Chapter 20 Frankie
Frankie
Best damn Christmas of my life
Somewhere between the door slamming shut and Sam’s mouth dragging down my neck, we moved.
I don’t even remember how. One second, we were laughing, kissing, clawing at each other’s coats, and then suddenly, I’m hoisted onto the kitchen counter, my pants have gone, and his hands firmly rest on my thighs as he spreads me open for him.
His touch is hot, greedy, fingers dragging over me before moving up to cup my breast. I gasp into his mouth when his thumb circles my nipple through lace, and he absorbs the sound like it fuels him.
I fumble with his shirt, desperate to feel him bare, and he helps me, yanking it over his head before pulling my sweater off too.
Clothes hit the floor in a trail that doesn’t matter.
Nothing matters but the way his eyes darken as he looks at me, chest rising hard, like he can’t believe I’m really here.
“God, Frankie…” He drags his palm up my inner thigh, spreading me wider, until his fingers find how ready I am for him.
My head tips back with a moan, but he catches my chin, making me look at him while he strokes me, slow and purposeful, those soulful eyes boring into me, demanding that he see me. “So perfect.”
I can barely breathe, rocking against his hand, already trembling as he teases me. And when he finally frees himself, pushing his sweats down just enough, the sight of him—thick, hard, weeping—makes me whimper.
“I need you,” I choke out, desperately tugging him closer. “I’m on the pill, Sam. Please, let me feel you.”
“Don’t play with me, Frankie. If we do this, I’ll want to keep doing it.” His voice is rough and wanton, but his message clear, and it warms something inside me.
“I’m not planning on going anywhere. I’ll be right across the street,” I pant, reaching for his cock, pumping it a couple of times, listening to him groan.
Everything about him is thick, manly, delicious. I could happily spend plenty more time with him and not get bored. Every brush of skin seems like a conversation we’ve been waiting to have.
I like Sam a lot. The thought barely forms before it starts to slip away, drowned out by the rush of having him, the weight of what’s blooming between us. All of it melts into something more meaningful as he presses into me, stretching me inch by inch until I cry out against his mouth.
Then he stops, waiting for my eyes to open. “If I’ve got anything to say about it, you’ll be right here with me, not across the street, baby.”
The world tilts. My back hits the counter as he drives deeper, and every thrust rocks through me, like he’s claiming every part I didn’t even realize was empty.
His hand grips my hip, anchoring me, while the other cradles the back of my head, as if he can’t decide if he wants to ruin me or hold me together. Both, my body screams. I need both.
My legs curl around him, pulling him closer as he groans my name. “Look at me,” he orders, breath ragged, and when I do, the raw emotion in his gaze is mirrored in my own, I’m sure of it. This isn’t just sex. It feels otherworldly. It feels right.
White hot heat spears in my core as he pumps faster, made easier by how wet I am for him.
Everything in me coils tight, unbearable but delicious, and when I finally shatter, crying out, it feels like the most right thing I’ve ever done.
He follows with a broken groan, burying himself deep, spilling inside me, forehead pressed to mine as we fall apart together.
For a long moment, the only sound is our uneven breathing.
I laugh softly, dazed, pressing my lips to his jaw. “Merry Christmas, Sam.”
His chest shakes with his own laugh, but his arms only tighten around me. “Best damn Christmas of my life.”
An hour later, we’re tangled in his sheets, hair damp from the shower we half managed to share before collapsing into bed again.
Sam’s propped against the headboard, bare chest warm against my side as I sit cross-legged, folding strips of colored paper.
We’ve started linking them together, a lopsided paper chain stretching across the blankets.
It’s silly that I brought this with me. I guess I wasn’t sure if I’d need an icebreaker…
turns out things got way too hot for that.
“Not bad,” he says, holding up the latest loop I’ve glued. His grin is easy, softer than I’ve ever seen it. “Could almost pass for festive.”
“Almost,” I tease, tucking another strip through and sealing it. “Did you ever think you’d be here on Christmas Eve?”
He glances at me, those hazel eyes bewitching. “With you or doing a festive activity?”
“Either.”
He huffs a laugh and pulls another piece of paper to fold. “No, I never thought about making paper chains.” Then he looks at me again, full of heat and desire, and I almost do a wicked witch and melt right on the spot. “As for you… I can’t lie and say I haven’t fantasized.”
My mouth goes dry, paper forgotten in my palms as he continues.
“I might’ve watched you from my windows one too many times bending over your car to reach something and…” He groans deep and low. The image of him watching me without me knowing does something molten to my core. “I’m not going to pretend that you didn’t pique my interest because you did.”
I swallow hard and can’t help my smart mouth. “You mean my ass caught your interest?”
