20. Franki
twenty
Ishould have been smoother about this kiss. More patient. This is awkward and . . . shoot. Our glasses scrape together and squish against our faces.
But the things Henry said have me overwhelmed with feelings that need an outlet.
Henry was acting to shield me from my father, and I know I should have been stronger on my own. I shouldn’t need help to handle the man. But having someone . . . Henry . . . here in my corner feels so damn good. I’m not alone. I don’t have to do this myself.
At first, Henry was so cold with Jonny that I doubt most people would have even caught on to the anger riding him. Then white-hot fury had torn through his frigid calculation.
Henry said I was “a person” that night on the balcony too. He’d called me “fine the way you are.” In my insecure, wounded heart, I’d found it dismissive, but that’s not how he’d meant it.
Henry draws away from me, and I ease back, embarrassed by my enthusiasm. “Sorr—”
He doesn’t let me get my apology out. He’s too busy taking both of our glasses off, tossing them to the nightstand, then backing me toward the bed with his mouth on mine before I can finish the word.
He’s filling my senses, completely taking over, his enthusiasm more than a match for mine. Henry searches my mouth, as if he’s starving for me. It’s the most carnal thing I’ve experienced in my life.
He doesn’t act as if kissing me is a perfunctory task that must be performed in order to move on to the part where he tries to get me to take my clothes off. He kisses me as if he can’t bear to take his mouth from mine. His body is strong and hard. His hands are everywhere. My back. Easing under my pajama top.
What would happen if I gave myself over to him? Let go and put myself in those hands? That’s what I want. To stop the thinking and fighting and trying to protect my heart.
He’s touching my waist now.
Now, he spans my rib cage, thumbs tracing the undersides of my breasts.
Now, his hands are on my hips, fingers digging into my butt. Though, for all the frantic energy between us and all the hard strength in him, he remains gentle.
When I feel the bed against my legs, I hold onto his shoulders and ease down until I’m lying on my back with Henry lowering himself on top of me. He groans when our entire bodies line up against each other. With a roll of his hips, his erection nudges into the cradle of my thighs. I want him to touch me. I’ll die if he stops. My hands in his hair, I shift and slide against him, rubbing on him like a cat.
He moves to kiss my neck, and I angle my head to give him access. His lips there, his tongue. His breath. Goose bumps and a pleasurable shiver take me, my nipples pebbling as a lush, molten, heat floods my pelvis.
My pajama top is rucked up, my abdomen bare. I need his skin against mine, but as I slide my hands to his waist, determined to start by untucking his shirt, a woman’s scream rents the air.
I freeze at the sound, but Henry explodes into action, rolling off me, grabbing his glasses, and heading toward the door in the space of a heartbeat. He spares me a glance. “Stay here.”
He’s gone before I even have time to close my mouth.
A virtual stampede is taking place in the hallway. Everyone is out there, talking and muttering about Louis Larrabie, and I’m not staying in this room just because Henry said, “Stay here,” the same way I’d tell Oliver to sit.
When I enter the hallway, I’m met by Sydney and Janessa, who are both fuming.
“What’s happening?” I ask.
“Even I can’t see what’s going on,” Janessa says, referring to her height. “The McRaes have formed a barricade in front of her door.”
“It sounds like Louis tried something with Bronwyn, which would be incredibly stupid of him, but I don’t know if he tried something. Or he triedsomething,” Sydney says.
That sentence might sound nonsensical to a guy, but any woman understands the distinction. Given her scream, I think it was the latter. If he’d politely expressed feelings to her, she’d have asked him to leave, not screamed, “Louis, no!” loudly enough to bring the household running.
“Is she kicking the shit out of him in there? Is that why they’re all just standing in the hall instead of helping her?” Janessa asks.
“How would we know?” Sydney asks in exasperation.
“I don’t think she’s well enough for that,” I say.
“One of us has to get in there and make sure she’s okay,” Sydney says.
