Chapter 20
twenty
FRANCIE
This is not how I expected our first time to play out.
I’m flat on my back in bed, a bandage stuck to my scalp, a cup of lukewarm peppermint tea dying a slow death on my nightstand, with Asher Fitzgerald role playing nursemaid like he’s Florence Nightingale with a six-pack and a god complex.
After he cleaned up my cut, his jaw clenched like he was prepping for surgery instead of popping a Band-Aid on a glorified paper cut, he handed me a fresh pair of pajamas and ordered me to rest. And by ordered, I mean full-on alpha command.
He's been checking on me every hour like he’s running a concussion protocol. Sticking his head around the door to ask things like “What day is it?” and “How many fingers am I holding up?” and “Do you feel dizzy?”
Yes, Doctor Doom, I feel dizzy. From your abrupt change from hot sex god to qualified head trauma surgeon.
Because what I haven’t done is kiss him. Or touch him. Or scream his name while he’s actually in my damn room instead of at the other end of a camera feed like the world’s hottest voyeur.
The tension between us is suffocating. He’s all chiseled restraint and clenched jaw and I’m one deep breath away from combusting.
So I sit up, rip off the unnecessary bandage, and shake out my hair, which now looks like I’ve lost a wrestling match with a sea witch.
And then I march straight into the living room.
But I don’t get the chance to deliver my ultimatum. Because there he is, lounging on the sofa like a cover model for Moody Men Monthly, one ankle propped on his knee, his brows dipped in concentration as he flips a page.
Of my manuscript.
The one I printed earlier. The one that’s supposed to be sitting on my desk, waiting for me to go through it with a red pen.
The one he’s very much not supposed to know about, let alone reading.
I come to a stop, mid stomp, my heart doing a triple axel in my chest. “What are you doing?” I ask with a panicked voice. It’s clearly not as intimidating as I’d hoped.
He doesn’t even look up. Just turns another page and mutters, “This scene. Chapter sixteen. Is this guy supposed to be me?”
My jaw drops.
Oh god, he’s reading that scene. The one with telepathy and her sending him dirty thoughts, showing him exactly how she touches herself while the brooding commander is away on maneuvers.
He sends orders back. Commanding, filthy instructions laced with praise and control. But he never once touches himself.
I think I might die.
My cheeks start to flame as I step the rest of the way into the living room. “I can explain…” I tell him. Oh god. “It’s just a story. Fiction. Completely made up.” I’m babbling, trying to fix this. “And the similarities to anybody living or dead are entirely coincidental.”
He lifts a brow. “Francie.”
“Just because he has a jawline dangerously similar to yours means nothing. It’s not like you’re telepathic, is it? Unless you count the cameras as telepathy. Which they’re not…”
“Francie.” This time his voice is louder. More commanding. My body does weird things I’m not sure I’ll ever get over.
But it does the trick. I stop talking.
He looks at me. Cool, steady, like he’s cataloguing every inch of me. As if he’s remembering exactly what I do when I’m alone at night with the lights off and one of his filthy little voice notes in my head.
“I’ve known about your books for a while,” he says calmly.
My mouth opens, then closes. Heat prickles down my spine.
He’s known? How long? For days. Weeks maybe. And I didn’t know he knew. He watched me come undone every night and never said a damn thing.
It feels like being naked again. Not in the fun way.
“After everything that went down at the club, I needed to make sure you were safe. It came up in my checks.”
I blink. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It wasn’t my business to say anything. Generally, if people are hiding things and not hurting others by doing so, I assume there’s a reason behind it.”
A weird feeling comes over me. Guilt. I was so angry at him after that, yet he kept my secret. My heart feels so tender it might be bruised.
He leans back, the manuscript in his lap, looking entirely too comfortable considering I’m melting down.
“You don’t think it’s your business when your literary alter ego is telling my alter ego to touch herself in graphic detail?” I ask, trying to ground myself.
A corner of his mouth lifts. He’s smirking, goddamn it.
“I do have a question for you, though,” he murmurs. “Why do you keep it a secret? I’m guessing my sister knows.”
“You didn’t ask her?” I ask. Autumn would never be able to stay quiet under an Asher interrogation.
“As I said, not my secret.”
I take a deep breath. “Yes, she knows. And my cousin Charlie. Plus my editor. That’s it.”
“The rest of your family doesn’t know?” he asks, his brows knitting. “Why not?”
“I just…” I exhale softly, pushing my unbrushed-dried mess of hair from my face.
“I guess at first I wanted to succeed under my own efforts. Not because I’m a Salinger, or because my brothers gave me a boost. Half of my family works in publishing.
I hated the thought that I’d be viewed as a nepo baby.
And then there’s what I write.” I sigh. “My brothers really don’t need to read some of those scenes. ”
Asher says nothing. Just looks at me like I’m an algorithm for him to be studied and dissected.
I keep going, because the dam’s cracked now. “The longer I kept it quiet, the harder it was to come clean. Now if they found out, they’d be hurt that I never told them. I guess I’m stuck.”
His expression softens. “You know what I think?” he murmurs.
“No, but I’m guessing it’s going to be wrapped in some gruff, emotionally unavailable big-brother type advice.”
That earns me a faint smile.