The chuckle emanates from him, but it rumbles in me too. “Yeah, that and your quick wit. I like that you gave me shit. I think that’s why I kept complaining about your damn lights.”
I mock gasp. “I knew you didn’t hate them.”
“Oh no,” he deadpans. “I still hate them.”
“Liar,” I shoot back. “I caught you staring at them more than once.”
“Yeah,” he admits easily, a grin tugging at his mouth, “but it wasn’t at the lights.”
I ball up a piece of paper and throw it at his chest, but he swats it away and reaches for me. “Hey,” I squeal, laughing as he pulls me across his lap until my legs straddle him. “That’s not how you make paper chains.”
“Sure it is,” he teases, looping an arm around my waist. “You and I can link together.”
I shake my head, trying to wriggle free, but I’m already smiling too hard to sell it. “You’re ridiculous.”
His grin softens, fading into something more aware. Of what I don’t know. Maybe my thudding heart… can he hear it? His hand lingers at my hip, thumb tracing a line that makes my breath catch.
The air shifts, laughter dissolving into something heavier as he leans in, his hand gripping my chin to bring me closer.
His lips brush mine once, barely there, before he kisses me again, but still at the pace he wants, and I let myself feel every second of it from the very tips of my toes all the way to my head.
Tingles engulf me in the best possible way.
When he finally pulls back, his mouth curves against my skin as he whispers, “I saw you leave earlier.”
I pause, knowing that at some point we’ll have to make it over to my house so he can see exactly where I went earlier. When I saw his house was dark, all curtains drawn, I feared he’d crawled straight back into the Grinch I know him to be.
“I did leave,” I admit, looking away for a beat. “But not to where you think.”
His brow pulls taut. “No?”
I bite my lip, then glance up at him. “Do you trust me?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yeah. I do.”
My heart gives a tight tug. I slide off his lap and pad over to his closet, rifling through until my fingers close around a tie. When I turn back, he’s watching me, head tilted, curiosity sparking in his eyes.
“You’re kidding,” he says slowly. “We’re escalating to this already?”
Heat flares in my cheeks as he swings his legs to the side of the bed and I step between them. “Not like that. Well…maybe like that another time. But right now, I need you blindfolded.”
His chuckle is low, amused, but he lets me loop the tie over his eyes and knot it gently behind his head. “For the record,” he drawls, “I’m open to all your kinky shit. This feels tame. I bet you’re wilder than this.”
“Stop,” I snort, trying not to sound too flustered. “This is serious.”
His hands slide down my sides anyway, deliciously slow, fingertips brushing over the curve of me like he’s testing exactly how serious I really am.
What was I doing again? I can’t keep coherent because his touch makes me shiver, but by contrast, warmth rushes up my neck, and he smirks even blindfolded, like he can sense the effect he’s having on me.
“I need to focus, Sam, and you’re making that really hard.”
He mutters something that sounds like ‘tell me about it’ but stands without protest when I tug at his hand, towering over me, blind-folded and trusting. I guide him carefully, one step at a time, down the stairs, wincing every time he bumps the wall or grazes the banister, offering my apologies.
“This is either going to be the best surprise of my life,” he mutters, “or the start of a true-crime documentary.”
“Maybe I serve to be an inspiration for your next novel.”
“I think you might be right about that inspiration. I did write today.”
I pause on the last step, and he pushes into me, forcing me further away. “You wrote?”
He nods.
“That’s amazing,” I breathe, pride filling my chest at the thought of him being able to do something he loves again.
“It felt amazing,” he admits quietly. “And… maybe it had something to do with you.”
I snort, trying to cover the way my heart stumbles. “Right, me—the muse of a New York Times bestselling author. I was joking, you know.”
Before I can retreat into sarcasm, he catches my wrist and pulls me closer, his breath brushing my skin as he tucks his face against my neck. “Would that really be so bad?” he whispers.
I try to deflect. “I just don’t know if I’d make a very good muse.”
His laugh rumbles low against my skin. “You already do.”
Warmth fills me like I’ve been submerged in the hottest bubble bath, and all I want to do is pull him down to my lips and kiss him senseless, but I have something else I need to do first.
When we reach the living area, I order him to, “Sit.” Nudging his knees toward the couch. He lowers himself onto the cushions, blindfold still in place, one corner of his mouth tipped up like he’s enjoying this more than he should.
“I like you bossy.”
“We’ll have time for bossy later,” I whisper and watch as goosebumps cover his neck.
“Now what?” he asks.
“Now you wait,” I tell him, heart racing, already backing toward the door.
Because if I’m going to do this right, he needs to see why I left.