"Fucking gross, yo. We gotta get you eating more fruit," Richie rasps out, though the stupid grin on his face and the fact that he swallowed totally undoes any possibility of sounding like he means it. His mouth is full of the taste of Carmy, cigarette-sour and salty; he wouldn't exchange it for anything else.

He groans as he climbs to his feet, brushes shmutz off his knees, maybe trying to cover for the way his own hard-on is tenting out the front of his board shorts to a slightly ridiculous degree. But he does as he's told to, even anticipates what Carmy wants by leaning in to kiss him a little, slow and sweet again.