“I think they’d be proud. I would be if it was one of my sisters.
I’d be fucking delighted for her. I’d want to shout it from the rooftops.
You’ve created a world, you delight your readers.
I’ve read your reviews, Francie. You don’t get those kind of raving reviews because you’re a Salinger.
You get them because you’re damn good at what you do. ”
His honesty hits harder than I expect. It feels like he believes in me. Not because I’m a Salinger. Or because he’s trying to get in my pants. But because he sees me. And that’s scarier than anything.
Even the spider.
“You should tell them. It’s not good to hide things. Not from those you love.”
I push my emotions down, because I don’t like how they make me feel. “That’s kind of rich coming from you,” I point out. “You’re like Fort Knox when it comes to secrets.”
“I am?” He tips his head to the side. Leaning forward, he lays the manuscript on the coffee table, then stands.
I have to lift my face to keep my gaze on his.
“You hide everything,” I say softly. “Your feelings. Your past. Your real motivations.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just watches me, his jaw tight.
Then his eyes drop to my mouth, his voice a low rumble. “That’s because I like to savor things, Francie. I don’t rush what I know is going to wreck me.”
My breath catches. He thinks I’m going to wreck him? Why does that feel so hot?
Without letting my brain overthink it, I roll onto the balls of my feet and press myself against him.
“Sometimes you need to stop savoring and start wrecking,” I whisper.
His dark eyes lock on mine. His jaw flexes, his hand lifts like he’s going to touch me, but then he freezes. His fingers hover inches from my face, his knuckles pale with tension.
“No,” he says hoarsely. “You hit your head.”
“I’m fine,” I whisper. I look at him, my eyes wide and I swear he winces.
“You’re not fine.” He pulls back an inch, and I wince at the rejection. “The second I touch you I’m not going to be able to stop.”
The air pulses between us. My body aches for him. Kiss me, dammit.
But instead he steps back, just enough for it to physically hurt, and turns away.
“You should lie down,” he says, not looking at me anymore. “And I need to do some work. I’ll use Parker’s office. Shout if you need me.”
And just like that he’s gone.
But I’m not.
Not really.
Because if he thinks he can hold back forever, he doesn’t know me at all.
And I’ve got just the plan to ruin him.
ASHER
An hour later, I’m on a video call with Brad, who’s taking me through the server resilience upgrades, a dry subject at the best of times, but right now I can barely bring myself to care what he’s saying about contingency improvements and the new three-tier protocol we’ve installed for client-side encryption.
I like my deputy, I really do, but right now all I can think about is her.
Lying in bed in the next room. The way she looked at me an hour ago, like I was the only thing keeping her upright, makes me want to end this call and stride right in there.
There’s a tightness in my chest. It feels suspiciously like anger, but I’m not sure who I’m angry at. Her or me.
Maybe both.
All I know is that I’m a hair’s breadth away from storming into her room and showing her just how fucking furious I am.
I take a breath. She’s hurt. She needs to rest.
“So then we added the rolling back-up redundancy to the client side key vaults, just in case anyone tries to replicate the previous breach vector again…”
Brad’s voice fades into static as my phone vibrates next to the keyboard. I glance down at it.
Turn the bedroom camera on. – Francie
My mouth goes dry. Every rational part of my brain says to ignore it. But rationality has taken a back seat ever since I walked through the lighthouse door. Hell, ever since she texted me that first night and shattered into a million pieces in front of my eyes.
I adjust myself in my seat. And of course I turn the fucking camera on.
Brad is still talking, but it sounds like background noise, competing with the sound of blood rushing through my ears.
“What do you think?” he asks.
“Right,” I murmur, dragging my eyes away from the screen long enough to unmute myself. “We should definitely… yeah. Do that.”
Like a magnet, my gaze is dragged back to the second window on my monitor. To her. In bed. Bare shoulders, hair mussed. She’s staring straight at the camera again, those wide eyes that short-circuit every single coherent thought I’ve ever had.
She knows exactly what she’s doing. And I’m falling for it like a rookie.
“I’ll send over the test results by the end of day,” Brad says. “And while I have you, I wanted to run through the revised reporting interface for—”
The covers fall from Francie’s chest. Revealing her perfectly round breasts.
My throat locks. She’s doing it on purpose, there’s no doubt about that. She’s challenging me. Teasing me. And every part of me wants to rise to the bait.
But Brad is still talking.
I hit the unmute button. “I have to go,” I tell him, my voice thick.
I can’t even pretend I’m sane anymore. Especially when she removes the sheets from the rest of her body.
Revealing her completely bare body in all of its glory.
Fuck, I want to touch her. I want to do everything to her.
Make her cheeks pink up and her breath shorten as I make her come, over and over again until she’s an orgasmic mess.
Brad blinks, uncertainty pulling at his features. “Is everything okay?”
No, everything is a fucking disaster. My body’s on fire. I’m seconds away from breaking my own rules, and the woman I can’t stop thinking about is naked and challenging me through a goddamn security feed.
“It’s a personal matter,” I manage to bite out. “We’ll circle back on this tomorrow.”
I don’t wait for him to reply before I end the call. And then I push back from the desk, feeling one breath away from losing control.
If she wants to play games, she’d better be ready for me to play.
Because I always win.