Chapter Twelve
FRANKIE
“Your tattoo,” I whispered. “The moth.”
Turner kissed me. Deeply. Nipping at my bottom lip. “Yes.”
“You never told me what it meant. You—”
“Yes,” he repeated before taking my mouth again.
A moan climbed up my throat at both the feel of Turner’s lips and tongue, and the understanding of what he was admitting.
I love you, Frankie Rossi. I love you like a moth loves the light. Desperately. Mindlessly. And to the last second of my fucking life.
I climbed on my feet, bracing my arms behind his neck, letting my weight fall on him, as he remained planted on the carpeted floor, at the edge of the bed.
I wanted to climb him, sneak inside of him, stay there forever.
All this pent-up need and yearning was bursting out of me in waves, making me restless.
He’d gotten a tattoo, his first one, at eighteen, and he’d never told me what it meant, and all along, all this time, those wings of ink that I’d loved so much, had … it had been for me.
For me.
“Why would you keep this from me,” I groaned against his lips. “If you’d told me—”
He rolled us on the bed, bringing me by the waist to straddle him. “I know. Now come up here.” He patted his chest. “Punish me for keeping it from you.”
It dawned on me then, what he was asking. “I never …”
The hunger I’d seen earlier, in the tub, a hunger that made me just as breathless now, if not more so, flared behind his eyes. His jaw clenched and his hands curled around my backside. “Ride my face. Let me be your first at something.”
My chest swelled with more than arousal. I wanted that. I wanted everything with him. I wanted … “Be my last, too. Be my last at everything, Turner.”
Turner groaned so deep in his throat, that it made his chest vibrate under me. He pulled at the pillow under his head and flung it carelessly away, then he lifted me off him and hauled me up his body.
A debilitating rush of anticipation almost knocked me over when I looked down and found his head between my knees.
The sight felt like some fantasy my head concocted late at night. Like one of the many I’d had through the years.
His palms that had been on my backside dragged down my thighs, comforting me. “Give me your hands,” he ordered. I did, and he brought them to his wet and unruly locks of chestnut hair. “You hold on tight, understand? I’m about to go a little wild.”
I nodded, and he lost no time. Turner pulled my hips down onto his mouth, tucked my undies to the side, and swept at my core, doing exactly as he promised. Pleasure rippled inside me, making my head bob to the side. Turner hummed against me in response, thrusting his tongue in.
My knees doubled, my weight falling fully on him.
He grunted with approval, his palms curling possessively around my skin, urging me to move. To match every lap of his tongue and every intake of his mouth with my body.
When I did, he rewarded me by rising his mouth to my clit, and I don’t know what the hell he did, or how, or whether what it caused should have belonged to this universe, but I saw stars.
Little, twinkling stars flashed around my eyes as I latched onto his hair for dear life.
I held onto that mullet that made him look so ridiculously hot, so absolutely himself, so incredibly mine somehow.
As if I’d been waiting all my life for this weekend. This reunion. This moment. This—
“Harder,” Turner growled from underneath me. I glimpsed down and boy, when he met my gaze, it was the most erotic sight I’d ever seen in my life. “Ride me like you mean it.”
I was still very much stunned when he squeezed my cheek and gave it one sharp slap of encouragement.
Dear God. I’d loved, loved, loved that. I hurled out a whimper and doubled my pace. Then, I pulled at his hair, demanding more of the same.
He repeated the sequence, and this time added whatever he’d done seconds ago to my clit.
“Turner,” I howled. Yes, howled. “I’m coming. Oh, my God, Turner, I’m—” My vision flickered when he added his thumb to the equation. One tap and I was undulating one last time against this beautiful man’s face, spiraling right out of my body with a, “Fuck. I love you.”
Because fuck, I loved him. More than I’d loved anyone, and more than I’d loved him at any point in the past. And it had nothing to do with how he brought me to a soul-shattering orgasm.
It had to do with everything that had brought us to right this second and everything that made me feel this connected to him.
This close. This intimately entwined. As if all that bone-chilling loneliness I hated had finally receded.
“You really come so beautifully, Frankie.”
I dropped to the side. “Mustache is magic. Compliments to the baker.”
He let out one heavy laugh before coming up on his elbow. His lips were glossy with my pleasure. More than his lips. I could see myself marking the corners of his mouth, his chin, that mustache.
