Day 14 of Rickation 2026: Sex on the Beach🏖️
Author's Note: We've made it to the end of the event! Thank you so much to everyone who participated! A special thanks to @deepperplexity, who has written an amazing new series, and helped launch the first-ever Summer Rickation! I will be coming out soon with an exit poll of the event to learn what went well and what should be tweaked for next year (creators are always welcome to DM me with their input!). Once again, thank you everyone!
My requests are now officially open (my box is still empty atm!) although I expect to be slow this week after finishing up the event.
It felt so good to write for Sinclair again, guys; it's been far too long...
Character(s): Sinclair Bryant x Female Reader
Summary: While traveling for a work conference, a tipsy Sinclair finds himself at a bar with another woman. Conversation leads to you asking him to come back to your hotel room...it turns out the hotel is a little too far away...
Warning(s)‼️: Alcohol/Drinking. Drunk Sex. Beach Sex. PIV Sex. Sinclair with Low Self-Esteem.
Word Count: 2.6k
Read on AO3 or below the break:
Sinclair Bryant was well past the age when getting plastered after a business meeting was socially acceptable.
But Sinclair Bryant was far from home—the Virginian beach his company had chosen to locate their conference filled with upbeat music blaring from portable boomboxes, women in low-cut bikinis, and the sound of hundreds of people enjoying the last days of summer—before the calendar inevitably turned over.
He was slumped over the open bar—his cream-colored suit jacket gone—vanished to some location he had yet to bother to identify—too caught up was he in the darkness of self-pity. He was no closer to happiness six years after Natalie’s betrayal. The divorce—when it finally went through—had felt like a drug injected straight into his veins. Now he was left waiting for a high that would never come.
His wrist trembled, the crystal glass holding the dregs of his scotch on the rocks shaking emphatically—and he knew it was definitely time to call it a night—lest he end up in the wrong hotel room. The last thing he needed was his name in the papers—a disgraced man leading the Monday morning headlines.
A woman far younger than him sat one stool to his right, hair disheveled and makeup slightly smearing at the corners. He watched you order something that sounded distinctly American—gaudy, crass, and yet still appetizing—his brow rising without his permission when the brightly-colored drink was deposited before you by the bartender. He sipped the last of his whiskey without comment.
“Is it any good?” He slurred, sounding far from the posh, polished Englishman he was raised to be. You smiled, and he felt something deep within himself crack.
“That depends on how willing you are for the taste of oranges to stick on your tongue, and the eighties to stick on your mind.”
“I liked the eighties,” he mumbled, wistful. “I don’t ever remember having to deal with this much bullshit.” You snorted, sliding into the stool next to his, holding up your cocktail three-quarters of the way to his lips.
“Agreed—want a sip?” He stared down at the sugar-coated rim of your glass in disbelief—as if he did not believe the circumstance he was currently living in.
“Do you normally offer up your beverage to strange, foreign men?” You giggled, and his mind was suddenly put at ease, despite his lingering skepticism. The skepticism taught by the skeletons kept tightly locked in his closet.
“Only the cute ones—I’ve seen you before, at this resort. You’re with that English financial firm, yes?” He decided to ignore the compliment—it was easier to accept that he had imagined the words in his hazy, drunken state. Or perhaps you were in need of a stronger optical prescription.
“Unfortunately.” He leaned forward, his cold fingers brushing against your warm hand holding the glass as he took a sip. “Bloody hell, that’s delicious—I’ll have—what’s the ridiculous name of it?”
“Sex on the Beach,” you proudly answered, smiling good-naturedly at his excitement.
“I’ll have a glass of Sex on the Beach, then!”
An identical cocktail was placed before him, and Sinclair began to eagerly down the sweet concoction.
“May I ask the name of my drinking partner?” You asked, interestedly, but he was far too distracted by the alcohol to notice.
“Sinclair. Sinclair Bryant.” You chuckled, though not unkindly. Finding your drink drained, you waved your hand at the bartender for another.
“That sounds so…regal.” You stared at his handsome features—slightly unkempt dirty blond hair, Roman nose, sharp hazel eyes the color of sunlight hitting the ocean waters in the shallows. Sinclair was blissfully unaware of your examination. “My name is Y/N, Y/N L/N.”
“That sounds so…pretty. Like one of those best-selling novels where everything comes together perfectly—where everyone’s all content.”
“You read?” You questioned, excited. It was very rare for you to come across well-read men in your travels. Sinclair looked at you as if you had started speaking a completely different language.
“Anything I can get my hands on,” he slurred, and you noticed his drink was already gone. “Although I prefer mysteries and—and b–bio–biographies.” Sinclair was more than a little tipsy, your own head feeling too light as you started on your second.
It was probably too early—probably ill-advised to ask of a man you’d known for less than an hour—but the liquid courage combined with something sitting in your gut eerily close to fate persuaded you to ask your loaded question to Sinclair—a man who seemed not to realize how impressive he actually was. “Would you like to spend the night in my hotel room?” You bit your lip, holding your breath in, fingers crossed hidden underneath the bar-top.
