The rooftop was only the warm-up.
What started as rhythm turned into recklessness…
And the time our bodies caught up to our mouths, it was too late to call anything casual.
The music faded. The crowd disappeared.
But us?
We were locked in—breath to breath, want to want.
It wasn’t just lust.
It was recognition.
The kind that doesn’t ask—just takes.
And baby, we let it.
The Room (Kind Of)
We didn’t make it to the bed.
First: the patio table—me bent over it, palms flat, his hands gripping my hips like prayer. The stars didn’t blink. They watched. The night air slicked my skin and made every gasp echo like a confession.
Then: the bathroom mirror—he turned me toward it, kissed the sweat at my temple, and said:
“Watch how good it looks when you stop pretending you don’t need this.”
I tried to watch.
Mouth open. Eyes heavy.
He didn’t flinch when I told him what I wanted.
He delivered it with purpose.
Finally: the cool tile floor—because the bed felt too civilized for what we were doing. I wrapped my legs around his back, pulled him deeper, harder, until my moans turned into something guttural. Something ancient. Something unshackled.
He kissed like a man who memorized my laugh before he ever tasted my skin.
He said my name like it was a secret he wasn’t supposed to know.
He pulled my hair, then apologized into my mouth, then did it again when I said don’t you f’ckin stop.
And when he went down on me?
It wasn’t gentle.
It was grateful.
Worshipful.
Filthy in the most respectful way.
Like he’d been waiting to thank me for years.
And I let him.
All of me.
Twice before I even took off my earrings.
Three times before I even thought to ask his room number.
We left handprints on the glass.
Toe prints on the walls.
A memory on the mirror I wouldn’t be able to wipe clean if I tried.
The Morning After
I woke up sore, sticky, and smug.
There was a towel under my hips.
The fan was still on high.
The fruit plate? Half-eaten, mango juice drying like a second skin on the rim.
And Rhys?
He was sitting at the edge of the bed, already halfway dressed. The sun hadn’t even cleared the horizon.
Neither of us meant for him to stay.
But whatever we did last night?
It knocked us both into a coma.
He caught me watching him.
Smiled—slow, crooked, knowing.
Ran a hand over his face and said:
“You needed that.”
I stretched. Grinned.
“So did you. No strings. No shame.”
He nodded—like that was the final line of an agreement we both signed in sweat.
Then he kissed my ankle, grabbed his sandals, and walked out like a man who returned a favor—not asked for a sequel.
After he walked out,
I laughed.
Not because it was funny.
But because it was mine.
I did that.
Corrine Ellis.
Queen of PTO calendars, benefits binders, and showing up five minutes early with a backup charger.
Out here in Tulum—
getting her back blown out by a travel client with a tattoo of a hummingbird and hands like redemption.
And I didn’t regret a damn second.
Corrine’s Confession
Tulum didn’t fix me.
It reminded me who the hell I was.
Rhys wasn’t a mistake.
He was a spark.
A sweaty little reminder that I still got it.
I wasn’t trying to be reckless.
Just tired of feeling invisible… and “fine.”
And what I felt?
Was heat.
Real heat.
The kind that makes you arch, moan, and remember your name.
So no… I don’t regret it.
Not one bite of mango.
Not one arch of my back.
Not one breathless moment on tile.
Maybe I’m heading into a hoe phase.
Or at least… hoe-adjacent.
Either way—
If pleasure is the path to healing,
I’m finally on my way.
Let’s Talk
Think you saw that coming? Drop your prediction in the comments—I want the receipts.
And if you didn’t even try to guess…
Tell me this instead:
Have you ever had a night that made no damn sense on paper, but somehow healed something you didn’t even know was bleeding?
Drop it in the comments.
Let’s unpack the mess—cocktails in hand, truth on the table.