24. Henry
twenty-four
“I’ll be right back. Put on something warm and comfortable.” I kiss her forehead.
She nods, and I slip from the bed, heading for our connecting door. The moment it shuts behind me, I jump and punch the air. “Yes! Fucking yes!” The words are a shout in the form of a whisper.
I collapse against the door, leaning my head back harder than I intended with an audible thunk and laugh in utter relief.
Two orgasms. Two. Fucking. Orgasms. Each.
When I’d imagined what making love would feel like, I’d assumed it would be similar to a soapy fist in the shower. I was so naive. The things I’d studied about giving a woman pleasure were just as lacking. It was the difference between looking at an architect’s schematics and stepping into a home. I’ll be more prepared for the sensory and emotional deluge next time, and we’re only getting better together from here.
I try to imagine having that experience with anyone else, and my entire being rejects it. Who besides Franki would I allow to touch me like that? Only ever Franki.
A knock sounds from the other side of the door. “Is everything okay?”
I straighten and call back with a smile filling my entire body. “No problems. Just give me a minute, and I’ll be right there.”
I do a quick security check-in and find no issues. As expected, Louis won’t be creating any problems. His injuries are being treated as the result of the car accident we concocted as cover. If he were stupid enough to talk, there’s no evidence and a number of “witnesses” who will be happy to provide alibis. If it ever even got to that point.
We have, after all, provided any number of college scholarships for three generations of local law enforcement, built a pediatric annex for the hospital, and donate generously to the community. More significantly, we’ve avoided harm to innocents, and we have friends.
In other words, we’ve established goodwill—something Grandmother didn’t understand when she controlled Bronwyn’s trust fund.
I clean up so I can get back to Franki in record time, throw on flannel drawstring pants and a long-sleeved T-shirt, and gather a couple items for Franki. Leaving them on the end of my bed, I return to find Franki closing the buttons on her pink pajama top. I take over the small task for her, because even though we just finished touching each other, I want more. I want all the closeness we’re capable of. When I’ve finished and covered her feet with a pair of fluffy socks, I lead her back to my room. “My windows are larger and easier for an adult to climb through.”
When we get within reach of the items I left on my bed, I collect them for her. First, I open the lid and pass her a bottle of water. “Drink that. Your body needs it.”
She accepts the water, taking a sip and smiling as I stretch a black beanie hat over her light brown and caramel hair.
“It’s getting chilly,” I explain.
After I drape a thick red blanket over her shoulders, I turn off the bedroom light and lead her to the window.
Once I’ve opened it, I duck through to the slight incline of the black asphalt-shingled porch roof. Smiling like I’m still a kid who thinks his parents don’t have a clue he’s sneaking onto porch roofs to look at the stars, I prop my hands on the sill and poke my head back into the room.
“Why does that smile make me feel like we’re being naughty?” she asks.
“You can be as naughty with me as you like, my darling.”
“I love that you call me that.”
“Excellent. I considered several terms of endearment, but that one felt like you.”
“You planned out what to call me?”
“Not exactly. I’ll explain when we’re outside.” I reach in to pick her up in a bridal carry. “I’m lifting you through the window. Let me do the work.”
She clutches the bottle and the blanket with a small gasping giggle. Then I’m standing on the roof with Franki in my arms, the night clear and bright.
I drop a quick kiss to her mouth. When I pull back, she continues to stare into my eyes, and I smile. “Look up, Franki.”
She tips her head back, eyes widening, mouth opening slightly. She’s silent for a long moment before she speaks in reverent tones. “I’ve never seen something like this in person. The internet, maybe.”
“One day, if you like, we’ll travel. There are places with much better visibility. The skies I’ll show you . . . you’ll struggle to believe they’re real.”
“This already doesn’t feel real. It’s completely endless, but, somehow, so close. If I stretch up just a little, I could flick Cassiopeia with my finger. The heavens are right here.”
She is so damn beautiful. Brown eyes huge behind her glasses, hair that’s gone staticky where it sticks out under the cap, pink lips damp and smiling.
“Incredible,” I murmur.
Her nose is reddening, and her breath turns to vapor with every exhale as she glances at me. “You’re not even looking.”
“I’m looking.”
I lower her to the roof and lie beside her with my bicep acting as her pillow and my other arm under my head. “Don’t forget to drink your water.”