Sinclair felt his vision blacken at the edges, felt his stomach drop, and the earlier crack near his chest shattered in a bazillion pieces. A pretty woman was asking him out—a pretty woman was asking him out, and he hadn’t said yes yet. He had been mid-sip in his drink—the alcohol burning as it went down the wrong pipe. He coughed, eyes watering, mentally praying you did not immediately rescind your invitation. Oh, how embarrassing would that be? “Yes,” he choked out, clearing his throat with another sip as he wiped the salty tears he had not permitted to run down his cheeks.
He only hoped he did not cock-up this night.
Then again, the night was still young.
The beach was dark—the beach was uncomfortably dark—and he was uncomfortably drunk at the moment. He hadn’t minded the two extra drinks he had ordered at the time—it gave him an excuse to continue the lively conversation and prevent your inevitable disappointment in him. But now, walking in a straight line was entirely impossible—the sand seemed to shift underneath him like–like—well, like waves of sand rolling in the breeze. What was difficult in the light of day and sans alcohol was now a Herculean task.
His foot shifted, body off-balance as he tumbled to the ground, cool sand falling down his shirt, down his trousers, and even further down his Oxfords. He was about to curse his luck, until he was stopped—your laugh in the moonlight darkness like another shot of whiskey to his system.
“Sorry,” you giggled, offering him a hand. Except your own balance was not much better—your body falling forward on top of his, as if it knew what you had been wanting since he sipped your proffered drink.
“Ouch,” he grunted, before breaking into raucous laughter—deep, manly, and sounding as if it had been ages since he had allowed himself to. You only wished the stars in the sky and the light from the crescent moon were brighter—wished the shadows were not so ink black—not so impenetrable.
“Oops,” you giggled, one hand shooting to grip his waist, the other carefully caressing his cheek, tenderly wiping his tears of silliness away.
“No harm, no foul,” he spoke, cool baritone voice coarse—sending a surge of arousal straight to your core. “Can’t believe I can’t make it two blocks to the bloody resort,” he muttered self-deprecatingly, your mind instantly sobering to a degree.
“It’s my fault—I ordered a drink too many and–and I’m sorry for making you feel like—”
“Don’t—I ought to know my limits.” He thickly swallowed, and you stroked the sandy hair from his eyes. “I rarely drink—couldn’t resist on my last night here.”
“Last night?” Your heart sank low into your stomach—like a rock thrown straight into the ocean waves, plummeting to the hard sea floor.
“Back to good-old London,” he half-sang, but there was no excitement, no fondness in the melody. “Yipee,” he flatly ended, and you couldn’t help the pang of jealousy curdling your belly.
“I’d give anything to go to London,” your voice softly danced in the short distance between the two of you, your legs still straddling Sinclair’s thighs. His fingers idly stroked your knee—gently fidgeting.
“You’re right, I shouldn’t complain. I’m–I’m a man of extraordinary privilege—but that doesn’t mean life’s piercing arrows don’t pain me—the wounds are easily cleaned, but the scars still sting all the same.” The fingers at your knee stopped, the small flecks of green visible in his hazel eyes as you stared.
He was daring you to do something—but what was a whole other question entirely. You hummed.
“Let me guess—your wounds were sustained fighting a losing battle with the opposite sex?” He grunted an affirmative, teeth biting his lower lip.
“Something like that, I suppose.” He paused, choosing his next words with intention. “No affection lost, I assure you,” and there was a harsh bleakness edging his tone that had never inhabited his tone before—a darkness you did not wish to hear again.
“I can help you forget.” His pulse beat like mad at his cheek—beat in time to the fast-paced rock you’d be listening to tomorrow on the shore when the man you had foolishly fallen for was halfway around the globe. “To hell with the hotel—I’m eager for another taste of sex on the beach.”
You held your breath, counting to ten until you were forced to count higher, simultaneously mentally cursing your forwardness. You could not even land yourself a one-night stand properly. Idiot.
“I’m not going to use you to forget,” he snapped, passionate, his cheek warm, pulse continuing to thrum quickly. “That’s—that’s indecent, but–but I’m not opposed to creating a new memory—a better memory—that won’t be relegated to the bin come Monday.” He was breathless, chest rapidly rising and falling, and reality seemed to crash like the waves against the rocks.
“So that’s a yes, pretty boy?” He looked at you strangely, hazel eyes dazed. “‘Cause I’ve been wanting to take this off all night.” You tapped the center of his shirt, and he looked down at your finger, swallowing hard.
“Yes,” he all but whimpered, and you began undoing his buttons. “But won’t someone see?”
“Not unless we’re still here in the morning.” You helped him out of his shirt, drinking in every bare inch of pale skin newly uncovered, and he froze for a minute, rigid as a marble statue, before he remembered to move on to his trousers. You lifted your blouse over your shoulders, Sinclair’s eyes locked on the white lace bra you wore, fingers stilling against his silver belt buckle. “Help me?” You innocently asked, watching him suck in a deep, steadying breath.
