Chapter 12 Frankie
Chapter twelve
Frankie
My legs are still trembling. I think I might be glowing, or actually floating. Or maybe disintegrating entirely, because whatever that just was, it’s rewired my brain.
I feel boneless and overheated, laying on my stomach with one hand fisted in the sheets, the other still loosely clutched halfway up the headboard.
My pulse hasn’t figured out how to calm down yet, still twitching with aftershocks. And Mason is still here.
He hasn’t bolted, hasn’t pulled away. He’s beside me, propped up on one elbow as his fingers trace soft, slow shapes across the curve of my bare back.
His touch is the gentlest thing I’ve ever felt.
And that is deeply unfair, considering the fact ten minutes ago he was buried deep inside me relentlessly slapping my clit while my butt plug glinted at him.
My cheeks heat again at the memory. Every part of me feels raw and well-used and achy in all the best places.
But it’s the look on his face, when I slowly turn my head to his, that gets me.
It’s soft and thoughtful, as if he’s purposefully trying to hold onto this moment for as long as possible. Like he’s purposefully trying to hold onto me.
“Too much?” His voice is a low rumble.
I shake my head against the pillow. “Too good.”
His chuckle rumbles, and I feel the warm air brushing over the top of my spine as he dips closer.
“You say that now, but wait till you try to walk tomorrow.”
I snort, shifting slightly—only to immediately pause again as the plug still nestled inside me makes itself known.
“Oh,” I groan into the pillow. “I forgot for a second that was still in.”
His hand stills on my back, then moves lower, cupping gently over my ass cheek. “Want me to take it out?”
I hesitate, not because I don’t trust him. More because something about the way he says it makes me feel like I could.
That maybe I don’t have to pretend I’m still angry to protect myself.
“That’d be nice,” I whisper.
His touch is reverent now. He helps me roll onto my side, one hand soothing along my hip, the other carefully guiding the plug out with soft encouragement and low praise.
“You did so fucking good for me,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “So perfect.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Compliments are one thing, but this is intimacy.
The last time I let someone close enough to care, he ghosted me without a word, and he just so happens to be the same guy caressing my skin right now.
I hug the sheet to my chest, moving more onto my side.
Mason moves with me, brushing my hair back, then sliding off the bed and heading to the bathroom. I hear the tap run, his feet padding across the hardwood, then the feel of a warm cloth gliding between my thighs.
It’s gentle. Thoughtful. And it cracks something in me.
“Why’d you come tonight?” I ask, voice quieter than I meant.
He stills, the cloth paused mid-stroke. “You didn’t check in.”
I turn my head. “I know… But that’s not all.”
He doesn’t answer at first, just finishes cleaning me up, then discards the cloth and climbs back into bed beside me.
“Because I’m a fucking idiot.”
I blink up at him.
“I thought RedRiot was safer than real,” he says. “That I could want her and still keep a wall between us. Tell myself it wasn’t anything serious, just late-night voicing and flirting. Just a month of you in my ear, making me laugh and come, making me feel things I haven’t felt in years.”
My stomach twists, affection and ache tangling together.
“I thought if I kept it behind the screen, I couldn’t hurt again,” he goes on. “That I could listen to your voice every night, jerk off like a teenager, and pretend I wasn’t falling for someone I’d never met.”
I swallow. “Mason…”
“And I ghosted you, because I panicked. Because you held the prospect of something real, and that scared the shit out of me.” His voice roughens. “But then I met you. Not Red, you. And you’re smarter, funnier, fucking fiercer than anything my dumbass imagination could’ve come up with. ”
He exhales like it hurts. “I’ve been regretting it every minute since.”
My throat tightens, lips parting, unsure what to say. Unsure what to do with all that truth.
He shifts closer, pressing his forehead into the side of mine. “You’re not some fantasy, Frankie. You’re the reality I want. I was a coward, but I want you… If you still want me.”
The smart thing would be to make him grovel a little longer. Toss him a pillow and make him work for it—keep my walls up until I’m sure.
But I saw the look on his face when I moaned his name. The sincerity when he dropped to his knees and crawled to me. Felt the way he held me like he was scared I might push him away again.
I’m done punishing myself for missing him, so I take a breath and whisper the truth.
“I never wanted Fireboy, I just wanted you.”
His shoulder relax a little.
“And not just tonight,” I add. “Not just for sex or closure or anything like that, though holy shit, Mason. That was so hot. I wanted to meet the guy who made me laugh, and listened when I talked about my mom’s gingerbread cookies.
