto the beach behind her.
Much better. She sighs as a wave laps at her tender breasts. Salty as it is, the water does its best to soothe the itch.
She closes her eyes and decides to give the ocean a helping hand or two.
She isn't in the mood for much, so she just brushes her hands across her bare skin and enjoys the tendrils of pleasure reaching towards her spine, overpowering the itch, finally letting her lie there, completely calm.
She could spend hours like this.
Maybe I should move out of that villa in Sardinia.
(She shuts up the voice in her head that tells her Sardinia's an island with its fair share of beaches.)
Characters (Pairings): Alex Hunter
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 235
Disclaimer: White Collar is Jeff Eastin's brainchild. Not mine.
Summary: France is the best lover she's found in a while.
Author's Note: For Day 2 of The Merry Month of Masturbation. Title's from the song of the same name by Florence + the Machine.
She's been making sweet love to France all summer long.
Okay, no, she's been making sweet love to herself. But France helped. (Probably.) She's been hopping from city to city, looking for an undefinable something, when she should have stayed put in Sardinia.
Retirement's starting to look like a bad idea.
But right now, she's in Saint-Tropez, at one of the most beautiful beaches in the world, lying half in, half out of the water.
The water is a gentle lover at this distance. It brushes against her skin and relaxes her body. All except for her breasts. They're itching like ants decided to feast on them.
She undoes her bikini top, disgusted, and flings it somewhere onto the beach behind her.
Much better. She sighs as a wave laps at her tender breasts. Salty as it is, the water does its best to soothe the itch.
She closes her eyes and decides to give the ocean a helping hand or two.
She isn't in the mood for much, so she just brushes her hands across her bare skin and enjoys the tendrils of pleasure reaching towards her spine, overpowering the itch, finally letting her lie there, completely calm.
She could spend hours like this.
Maybe I should move out of that villa in Sardinia.
(She shuts up the voice in her head that tells her Sardinia's an island with its fair share of beaches.)