“Absolutely.” Nervous fingers undid the spaghetti-thin straps, the lace falling away, the wire digging into your skin blessedly gone. “May I?” Sinclair meaningfully looked at your nipples, hands nervously hovering near the round, plump flesh of your breasts. You nodded, surprised at how tenderly he explored this new, unblanketed territory—gently tweaking your rosy buds and squeezing your soft tissue. “Gorgeous,” he mumbled, and an unexpected heat trailed down your cheeks to your chest.
You worked on loosening his belt while he was distracted with your boobs, working the offending trousers down to his ankles. When he noticed your intentions, he smiled, sheepish, slipping them off the rest of the way. “Sorry,” he murmured. “You’re too distracting.” You could say the same of him, you thought to yourself, utterly besotted with the compliment.
All too soon, the two of you were bare, the sand touching your skin cool in the night’s snow-colored moonlight and hesitant warm breeze, the ocean’s waves a constant, swooshing crash against the coast. “May I kiss you?” you asked, sounding far more fearful of rejection than you probably should, considering you were both naked at the moment of birth.
“I’d like that,” he smiled, crooked teeth glinting as the shadows shifted, as you leaned forward to close the chasm between the two of you. It felt like heaven—it felt like this beach vacation was supposed to go—like endless sunshine, shared secrets, and a day of blissful, healing relaxation. And you were drunk with just one kiss.
Wetness now coated your thighs, Sinclair’s rock-hard erection throbbing underneath you. He was just slightly below-average in size—but that hardly mattered. Not when he was making you feel things no man ever had before.
“Ready?” He exhaled, breathless. You felt just the same, nodding in the darkness emphatically.
Holding himself tightly, he guided his stiff penis past your lips, breaking the remaining barrier cast up between you two. Gasping, he held still, in case you needed to adjust, but you had other plans in mind. “Please, can I—”
“---God, yes,” he grunted, and you began to ride him, every thrust sending him deeper inside. “Fuck,” he mumbled right before you kissed him passionately, kissed him like the world would end that morning. And in many ways it would.
Your fingers burrowed deep in his shaggy hair, and you tried to ignore the sand disappearing into places that it had no right to disappear in. Sinclair rolled you over mid-kiss, your bum now planted in the sand, each thrust deeper now that his hips had room to freely maneuver. The silent moonlight beach was filled with your uneven pants and Sinclair’s whimpers as he inched closer to orgasm, and you were equally at pace, your walls fluttering as he continued to hit your g-spot every time he re-entered.
“I’m so fucking close,” you mumbled, nails biting his ribs. He moaned, bracing a hand in the sand behind your head as he found your clit with his free thumb, rubbing the button of your pleasure center in slow, clockwise circles. You were trembling, toes curling in the open air, bony knees digging into Sinclair’s hips.
“Cumming,” he grunted, continuing to shallowly rut as his balls emptied. The waves crashed—loud and insistent—your own orgasm following suit.
“Ohhh,” you whined, voice unnaturally high as you spiralled into pure pleasure, Sinclair’s fingers retreating when your moans grew painful from overstimulation.
He had pulled out, cock falling limp against your leg, his strong, lean arms wrapping around your torso like they had belonged for decades as you lay on your backs to face the sparkling stars. The waves had quieted, panic returning to riot in your mind as you thought of dawn—as you thought of your new reality of living far away from the lover you were utterly smitten with. It seemed like the worst sort of torture one could sentence, and it had yet to truly start.
“You’re quiet,” Sinclair whispered, his words kissing the still air. His eyes found your own—the gentle light making them look honey-colored—and far too tender.
“I’m going to miss you.” He smiled, turning onto his side, propping his chin up by his hand.
“I’ll—I’ll miss you too,” he choked out, cheeks tinged pink. “Ah, here,” he stood up, sand falling off his body in the simple breeze as he shifted, searching for the location of his trousers. “There,” fireworks leftover from earlier sparked as your fingers touched around a thin slip of paper, small and rectangular in shape. “My business card—so–so you can call me. If–-if you want, although—although you don’t have to if you don’t—want.” He finished, sounding awkward, fingers disappearing as he returned to lounge at your side. “I ehm—I wouldn’t mind doing this again—though perhaps not in the sand.” You heard him swallow thickly and laughed—laughed at how free you felt—how much less daunting sunrise seemed.
“I can’t believe my best fuck thinks I wouldn’t do it again,” you snorted, the worry lines carved in Sinclair’s handsome face easing into thin creases. “Although I too would prefer anywhere but the sand.” He laughed—long and hearty—your fingers landing on his chest to reassuringly card through the sparse hair.
And the waves remained only white noise to the inappropriate thoughts spinning in your head concerning yourself and a certain Englishman you were now hopelessly in love with.