Who didn’t make me feel like a freak for avoiding Christmas, and who I’ve spent every day for the last month crushing over like a lunatic. ”
A slow, stunned smile pulls at his mouth before he kisses me in a slow and soft kiss, all tongue and apology and aching relief.
He pulls me into him, as though he needs me close, and this time I let him.
We lie there tangled under the blankets, my leg hooked over his hip, his hand splayed across my back. There’s no urgency now, we’re not rushing toward anything.
We’re just here.
And for the first time in weeks, I feel warm in the middle of winter.
***
The scent of something maple-sweet draws me out of sleep.
I blink against the early morning light, slowly registering the creak of floorboards, the hiss of the stovetop, and the low hum of Mason’s voice—half-muttering to himself as he fusses with a frying pan.
For a moment, I just lie there, listening and letting it sink in.
He stayed.
There’s a cozy weight in my chest that feels foreign and a little terrifying, but good. So fucking good.
I tug on a long-sleeve shirt and the laciest, most red pair of panties I can find, followed by my lounge shorts.
I’m a little sore and wrung out, but it’s satisfying. Guess this is how it feels when you’ve been manhandled and fucked exactly how you always wanted.
Mason’s standing in front of the stove in nothing but his boxers and navy blue firefighter t-shirt. He looks rumpled and golden and deeply concentrating on whatever he’s flipping in the pan.
“Power’s back on and your first thought is a science experiment?”
He turns, and his face lights up.
“No, that’d involve a Bunsen burner and at least one minor explosion. This is me being domestic.”
I snort and step closer, leaning in close to inspect the pan. “Smells good.”
He tucks an arm around my waist, pulling me closer into the crook of his body, and planting a soft kiss to my forehead. “Pancakes. There was mix in the cupboard, and I figured since I probably broke your pelvis last night…”
“You could bribe me with carbs?”
“Exactly.”
He drops another kiss on my nose, then turns back to the pan.
I hover for a moment, leaning into him and watching the way his broad shoulders move, the relaxed set of his spine.
It’s the most at ease I’ve ever seen him, and possibly the most vulnerable too.
“Don’t you have to get back to the station?”
His head nods toward the window. “Don’t think I’d get there yet anyway, but no point now my shift’s nearly over. Beck, our Captain, told me to just hunker down here until the roads clear and the SUV restarts.”
I reach for a clean festive mug and pour myself some coffee from the pot he’s already made. Sipping it slowly, I watch him for a moment, before verbalizing the words that’ve been playing on my mind.
“You told me last night you’ve been hurt before…”
He doesn’t reply right away, just plates up a pancake, then another, and slides them onto the counter.
I wait him out, giving him time to sort through his thoughts.
Eventually, he leans his hands on the edge of the bench, staring down at the steaming stack. His jaw works. “My dad was in hospital a few Christmases back.”
I straighten slightly, remembering him talk about his dad at Christmas lunch.
“He was already pretty sick. But I didn’t want the whole day to feel heavy, you know? So I told him my plan, how I was going to propose on New Year’s Eve to Connie, my ex. She didn’t know, of course. But I’d bought the ring, planned the whole thing. Even asked my dad for advice.”
There’s a pause as his throat bobs.
“He was so damn proud. Said it gave him something to look forward to, and… and maybe he could hold out long enough to see me marry her.”
My chest aches as Mason’s voice drops.
“Then I got off shift early on New Year’s Eve, went home to surprise her, and found her in our bed with someone else.”
“Oh, fuck. Mason, I’m so sorry.”
He doesn’t flinch, just exhales a short, bitter breath. “She told me they’d been seeing each other for months. That I’d been too distracted with work, with dad, with life.”
I feel sick thinking about what that must’ve felt like for him to hear.
“I spent the whole night driving. Couldn’t go back to the hospital, couldn’t lie to my dad.” He finally looks up, grey eyes stormy but dry. “But the next morning, I told him the truth. Told him it was over.”
“And what did he say?” I whisper.
A humorless smile tugs at his mouth. “Said she was an idiot, and that I deserved someone with a real backbone. Someone who’d want to be with me, even when life got hard.”
I nod. “He was right.”
“Maybe. But he didn’t really get to see me come out the other side of it. He passed that spring, and I wasn’t much more than a fucking shell until long after.”
I reach for his hand and lace our fingers together.
“I think he’d be so proud of who you are now.”