As a unit, they turn assessing eyes on me. I stare back warily. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”
“You have to volunteer as tribute,” Janessa says. “I’d have to try to shove my way in past three McRae men, and that’s never going to work.”
“But you want me to? You’re tall,” I say to Janessa. “Can’t you just look over or through the cracks or something?”
“They still have a few inches on me, so, no, I can’t.”
Sydney plants her hands on her hips and says, “I barely know them. I can’t force my way in there, but you’re practically family. They treat you like you’re their little sister. It won’t be weird if you do it.”
I almost choke. Henry’s hand on my boob four minutes ago didn’t feel very sisterly.
“Come on,” Sydney’s dark eyes bore into me. “Take one for the team.”
“You were the soccer player, not me,” I argue.
Just then, another muffled scream of outrage and the vague sound of male threats emanate from the room at the end of the hall.
“I’m going in. You better appreciate that I am about to attempt to breach a barricade made from 100 percent McRae,” I say.
Janessa gives me a gentle nudge. “Go forth and conquer, then report back for your award ceremony.”
I hesitate and Sydney starts humming a song from Les Misérables.
I wave her away. “Stop pressuring me. I’m thinking.”
I start by trying to find a space to wedge my way into. Charlotte allows me through the first line of defense, probably because she’s too startled to stand her ground, but then I reach Henry, Arden, and Gabriel. When I try to slip between Henry and Arden, neither budges. Arden gives me a pat on the shoulder, but otherwise ignores me. Henry scowls back at me. “I told you to stay in your room.”
“Don’t speak to me like I’m a dog, Henry,” I snap.
Horror floods his face. “I didn’t mean it like that. I was concerned for your safety.”
“Is something dangerous happening?”
He glances into the room then back toward me, a glint of amusement entering his eyes. “Not for Bronwyn and Dean.”
To hell with it. I crouch down onto all fours, ignoring my sore knees, and insert my hands between Henry’s thighs. He looks down at me, and there’s no question now that he’s amused. He also probably feels guilty that he spoke to me in a way I found offensive.
“Let me in,” I whisper.
“Will you stay with me until Louis isn’t likely to accidentally catch you in the crossfire?”
What is the creep even doing in there that Henry’s talking like that? “I’ll stay with you,” I promise.
Henry widens his stance, and I pop my head and shoulders between his knees, holding on to his calves, just in time to see Bronwyn poke Louis in the chest with a finger and hiss, “My husband saved me from you.”
Dean puts his hands around Bronwyn’s waist, and, with what looks like no effort whatsoever, picks her straight up and sets her on the bed before he turns back to Louis.
Bronwyn’s husband is back to being “scary Dean.” If that man ever looked at me the way he’s looking at Louis, I’d definitely cry.
Louis spits out accusations about Dean. I know for a fact they aren’t true because Bronwyn is the one who convinced Dean to marry her, not the other way around. Then Louis starts shit-talking Phee. Who bad-mouths a baby?
I’m not sure what Louis expects after the things he’s doing and saying, but I’m not surprised when Bronwyn scrambles off the bed, slides in front of Dean, and pops Louis in the mouth.
Louis staggers back away from her, holding his bleeding lip, squealing, and saying the nastiest things. When he insults the baby again, I twist through Henry’s legs to try to go to Bronwyn. I know the moment I do it that I shouldn’t have.
My left hip makes a popping sound and burns like heck. It’s not my hip per se, but actually my sacroiliac joint. Because of my shorter leg, it’s been pushed out of alignment many times, so it happens way too easily now. Between my knees, which are already aching, and now my misaligned SI joint, I suck in a breath through my teeth at the pain.
Henry crouches down in concern, reaching for me. “You okay?” he asks quietly.
I give him my serene face. “Fine.” I will be, anyway. This isn’t anything worth fussing over.
He straightens, taking me at my word, both of us distracted by Louis’s next words.
