Chapter 23 #2
Liam unfastened his belt with a flick and let it drop to the floor, the buckle’s metallic chime punctuating the silence.
Then the zipper, the slow slide of teeth, the release.
He stepped out of his pants and kicked them aside, and his wallet fell out, hitting the tile with a dull thud.
He heard Frankie’s sharp inhale at the sight of him, and it made his pulse jump again, like a second heartbeat, as he hooked his thumbs under the band of his boxer-briefs and pushed them down and off.
She sat up straighter, water lapping over her breasts to make space for him. He started to step into the tub behind her, but Frankie reached for him first. Her hand curled around his shaft, fingers wrapping with more certainty than he expected, and for a split second, all the air left his lungs.
He watched her face transform, her usual defiance dissolved into focus as she stroked him.
She was measured, drawing her palm up and down his length, and it was the single most destabilizing sensation of his life.
He brought his hand to her cheek, cupping it, and she leaned into the touch, a sigh escaping her lips as she pressed her tongue to the head.
Frankie met his eyes as she wrapped her pretty lips around his swollen head and sucked him into her mouth, slowly and deliberately.
The temperature contrast of her velvet tongue against the cool bathroom air was enough to make him squeeze his eyes shut.
He felt her inhale through her nose, the hot, wet suction of her tongue cocooning him was both a relief and a torment.
She hummed, sending vibration up his cock and into the base of his skull.
He tried to keep his composure, but her hand and mouth worked in tandem, and his control slipped.
Liam placed a palm against the wall, anchoring himself as her pace increased, her tongue swirling with boldness.
He looked down and saw her watching him, her pupils wide, cheeks hollowing as she drew him deeper.
Her other hand braced against his thigh, fingers digging in as she gripped him, and that turned him on even more—the sting of her nails embedded in his skin.
Liam surrendered control for a few more seconds, savoring the slick sensation, but he knew this wasn’t fair. This was supposed to be about her. He slid his hand under her chin and gently coaxed her off the tip, leaving her lips with a soft pop.
“Frankie,” he rasped, her name a raw edge in the air. “Tonight isn’t about me.”
She rolled her eyes, her breath ragged. “You always did have a hero complex.”
He grinned. “Only for you.”
With one fluid motion, he stepped into the tub behind her, lowering his body until the water closed over his waist and his legs framed hers.
He pulled her back so that her spine pressed to his chest, he could feel every rapid beat of her heart.
And for a moment, they just breathed together.
He slid his arm around her, palm splayed low on her belly, the other hand coming up to stroke the wet hair away from her temple.
She relaxed into him—he felt her melt, her muscles going loose, her head lolling against his shoulder.
Liam started with her neck, kneading the tension out with slow, circular motions.
She rolled her head to give him better access, her eyes fluttering closed.
He worked his way down to her shoulders, thumbs pressing into the knots he knew so well, and she exhaled audibly, lips parting in a gasp.
He kissed the crown of her head, a benediction, then trailed his lips down to her ear.
“Show me where it hurts,” he whispered against her. His voice was rougher than he meant it to be, and she shivered. “I’ll make it feel better.”
His hands found her breasts, slick with water, and he cupped them, thumbs stroking over the pebbled tips.
“Here?” he asked.
Frankie whimpered a soft, yes, hips shifting, and he felt her thighs tense against his.
He let his other hand slide down, fingers slipping between her legs, learning the shape of her, the way her body arched into his touch.
She was wet already, but not just from the bath—the heat pulsed under his fingers, a living thing.
“And here?” His voice was as gruff as sandpaper.
“Yes,” she breathed.
He circled her clit, slowly at first, then a little faster. Frankie made a sound in the back of her throat, halfway between a moan and a sigh. Her hands grasped his thighs as her hips rocked into his palm.
“Liam…” she said, but the rest of the sentence was lost to a moan as his fingers found a rhythm, stroking her in time with her breathing.
She pressed her legs apart even further, utterly vulnerable, and he tried to vary the pressure and angle.
He listened to her body, her soft gasps and the shiver in her thighs.
He used his thumb to tease her pleasure nub, while his fingers massaged her opening.
When he pushed one finger inside of her, curling it at the knuckle and massaging her internally, she gasped, and her thighs trembled.
He added another finger, curling both, and used the heel of his hand to apply pressure to her clit as his other hand pinched and twisted her nipples, working her body into a frenzy.
He felt her start to unravel. The muscles in her abdomen coiled tight, and he sped up his rhythm, holding her steady as she bucked against his hand.
“That’s it,” he rasped against her ear, and she arched, digging her nails into his thigh so hard he was sure she’d leave marks. “Fuck my fingers. Come for me.”
And she did. Frankie came with a sharp, stuttering gasp, her back bowed against his chest, water splashing up onto the mat.
She trembled as a wild and unfiltered sound dissolved into a whimper.
He held her through it, arms wrapped around her small frame, until the final quivers faded and she sagged against him, boneless and content. He pressed another kiss to her temple.
He wasn’t sure if he’d cured her migraine, but if not, he was more than willing to try again.
Every part of Frankie’s body was alive with sensation.
The way Liam treated her was as if she was both a precious, priceless piece of china that was fragile and needed to be handled with the utmost care but also whispered the most wonderfully dirty things to her as his hands were rough and not gentle with her. It was the best of both worlds.
He’d held her against his body, and she’d lost track of time and sense and everything but the sound of his breath against her ear, the slip and swirl of his fingertips, and the soft growl that built in his chest. Her entire existence had narrowed to the heat that pooled inside her, the ache, and then the release.
She’d surrendered to him completely. Her hips jerked once, twice, until she was wrung out and weak.