At my reminder, she smiles at me with a look of adoration and takes a sip. “Thank you.”
“You confuse me,” I admit. “I offered you diamonds and houses, and you rejected them. I give you a bottle of water, and you behave as though I’ve given you the penultimate gift.”
She cuddles into me and looks up at the night sky. “I know.”
We lie there, on the roof, and look at the stars for long minutes, Franki snug against my side to stay warm.
She readjusts and pulls the blanket around so she can cover me with it too. “Now, explain why you call me darling.”
“There’s research to indicate that nicknames and terms of endearment may lead the person being addressed to experience a sense of belonging and feeling valued. It has to be specific to that person, to be most effective.”
She leans against me harder. “That’s the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard.”
I sigh, certain she’s using sarcasm. “You think I’m being too clinical again.”
“No. I think you’re Henry, and I love it. The fact that you decided to use a term of endearment on purpose because you hoped it would make me feel cared for,” she chokes on her words before she finishes, “is wonderful. I shouldn’t have joked about your attention to detail. I can be awkward sometimes, if you haven’t noticed.”
“I haven’t.”
She smiles and shakes her head. “You made my first time perfect when it could have been painful or a disappointment.”
“There’s a lot of advice on the internet telling women not to expect sex to be good the first time, but the more I studied, the more I questioned why that appears to be the case. Many experts agree that disappointing experiences are often the result of a lack of adequate arousal, relaxation, and preparation. I didn’t know you were a virgin, but I had concerns you might have had a bad sexual encounter in the past . . .”
“You’re trying to figure out why I never had relationships. I’ve dated here and there, but . . . I don’t know how to explain it. As soon as someone tried to get close, I’d get claustrophobic. It felt stupid to force myself to be with someone just so I could check off some random list of ‘things I was supposed to do by a certain age’ to avoid people’s judgment.”
“I know that feeling well. For me, the thought of anyone but you felt like a cage.”
She squeezes me tighter. “Then you understand. I was also leery because my parents’ relationships were a god-awful example. I don’t trust easily. There are a lot of filannerers in the world.” There’s a smile in her voice at the end.
The weight of her words sinks in slowly. It may be instinctual or memories of our past, but she trusted me when she’s never trusted anyone else. I rub my chest, right over the inexplicable ache in my heart.
“Now tell me the nicknames you considered and rejected before you settled on ‘darling,’” she says.
“‘Honey.’ You’re sweet enough, but it felt generic. A grandmother might say it. Not sexual or romantic enough for you.”
“Mmm. Not babe or baby?”
I cringe and shake my head. “I did consider ‘sweetheart.’ I have no idea why, but when I say it, it sounds patronizing.”
She laughs.
“At any rate, I decided to wait and see if something came naturally in the moment. And it di—” I cock my head, listening. “Do you hear that?”
“Yes.”
We both still.
“Someone is out here playing the guitar,” she says.
“It has to be Dean.” The fact that he’s outside, presumably alone, instead of with my sister, isn’t a good sign.
“It’s nice background music.”
We settle in and listen quietly, content to look at the stars and hold each other, as Dean works his way through several songs.
It’s late, and it’s been an eventful twenty-four hours. Despite the chilly night air, Franki is warm and comfortable against me, and, over the course of long minutes, I drift into a contented state of drowsiness.
My eyes snap open when a feminine wail cuts through the crisp October air, an absolute verbal assault. “Dean. Fuck, yes . . .”
What follows, I can only describe as the sound of my sister, somewhere in the distance, caterwauling.
I shoot straight up to sitting, virtually dragging Franki with me. She hunches over with laughter, her eyes gone wide and hands over her mouth.
“This is disturbing.” I’m glad Bronwyn and Dean are together out there, but why is she so lou—
“Why is she so loud?” Franki gasps on a laugh.
Exactly.
Another cry lights up the night, and, completely without ceremony or discussion, I pick Franki up and head straight back inside.
Franki is still laughing as I set her down in my room and close the window with an unnecessarily firm thwump. Blessed silence descends as we stand in the dim room, lit only by the light from the bathroom where the door is cracked open.
“Bronwyn and De—”
“Tch.” I place a finger over her lips.
When she lapses into silence, I cautiously withdraw.
“I was just going to say that Bron—”
I gently place my palm over her mouth. “I’m sorry. I can’t hear you with your mouth covered like that.”