Oh my God.He did not just say that. I hold on to Henry’s legs so hard I can’t believe he doesn’t push me away, but I need something to hold on to, or I’ll punch Louis.
The guys continue to stand in the doorway, in perfect control. Dean looks terrifying, but he hasn’t lost his temper either. These men are saints.
“Louis, get out of my house,” Bronwyn says.
“I have witnesses.” He points at us. “They all saw you and the hulk assault me.”
Henry disagrees, “That’s not what I saw. I heard my sister scream, ‘Stop hurting yourself, Louis.’ And when I got here, I saw Louis punch himself in the face and say he was going to frame Dean for it.”
Gabriel straightens his cuffs. “That’s exactly what I saw too.”
“Me three,” I collaborate because screw Louis.
Everything escalates fast from there, with Louis nearly knocking Bronwyn off her, admittedly still wobbly, feet.
Henry swears under his breath, tensing under my hands. Dean puts Louis in a painful-looking hold with his arms shoved behind his back, and Henry places a palm on my head, murmuring, “Be back soon. Just making sure Louis doesn’t forget his luggage.”
Somehow, I doubt luggage is the reason Louis has a four-man escort off the premises, but while Louis raves like a lunatic, not one of the men loses his cool.
I’m more concerned about Bronwyn, but when I try to stand and go to her, I can’t. I need something to hold on to, so I crawl toward her as the guys rearrange themselves to make room for Dean to drag Louis out.
Crawling isn’t particularly easy, either, because my knees are not happy with me. I’m more dragging my left leg than anything, but, luckily, I don’t have far to go before I reach Bronwyn. Between her hand and the edge of the bed, I drag myself to stand and wrap my arms around her.
She isn’t crying, but she is shaking. Charlotte joins us and assists Bronwyn to the bathroom to wash her hand and check to see if her knuckles need ice.
I lower myself to the edge of her bed as Sydney and Janessa join me, then lie back and grimace to Janessa, indicating my left leg. “Want to play footsie?”
It’s a code word she understands. There are a few exercises and stretches I can do to work the joint back into place, and one of the easiest involves another person planting my foot against her chest and leaning toward me.
I concentrate on awareness of my body and pushing the pain from my conscious mind.
Mouth tight, Janessa lifts my heel, and I’m careful not to let my calm expression falter. It’s not that bad, only discomfort. Not that bad. Not that bad. If I keep telling myself those words, I can convince myself of the truth of them.
Sydney looks confused. “Wait. Are you two together? Is this another secret relationship?”
Her question pulls me out of my meditative state, even as the joint works its way back into place with a barely audible pop.
Sydney’s tan skin goes gray. “What was that? Did she just crack your hip like a walnut?”
“It’s nothing. Never had a chiropractor crack your back?”
She looks doubtful. “Really?”
I distract her. “You think Janessa and I would make a good couple?”
Janessa laughs. Her long, dark hair slid forward when she worked on my leg, and she pushes it over her shoulder now. “We’d be the grumpy/sunshine trope. Franki needs a cinnamon roll hero.”
“I think I could go for the sexy professor type,” I venture, offering up a ginormous hint to feel out what they might think about me potentially hooking up with Henry.
They both look doubtful.
“Maybe,” Sydney says, “if he’s also got golden retriever energy.”
“Definitely no grumps, alphas, or anyone with even a hint of morally gray.”
Bronwyn emerges from her bathroom. “Who is morally gray?”
“No one. We’re just discussing Franki’s type.”
Her expression clears. “That’s easy. You need someone who will treat you like the queen you are. Likes to cuddle. Is emotionally intelligent. Recognizes how funny, capable, and talented you are. Worships the ground you walk on. Likes dogs. And has a huge d—”
“Bronwyn,” her mother warns.
She winks at her mother. “I was going to say ‘has a huge duck call collection.’”
Charlotte rolls her eyes.
I snort.
Janessa nods. “As long as he’s sweet enough to give the rest of us a toothache. That’s what you need. One of those himbo, sunshine boy types.”