Chapter 30
Frankie stood in front of Liam, her limbs trembling from a fatigue that went bone-deep, her head throbbing with a dull pressure behind her eyes.
She’d used ‘coming down with a migraine’ as an excuse for leaving early, but it turned out karma was a bitch, or maybe she just wanted to help balance out Frankie’s truth-to-lie ratio, since the scales had been heavily tipping towards lie as of late.
The past week had hollowed her out, and now all that was left was an empty shell.
She’d unwittingly gotten in line for the Emotional Turmoil Roller Coaster, before she knew it, she was strapped in, and no one had stopped the ride.
She was mentally and physically exhausted.
She was so tired that her typical instinct to crack a joke or throw up some kind of sarcastic shield was utterly absent.
All she just wanted to do was go back to Yaya’s, crawl into bed, pull the covers over her head, and not move for a year, maybe two.
Instead, she waited in a face-off with the most emotionally unavailable man on the planet, and when nothing happened, it made her want to scream.
Liam was a lone wolf. He always had been.
She wasn’t going to beg him to let her care for him.
His reaction to her, even trying to see his injury, spoke volumes about his feelings towards her.
She wasn’t going to break herself in half just to prove that she loved him.
She took a step back, ready to leave, but he moved first, blocking her path. “Where are you going?”
“It’s none of your business,” she snapped, unblinking.
“Yes, it is.”
“No, it’s not,” she repeated, less because she believed it and more because she needed to say it. If she said it enough, maybe she would believe it, and it would become true. Speak it into existence, wasn’t that one of those self-help sayings?
He loomed above her, studying her, eyes narrowed, maybe trying to figure out what she’d do next.
A quick sidestep failed when he anticipated her move and shifted his stance.
“You’re wearing my sweatshirt,” he countered.
For a split second, she thought he might be joking, trying to lighten the mood, but there was nothing humorous about his face.
More important than the words that were coming out of his stupid, handsome, sexy mouth was the fact he kept playing defense.
He stood between her and the door to freedom.
His voice was calm and passive, but reading between the lines of his statement and stances, the message was very clear, “You’re mine, and I’m not letting you go. ”
Every self-respect-cell in her body rebelled against that sentiment, for all the reasons she’d outlined to him.
Her hormones, however, were of a different mind.
This very scenario was every sensual fantasy, every romance novel come to life.
The man of her dreams, the love of her life, was demanding her to stay, claiming her, albeit silently through body language, as his own, her lady parts were saying, “um… yes, please!” They were firmly Team Sexy Time, marching in protest of her ego, chanting, “Take Pleasure Now, Take a Stand Later.”
Luckily, her pride held the picket line of her sex strike. Her arousal, as strong and determined as it may be—and it was both—was not able to penetrate it, which stopped him from penetrating her. This was a penetrate-free zone.
If Liam thought, for even a nanosecond, that the fact she was nekkid beneath his dumb, amazing smelling, too-big, ultra-soft sweatshirt meant he had some kind of claim on her, then he must have forgotten who she was.
If he thought she wouldn’t pop it off in front of him, then he clearly didn’t know her as well as he thought he did.
If he thought she’d have an issue putting on soaking wet clothes and walking back out in the pouring rain, then he grossly underestimated her.
She stared at him, calling his bluff. When he didn’t move, she reached down, peeled off the sweatshirt, and let it fall to the floor with a heavy plop.
The air pricked her skin as she stood in front of Liam, naked as the day she was born.
His eyes travelled over her, tracing every inch.
Not in a sleazy way, but in the way a man stares at something he’s hungry for and trying desperately not to devour.
Her nipples tingled as they puckered beneath his gaze.
The flush of arousal that crashed over her, heated her from the inside out.
She felt it spread through her like butter in a hot skillet but was determined in herself not to give in to the desires roaring inside of her.
Her cheeks were hot and she was so turned-on she was pretty sure if she was rocking her Raggedy Ann costume right now, she wouldn’t need any makeup.