She clutches my shirt and convulses with laughter.
“Blink once if I can trust you not to traumatize me.”
She blinks.
I remove my hand, and she straightens with a smile, glancing at the connecting door before looking back at me.
An expression I can’t interpret crosses her face. Fidgeting with her empty water bottle, she says, “Today was really nice.”
Her words feel like a dismissal. “Nice?”
“You’ve been so kind to me ever since I came back to New York. I feel safe with you. My father isn’t the best. He’s not the worst either, but I think I probably have what would be described as ‘daddy issues.’ The fact that I can even admit that to you is crazy,” she says with a small laugh.
I watch her, listening carefully. Suddenly, this conversation feels important.
“My parents play games. They’ve always known I craved their attention, and they used it against me my entire life. I was afraid, at first, that your flirting was more of the same, but I trust you not to use my feelings to manipulate me to get your hands on that company.”
Bile churns in my gut. I thought Gabriel was full of shit when he didn’t understand that I could want her and still find the company an added benefit, but that Franki would understand. What I’m doing isn’t manipulation. It isn’t fake simply because it’s also tactical. This can be real with her, and I can still want those shares. They aren’t mutually exclusive.
“I shouldn’t have doubted you. I knew you were one of the good guys all along,” she says.
“I’m not a good guy.” I haven’t lost sleep when I’ve had to kill someone in years. I feel zero guilt over exterminating cockroaches. I’m a man built of flaws cobbled together with a rigid code of honor.
At my almost vicious tone, she clears her throat and looks away. Color seems to fade from her face until she looks nearly ill. Shoving the water bottle at me, Franki rips off her beanie and tries to give me both the hat and blanket. I accept them, confused by her change in attitude.
She gives me a shaky smile. “I guess this is good night. I’ll see you tomorrow. Technically, it’s already today, but—” She stops talking abruptly. “Anyway, good night.”
She turns to leave, and I place the items she’s returned to me on the nearby side table. Before she’s taken two steps, I wrap one arm around her chest and one around her waist to halt her progress. I’m gentle with her, but im-fucking-movable. “Where do you think you’re going?”
She shivers at the low rumble of my voice in her ear. “I thought you wanted me to leave because I made it weird when I overshared about my father?”
“Henceforth and furthermore, if you are ever in doubt, always assume I don’t want you to leave.”
Eyes closed, she blows out a slow breath.
“Do you know why I despise the term ‘daddy issues’?” I struggle to regulate the flatness of my tone for her sake, but my anger is riding me too hard to sound like the nice, kind, good guy she thinks I am.
She shakes her head.
“Any time you hear that phrase, it’s being used as an indictment against the person who has been harmed, rather than the person who did the harm. It’s an insidious form of victim blaming.”
“I’m not a victim. My father wasn’t abusive.”
“There are many ways to abuse someone. They don’t all show themselves on your skin. I want you to share your thoughts with me. When it comes to you and me, there’s nothing you can’t tell me.”
“You stared at me, Henry. You weren’t very encouraging.”
“It wasn’t my intention to make you feel anxious. Sometimes I do that when I’m thinking. If I take issue with something, I’ll say so.”
She relaxes against me.
“You and I,” I say quietly as I turn her in my arms, “have a higher risk of miscommunication than average. You have to talk to me, not run away.”
“There’s something in that sentence that I should be arguing with, but it’s four a.m. and I’m too tired to figure out what it is,” she says on a yawn.
I lead her to my bed and pull back the covers. “We’ll sleep. You can tell me why I’m wrong in the morning.”
She climbs into the bed, and I turn off the bathroom light before joining her and drawing the comforter over both of us. Under the covers, I lift her pajama top until I feel warm, smooth skin, then wrap my arm around her waist.
Her hair smells like the outdoors. I breathe her in as the entire length of her body lies flush against mine.
The position is similar to the way I held her when we had sex, and my cock hardens in response.
“I’ve never slept in the same bed with another person,” I murmur.
Her only answer is a quiet huff that isn’t a snore but isn’t not a snore.
I draw her more tightly against my body. I won’t give her up simply because I acquired her affection through planning, rather than organic means. This thing between us is real, and it would have happened sooner or later, with or without those shares as an added benefit.
I may not be “good,” but I am hers, and I will use any means at my disposal to make sure she knows it.