On Location With Caroline Quinn
Copyright© 2026 by Jessica Sloane
Chapter 6: We’re Live!
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 6: We’re Live! - 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 Interracial White Male White Female Anal Sex Cream Pie Exhibitionism Massage Masturbation Oral Sex Petting Tit-Fucking Voyeurism Big Breasts AI Generated
Zack
The fish was almost done when I looked up and realized Caroline hadn’t moved.
She was still at the waterline, bare feet in the wet sand, arms loose at her sides, staring out at the flat line where the Pacific turned the color of old metal. The morning light was already hard. It made the torn edge of her blouse look brighter than it was. I turned the fish one last time, set the stick across the coals so it wouldn’t burn, and walked down.
I came up behind her slow enough that the sand gave me away. My arms went around her waist. She didn’t jump. She just leaned back a fraction.
“Breakfast,” I said against her hair. “It’s the good kind. Come on.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You said that yesterday ... and then you ate half of mine.”
She didn’t answer right away. The surf pulled and pushed between her ankles. When she spoke, her voice was level.
“I miss it,” she said. “All of it. My apartment that always smelled like the coffee I never finished. The control room. That stupid little red light that meant we were live. I miss knowing what day it is because someone handed me a rundown. I miss being the person who tells other people what happened instead of the person it happened to.”
I tightened my arms. She was warm and rigid at the same time.
“I get it.”
“Do you?”
“Enough.” I pressed my mouth to the top of her shoulder. “You want to walk?”
“Yeah.” She turned in my arms, not quite looking at me. “Alone, if that’s all right. I’ll be back. I just ... need the noise to stop for a minute. You know?”
“Take the path past the rocks. The one that stays above the tide line.”
She almost smiled. “Yes, Taylor. I will avoid the dramatic cliff death.”
She kissed the corner of my mouth, brief, and walked up the beach. I watched her until the curve of the cove took her. Then I stood there with the fish starting to smoke.
The idea arrived while I was scraping the worst of the char off the fish.
It was a dumb idea in the way most of my ideas were dumb until Caroline laughed at them. I left the food, wiped my hands on my shorts, and started collecting.
Palm fronds first. The long ones that still had some stiffness. I lashed them with vine into a low, wide rectangle and propped it on two thick pieces of driftwood so it sat at roughly desk height. The surface wasn’t flat. It didn’t need to be. I found a length of bamboo that had washed up in three pieces and bound them into a rough vertical frame behind the desk, then wove smaller fronds through it until it looked, from ten feet away, like the back wall of a set. A broken life-raft paddle became the edge of the desk. I stuck a smaller stick upright on the right side and tied a scrap of the torn blouse to it so it hung like a flag that had given up. For the “monitor” I used the flat bottom of a coconut shell, propped it on a rock, and scratched a rough rectangle into the sand in front of it so it would catch the light. Two more sticks crossed and lashed made a camera on a tripod if you squinted and had already decided to play along. I cleared the sand in a half-circle in front of the desk and lined the edge with smaller stones. It took longer than it should have. The sun moved. My shoulders burned. When I stepped back, it looked exactly like what it was: a child’s version of a TV news set built by someone who may or may not be losing his mind.
I was still adjusting the angle of the coconut shell when she came back around the rocks.
She stopped. The laugh started in her chest before it reached her mouth. She put a hand over it like she was trying to be polite and then gave up.
“Zack.”
“Welcome back.”
She walked the rest of the way with her eyes on the set, taking it in the way she took in a location before she called for the first shot. When she reached me she didn’t say anything else. She just put both hands on my face and kissed me, open and warm and a little unsteady from laughing.
“You built me a desk.”
“I built you a desk and a camera and a very serious flag. The coconut is the return monitor. Don’t look at it too long or you’ll see your own reflection and lose the bit.”
She kissed me again, shorter. When she pulled back her eyes were clearer than they’d been at the water.
“How was your walk?”
“Useful.” She looked at the set again, then at me. “I’m feeling better now.”
“Good.” I nodded at the desk. “Because we’re live in thirty, Ms. Quinn. You’ve got the A-block. I’m the audience, the floor director, and the guy who’s going to clap even if you flub the toss.”
She grinned and stepped behind the palm-frond desk. The height was wrong for her; she had to perch on the edge of a flat rock I’d shoved underneath. She settled, smoothed the ruined blouse like it was a blazer, and crossed her long, gorgeous legs. The khaki shorts rode up. She knew it. She looked straight at the stick-and-vine camera, then at me, and pressed her arms in so her big tits lifted and pushed together against the open collar.
“Good evening,” she said, voice dropping into the clean, bright register she used on air. “I’m Caroline Quinn, and this is On Location. Tonight, we’re reporting to you live from a beach I still don’t have the coordinates for ... it’s a story about bad math, worse coconuts, and an intern who keeps refusing to die on schedule.”
I sat in the sand in the half-circle of stones and watched her. She walked through the crash without dwelling on the metal scream. She made the waterfall sound like a production choice. She described the panther in three tight sentences and then undercut it by admitting she’d screamed like a person who had just remembered she was not, in fact, invincible. The coconut bit got a real laugh out of her. She glanced at me when she said my name.