Chapter 23 Frankie
FRANKIE
I’d had sex with these three men more times than I thought possible by now. But something about sleeping with the three of them in Paris and collapsing into a huge, luxurious hotel bed afterward encapsulated a new level of luxury.
Maybe it was just the fact that they’d each made me come more than once.
Jonathan with his hands, then his cock; Devin with his mouth, then his mouth, then his mouth again before he fucked me into yet another climax.
Alex had even taken the opportunity to throw in some more delicious spankings as a delayed punishment for my running away.
He didn’t take nearly as long to give me what my pussy craved afterward, though. He ate my pussy until I was dangling on the edge of a precipice, then finished me off with another round of his sure, hard strokes inside me.
Absolute perfection. I was the luckiest girl in the world.
I knew I’d be sore tomorrow, but I also knew that I’d rather be sore from the skillful motions of their hard cocks than feel anything else.
By some miracle, I was still floating somewhere between bliss and exhaustion, cocooned in a tangle of warm limbs and steady heartbeats.
The guys had never all stayed with me after sex. This night, I hadn’t even needed to ask, though.
Now here we were, all together, me at the center with each of them deliberately settling in on either side of me like they were building a fortress with their bodies. Jonathan behind me, chest to my back.
Alex in front, his hand resting possessively on my hip. And sweet, silly Devin half-draped over my legs like some oversized, affectionate cat. It could’ve made me laugh.
It should’ve felt crowded. It didn’t. Instead, it was a blessing. A gift. One I didn’t know how to name.
My eyelids grew heavy as I let myself sink into the safety of it.
Their breaths surrounded me—three different rhythms, all syncing into something soothing.
I drifted, dreaming of the yellow pools of Parisian streetlamps and smoky jazz clubs and the heat of hands gripping my waist as music pulsed through the floor.
But a noise cut through everything.
A sharp vibration. A ring.
My eyes snapped open.
Jonathan muttered something under his breath and shifted away from me. The bed dipped then rose as he stood. I blinked into the dark, disoriented. The red glow of the hotel clock read 3:47 a.m.
My stomach clenched.
Jonathan crossed the room, answering the call in a low voice. But even from the bed, I could hear the silence—the kind that meant he was listening. Really listening.
I pushed upright, heart hammering. Alex did the same. Devin rubbed his face, instantly alert.
Then Jonathan turned toward us.
And his expression… God. I’d never seen it so stark.
“That was one of my guys,” he said, voice hoarse. “My dad—Anthony—he had a heart attack. They’re putting him into a medically induced coma.”
My breath caught.
Alex cursed under his breath. Devin sat forward like the air had been knocked out of him.
Jonathan swallowed hard. “He might not make it.”
The room dissolved into motion. Clothes pulled on, bags grabbed from the floor, the bright snap of panic sharpening everything. We needed to leave. We needed to get back to the States now.
But under all the scrambling, dread twisted in my gut. We’d come to Paris to get away from danger, not walk back into it. Whoever was threatening me and my mother…none of that had been resolved.
As Jonathan zipped his suitcase shut with shaking hands, I couldn’t shake the feeling that going home meant stepping directly back into the storm we’d barely escaped.