Back in Monaco. Home. There truly was no better feeling. The familiar blazing sun expelling heat and light, in stark contrast to the cool breeze. The faint twang of the salty sea, its beautiful crystal clear glow bouncing in calm ripples. The crisp golden sands. And your partner, Charles Leclerc, stretched out beside you on a deckchair, basking under the sun. Shirtless and in white shorts that hung low on his hips in that way of his, his swim trunks just visible underneath. You close your eyes taking in a small breath, exhaling a content sigh. Life was good. Next to you, Charles stood up, disposing of the white shorts and you had to force yourself not to stare. He looks down at you with a small tender smile

"Come for a swim with me?" he asked in a soft, accented murmur. When you nod he doesn't hesitate to scoop you up into his arms, approaching the sea. A few sunbathers on the beach watch with that bemused disinterest, so classically typical of the French. Gently, he sets you down in the clear water, with a soft kiss, which you delightedly return, the chill of the Mediterranean forgotten in its wake

"You're very distracting...but I thought you wanted to swim?" he asks quietly in your ear, kissing the sensitive skin underneath, his lips lingering on you.

"Why not make love in the sea? It'd be a first. I like firsts" your murmur. He looks down at you amused, running his nose along yours.

"So do I baby. But not with an audience..." he whispers

And sure enough, several sunbathers on the beach had abandoned their disinterest and regarded the two of you with peak interest