“I’ll never shave it off now,” he murmured, eyes roaming all over me. “Until you ask me to.”
“Don’t count on it. And I’m keeping the mullet too.”
“It’s all yours,” he told me seriously, before sealing the deal by taking my mouth deep enough to allow my taste onto my tongue.
Pleasure sprouted deep in my belly. Lazily, but firmly.
Again. So fast. It was always somehow there.
Turner broke the kiss slowly. “I could see your tattoo, my mark on you, while you moved over my mouth. It was breathtaking.”
I swallowed. Hard. That swirl of heat doubling, expanding. “Breathtaking?”
“Yes.” His hand brushed the peak of my breast, then slid easily down my cleavage, aided by the sweat still clinging to my skin. “It was driving me crazy.”
I was officially horny again. Aroused like I had no business being after that massive orgasm. And when Turner leaned and kissed the mark on my skin, as he’d called it, and then lapped his tongue over it, I could do nothing but pant for my next breath.
“I’m not good with words like you are,” he said, lifting his mouth off my chest. That devilish hand returned in its place. Fingertips caressed down my side. Tickling my rib cage. Belly. Hip. I felt him pressing against my thigh, maddeningly hot and hard. “I’m not—”
“No,” I interjected, restless all over again. “You’re good with words. Better than you think. Incredible, even. But I’m still going to ask you to shut up and fuck me.”
The roll of laughter that left him was like thunder. Deep and loud, and it made my whole body shake. It was a force of nature.
He moved right over me, planting his elbows on both sides of my head, caging me against a mattress that bounced under our combined weight.
“You want me to fuck you?”
I nodded my head.
“That’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard,” he rumbled.
It wasn’t sweet. Nothing about this was sweet, because damn.
Turner lost no time and snatched my wrists with one fist, bringing my arms briskly over my head.
My back arched under him, and only after he got rid of my panties, assessed our new position and grunted with satisfaction, pleased, did he drop his full weight on me.
Twin moans escaped us at the contact.
It was glorious. And I wanted him to move. Do something. I squirmed, feeling his length against my belly. Pulsing. He was so heavy. So big. I loved him on me. I needed to tell him. “You’re so big, I love it.”
He pushed one of my legs upwards with a jerk of his knee, then brought his mouth to my ear. “You’re perfect. You’re going to take me so good, baby.”
I was going to goddamn try, so I lifted my hips, impatient, greedy, the feel of his skin rubbing and gliding against mine driving me to insanity with need.
“With or without condom?” Turner rasped, tucking his nose into my hair, finally moving, stroking his length easily against my middle, using the mess we’d just made of me. “I have one with me, but know that we don’t need to use it unless you feel better with it. Your choice.”
“Without,” I whispered, understanding what he meant, and not wanting to wait any longer. “I’m on the pill. I want you in me. Now.”
Turner dragged his mouth back to mine, and when he kissed me this time, I knew it wasn’t a reward for letting him fuck me without a condom. I knew it was a way to tell me that he cherished that I trusted him.
The whimper of acceptance and urgency set him back into motion. His hips resumed, and he tugged at my pinned arms, as if priming my body for his taking. He locked his body between my thighs and started to push in, finding no resistance. I was absolutely drenched.
“Say you’re mine,” he demanded, holding still, his breathing shallow.
“I’m—”
He thrust in. Roughly.
“Yours,” I finished with a moan.
“That’s right.” He retreated, and oh boy. The size of him, the weight of his body, the absolute ruthlessness in which he was giving me what I wanted, was already sending me toppling down the finish line. “You always have been.” Another thrust. “Always will be.” And another. “Mine.”
I gasped for air as he continued sinking into me, not waiting for more confirmation.
Good, because I was lost to the feeling of us.
To the back and forth. To the sound of his grunts and my moans, and the half slurred more’s and yes’s I was letting out.
It all escalated quickly, after that. His rhythm turned punishing.
His hold of my wrists bruising. The way every thrust pushed me up and up and up the mattress exhilarating.
Turner straightened and went up on his knees, still moving, still inside of me, all that skin smeared in beautiful black ink contracting with his heaving breath. He met my gaze. “It’s gonna get real rough for a minute, baby. Tell me that’s okay again.”
“Yes.”
He pulled my knee to my chest with his free hand, and when he changed the angle, my fingers curled around the comforter with a loud plea.
More. I needed it all. I needed to come. Now.