Her nails dug into his thighs—those manly, tree-trunk thighs—and he just held her tighter, as if he could keep her from dissolving.
Her heart beat from head to toe as she recovered from her orgasm, every nerve ending tingling with after spasms. She barely had a moment to register the slippery silk of his chest against her back before he hooked his arms under her and hoisted her out of the bath—in one effortless motion, like she was a rag doll.
She squeaked his name, but he ignored it.
A feral glint glimmered in his eyes as he pressed a damp kiss to her temple, and he carried her through the steamy air, water dripping in a haphazard trail behind them.
He didn’t bother toweling her off. He liked her wet, apparently.
He set her on the edge of the bed and knelt in front of her, his hands bracing her knees.
His eyes locked on hers, something wild and fever-bright in them, and for a second, she thought he might devour her.
Instead, he bent and pressed his lips to the inside of her knee.
Slow. Reverent. Then to the other. Then the delicate indentation at the base of her thigh, which made her squirm, because now the air felt cold, and her skin was hypersensitive.
He took his time, working his way up with a series of possessive, open-mouthed kisses, pausing only to look up at her through those heavy lashes with an expression that said, You’re not going anywhere.
She shivered, and not from the cold.
Liam moved up her body, nudging her further up onto the bed, then climbing after her, the mattress dipping beneath his weight.
He braced himself over her, his arms caging her in.
The next kiss was soft—almost chaste—on her collarbone, then her jaw, then the corner of her mouth.
He kept kissing her as if he could memorize every inch of her body, a slow drag up from her breasts to the hollow of her throat, along her chin, and back to her lips.
She reached up to pull him closer, her hands sliding over his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as if to remind herself he was really there, really hers.
He finally found her mouth and kissed her, slow and deep, his tongue dancing with hers, until she was boneless beneath him, then broke away just long enough to flip her onto her stomach.
He turned her like he was flipping a pillow, and the rush of being manhandled short-circuited her brain.
She gasped, a breathless, startled sound, but he didn’t give her time to collect herself.
He pressed his lips in soft kisses down her spine, vertebra by vertebra, pausing at the small of her back to taste the water beading on her skin.
His fingers spread on her hips, and he pulled her up onto her knees, not a question in the touch, just the absolute certainty that she would comply—and so help her, she did, with trembling hands and a burning face.
He settled behind her, and for a moment she felt his breath fan against her cheek, as if he was breathing her in. “You always had the prettiest ass, you know that?”
She tried to twist around to look at him, but he smacked her lightly, a warning. “Don’t move,” he growled. She didn’t. Not even when he bent to bite—gently—the flesh at the top of her thigh. “You drive me fucking insane.”
She whimpered, a high, needy sound. His hand slid between her legs, and she felt his fingers slide along her folds, covered in her arousal. Her seam pulsed with a carnal ache against his touch, and a deep, masculine groan ripped from his chest.
The next thing she felt was one hand on the side of her hip, tilting it up.
Then there was the familiar pressure of his broad head at her opening.
He wasted no time and slid into her in one, long, solid stroke.
She felt every inch—his hand on her hips kept her in place, and the stretch of him was almost too much.
The sting was on the edge of pain but quickly dissolved into pleasure.
Tingles of bliss rushed through her as he surged in and out of her.
Her hands fisted in the comforter, and she buried her face in the pillow, but he pulled her hair, gently but firmly, forcing her head up. “No hiding. I want to see your face,” he said.
She turned her head, and he was there, his face flushed, gaze molten. “Good girl,” he said, and drove into her in a forceful push, filling her completely.
His eyes were wild with flames burning in them. But underneath the fire, there was something else. She knew he was holding himself back. Everything about the man was restraint, control, and precision. She wanted him to lose control, to lose himself in her.
He set a punishing rhythm. It was hard but deliberate.
Every thrust sent a shockwave through her.
He leaned over her and whispered things into her ear, filthy, beautiful things, about how bad he’d always wanted her, how he’d fantasized about her all these years, and how he was never going to let her go.
He told her she was perfect, that she was made for him, that her body was his favorite place on earth.
Then he said the words that pushed her body right over the cliff.
“When I saw you tonight, the only word I thought was, ‘mine.’ You’re mine.”
Apparently, she had a possessive kink she wasn’t aware of, because that was all it took for pleasure to lash through her as her body began to milk him.
He didn’t stop, didn’t slow down. He let her ride out her climax, repeating his name like a prayer.
Seconds after she reached the pinnacle of her release, she began to feel tremors radiate through him, his grip on her hips tightened, and he groaned her name as his entire body tensed.
She was slowly coming back to reality as he collapsed forward, blanketing her with his body.
For a while there was nothing but the mingled sounds of their breaths, wild and tangled.
Then, gently, he eased out of her and gathered her up in his arms, pulling her close even though they were both shaking and sweating and probably sticking together.
Her eyes were heavy, so she closed her lids.
Frankie never experimented with drugs, but if she had to guess, she would say that she was high as she listened to Liam’s heartbeat, as she drifted between wakefulness and sleep.
She felt a kiss on the top of her head, and Liam’s raspy voice said, “I love you.”
“I love you, too. I always have.” She buried her face in his chest and held on, as if he were the only solid thing left in her world.
She didn’t remember falling asleep, but she woke in the middle of the night to find herself wrapped up in his arms, her head under his chin, the memory of the words they’d said hanging in the air. Was it a memory or a dream?
Had Liam told her that he loved her?
Had she told Liam that she loved him and always had?
If it was a dream, she wanted to go back to it, and if it was real, she couldn’t wait for reality.