Every second she spent in Liam’s presence was one more second he wore down her resistance. She was only human.
With urgency she pivoted and reached for her dress and soggy underwear from the armchair, but his hand shot out, catching her wrist.
“Let go,” she forced herself to say, but her voice was a whisper, and even she couldn’t tell if it was a command or a plea.
He either didn’t hear or ignored her. Instead of letting her go, his grip tightened as his thumb pressed into the thrum of her pulse, and he pulled her gently back so that her spine collided with his bare chest. His other arm wrapped around her waist, the heat of his palm seeping through her skin and into her sternum.
His bare feet bracketed hers on the floor as his chin dipped to rest against her wet, tangled hair.
The masculine scent that was uniquely his mixed with the wood burning in the fireplace enveloped her, cocooning her in both comfort and danger.
She could feel his heartbeat, fast and urgent, and the warmth of his breath on her hair.
His thick erection pressed along her lower back, throbbing heavily.
The heat of his palm flattened over her belly as his fingers splayed, spanning across the width of her torso.
Her eyes cast down and watched as his thumb caressed the sensitive area above her pelvic bone, causing her core to pulse.
She loved the contrast of his large, tanned hand against her pale, delicate skin.
She should have been angry. She wanted to be angry. But the truth was, she wanted this more. She wanted him to hold her in place, to force her to stay, to show her that she was worth the fight—not just for him, but for herself.
His other hand—the one that had captured her in the first place—slid up from her wrist, slow and deliberate, brushing goosebumps along her forearm.
His fingers traveled higher, dusting along her bicep, then feathering over her shoulder to the back of her neck, until finally threading into her hair.
He fisted his hand and tilted her head back, exposing her throat.
The sting of her scalp sent a delicious shiver dancing down her spine.
He didn’t kiss her at first, he just let his lips hover, letting her feel the possibility, the threat of it. Then, with a tiny shift, he pressed his mouth to her pulse point, teeth grazing lightly, tongue flicking over skin.
The sensation was electric. Her knees wanted to fold, but he anchored her, one hand at her belly, the other in her hair, keeping her upright and exposed. There was nothing gentle or sweet about it, it was raw and consuming, like he was starving, and she was the last meal on earth.
She tried to pull away, tried to breathe, but her body wouldn’t cooperate.
He tightened his grip, his lips and teeth grazing her neck as he growled, “Tell me again and I will.”
Determination to keep her guard up collided with the irresistible need building deep in her core.
His mouth traced a slow, deliberate path from her neck to the slope of her shoulder.
The vulnerability of it, being naked and physically overpowered, should have felt threatening, but she’d never felt safer, or more desired, in her life.
She resisted—tried to resist—but her body had already surrendered.
He felt it, too. She could feel him grow even harder behind her, feel the rise and fall of his chest matching her own labored breaths.
She squeezed her eyes shut, determined not to give him the satisfaction, but her mind was already fracturing around the intensity of his touch.
His hand drifted lower, over the taut plane of her stomach, skimming over her small patch of hair, before dipping between her legs.
Liam’s fingers slid along her folds, his touch both rough and reverent as he found the pulse point at the junction of her thighs.
Frankie’s back arched as his palm pressed against the top of her sex.
She tried to twist away, or maybe closer, but he matched her movement, keeping her flat against him, flush to the carved wall of his chest. He rubbed slow, deliberate circles, the heel of his hand grinding against her clit, and heat radiated outward, a shockwave that raced to every extremity.
For a moment her own body felt like a stranger’s, all raw nerve endings and trembling need.
She clamped a hand over his wrist, nails biting him in warning. His lips smiled against her neck, his stubble a rasp on her skin. His other hand came around to cup her breast, teasing and pinching her nipple, her body strained and needy.
Frankie’s knees buckled, and the only thing holding her upright was the steel band of Liam’s arm around her waist. His lips brushed against the rim of her ear as he whispered filthy things, words that made her blush even as she burned for more.
Each syllable binding them together, each exhalation a dare for him to go further.