On Location With Caroline Quinn
Copyright© 2026 by Jessica Sloane
Chapter 4: Priorities
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 4: Priorities - After a plane crash leaves a sharp 39-year-old news correspondent and her 22-year-old intern as the only survivors on a remote island, forced proximity turns a crush into something much hotter. Flirty banter, a very public waterfall, one stupidly brave act, and then a fun night together.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma Fa Age Gap Consensual Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Humor Vignettes Workplace Anal Sex Cream Pie Exhibitionism Massage Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Tit-Fucking Voyeurism Big Breasts AI Generated
Zack
We were pretty horny for one another after that night in the hut. But, two days after the panther, we had a system. Sort of.
Caroline called it a system. I called it the thing we kept abandoning the second one of us looked at the other one for longer than 3 seconds. The hut still stood. The fire ring still worked. We had not been eaten. Beyond that, productivity had basically grinded to a halt.
“Clothes,” she said that morning, holding up her blouse like it had personally betrayed her. Salt had crusted the collar. One shoulder was still split from the crash. My shirt was worse. “Waterfall. We wash what we have, we hang it to dry, we pretend we are competent adults. Can we handle that, Taylor?”
“We can definitely handle laundry,” I said.
She looked at me over the ruined linen. “We’ll see.”
The pool was the same as before. Cold water, basalt ledge, mist where the cascade hit. Ferns. The bush I’d hid in like an idiot. Caroline set the clothes on a flat rock and stepped under the fall in her shorts and what was left of the blouse, already working the fabric against itself.
“Salt first,” she said. “Then we—”
I was supposed to be rinsing my shirt. I was watching water sheet down her neck and disappear into the open collar. She caught me.
“Taylor.”
“I’m rinsing.”
“You’re staring at my tits.”
“They got in the way of the rinsing.”
She laughed, low, and the sound went straight through me. “Give me that.” She took the shirt out of my hands, shoved both pieces of clothing onto the rock, and turned back into the spray. The blouse went transparent in about four seconds. She looked down at herself, then at me, eyebrows up. “Well. There goes the professional boundary.”
“That was already 100% on fire.”
“True.” She stepped closer. Water hammered my shoulders. Her mouth was right there, wet, amused. “We are washing clothes.”
“We are.”
“Say it like you mean it.”
“We are washing—”
She kissed me. Not careful. Hands in my hair, body pressed in, the fall roaring over both of us so I could feel her laugh against my mouth more than hear it. I got her shorts open. She got mine. Our clothes sat on the rock and judged us.
“Standing,” she said against my ear, already guiding me. “Don’t drop me. Don’t slip. And do not finish before I do or I will make you wash these by hand while I watch.”
“Motivational.”
“I contain multitudes, Zack.” She hooked a leg around my hip. I caught her thigh, braced my other hand on the wet rock, and pushed into her sweet. Cold water, hot Caroline. She swore, forehead to mine, and rolled her hips like she was trying to climb me. “Fuck. Okay. There. Right there. God, you’re—hold still a second. Let me—”
“You’re doing all the work.”
“Because we both know that you are a hazard on wet stone.” She kissed the corner of my mouth, breathless, smiling. “Move. Slow. I want to feel it. Talk to me. Tell me this was a terrible idea.”
“This was a terrible idea,” I said, and thrust. She made a sound that the waterfall almost took. “We’re supposed to be rinsing salt out of cotton.”
“Later.” Her nails dug into my shoulder. “Harder. You’ve got me. I can take it. You’re fucking me under a waterfall like you didn’t spend two months afraid to hand me a coffee. That’s it. Right—yes. Oh fuck, Zack, get it. Don’t you dare look away.”
I didn’t. Water in my eyes, her blouse plastered open, tits out, her mouth open on a moan every time I slammed my cock into her. She came with her face tucked into my neck and my name in pieces. I followed her a few strokes later, buried deep, one hand still locked on the rock so we didn’t both die.
We stayed there, breathing, spray cooling the sweat the fall hadn’t already taken.
Caroline peeled back enough to look at the rock. The clothes had not moved.
“Excellent,” she said. “Laundry’s coming right along.”
The coconuts were worse.
By afternoon the washed clothes were hanging on a line of vine, and Caroline had decided we needed calories that were not roasted ... whatever-that-fish-was. She dropped an armful of coconuts under a palm at the edge of the beach and handed me a rock.
“Husk. Crack. Drink. Repeat. No monologuing.”
“I wasn’t going to monologue.”
“You get a look.” She sat cross-legged in the sand, already tearing at the husk with a sharper stone. Fiber came away in stubborn strips. Her hair was half dry, sun on her shoulders, shorts riding up. I made it through one coconut. Mostly.
“You’re doing it wrong,” she said.
“I’m doing it how you showed me.”
“You’re doing it while looking at my legs.”
“The coconut is kind of in front of your thighs.”
She snorted, set the rock down, and leaned back on her hands. The move did not help the titty situation. “You want a break from agriculture, Taylor?”
“We have 4 coconuts.”
“We have two very horny people who are going to lose their fucking minds if we keep pretending this is a nature documentary.” She crooked a finger. “Come here. Shirt off. I have a theory.”
The theory, it turned out, was her on her back in the shade of the palm, blouse open, my cock between her gorgeous breasts while she pressed them together and looked up at me like this was a reasonable use of daylight.
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