34. Storm
Chapter 34
Storm
"Y ou're doing it wrong," Frankie calls up to me, laughter in his voice. "You're supposed to twist and then pull, not yank them straight off the branch."
I roll my eyes, though he can't see me from his position at the base of the apple tree. "They're coming off, aren't they? I don't see the problem."
The autumn air is crisp against my skin, the afternoon sun warm enough to keep the chill at bay. Elena mentioned the apple orchard on the east side of the property yesterday, and Frankie immediately suggested we pick some before they over-ripen. I jumped at the chance to do something normal, something that had nothing to do with designations or pack dynamics or the approaching heat.
Just me, Frankie, and a basket of apples. Simple. Uncomplicated.
"The stem is important," Frankie explains, holding up one of his perfectly picked apples with the stem intact. "It helps them stay fresh longer."
I make a show of dramatically twisting my next apple before pulling it free, the stem still attached. "Happy now, apple expert?"
He grins up at me, and something in my chest flutters at the sight. Frankie has always been handsome in his quiet way, but out here in the sunlight, with his cheeks flushed from the cool air and his eyes bright with happiness, he's breathtaking. His soft cinnamon scent rises to me on the breeze, as comforting as it is tempting.
"Very happy," he says, holding up the basket for me to drop it in. "I think we have enough now. Any more and we'll be making pies until winter."
I scan the branches around me, spotting one last perfect apple just out of reach. "One more," I declare, stretching up on my tiptoes on the branch I'm balancing on. My fingers brush the apple, not quite reaching it.
"Storm, be careful—" Frankie starts, but it's too late.
My foot slips, and for a terrifying moment I'm falling, the ground rushing up toward me. Then strong arms catch me, Frankie staggers slightly under my sudden weight but manages to keep us both upright. My heart pounds as I find myself pressed against his chest, his arms secure around me.
"Got you," he says, his voice slightly breathless from the impact.
I look up to find his face inches from mine, his brown eyes widen with concern that quickly shifts to something warmer as our gazes lock. For a moment, we just stay like that, frozen, his arms around me, my hands gripping his shoulders.
"My hero," I say finally, my voice coming out husky.
Frankie blushes, but doesn't let go. "I'll always catch you, Storm."
The simple sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight with emotion. That's Frankie. He’s straightforward, honest, genuine. No alpha posturing, no mind games, just pure Frankie. The few kisses we've shared in recent days have only confirmed what I've long known. There's something special between us, something different from what I have with the others.
I press a quick kiss to his lips before wiggling free of his arms.
"Come on, let's get these apples inside. You promised me pie, beta boy."
His smile returns, bright as the autumn sun above us. "That I did."
We gather our apples and head back toward the house, walking with my hand in his. It’s warm and sends little sparks through my fingers. The house is quiet when we enter through the back door, the others seemingly occupied elsewhere.
"Perfect," Frankie says, setting the basket on the kitchen counter. "We'll have the kitchen to ourselves."
I raise an eyebrow. "Planning something nefarious with me and these apples, Frankie?"
His blush deepens, but he laughs. "Only the most wicked of pies," he promises, already moving to gather ingredients from the pantry. "My mom's recipe. It'll change your life."
I hop up onto a barstool at the island, content to watch him work for a moment. He moves with surprising grace in the kitchen, gathering flour, sugar, butter, cinnamon, and other essentials with the confidence of someone who knows exactly what they're doing.
"My mom taught me to bake when I was little," he explains. "She said it was important to know how to create something that makes people happy."
I think of all the times Frankie smuggled me gum in the Omega House, how he played cards with me when no one else would, how he found ways to make that sterile, oppressive place a little more bearable.
"She taught you how to play cards and bake. She was wonderful," I say softly.
A shadow crosses his face, gone almost as quickly as it appeared. "She was. She would have loved you."
"Well, I'm definitely lovable," I laugh, sliding off the stool to join him at the counter. "Now, put me to work, chef. What do I do?"
Frankie hands me a large bowl. "You can start peeling and slicing the apples. I'll make the crust."
We work side by side, falling into an easy rhythm. I peel and slice, occasionally popping a piece of apple into my mouth when I think he's not looking. He mixes the dough with expert hands, explaining each step as he goes.
"Now for the secret ingredient," he declares once the dough is resting and my apple slices are ready for seasoning.
"Let me guess—love?" I tease.
He shakes his head, reaching into a cabinet to pull out a small bottle. "Cardamom," he says, holding it up triumphantly. "Everyone uses cinnamon and nutmeg, but cardamom is what makes it special."
I watch as he sprinkles the spice over the apples. The scent that rises is heavenly, sweet, and complex.
"Like you," I say without thinking.
Frankie looks up, surprised. "What?"
Heat rises to my cheeks. "Cardamom—unexpected, but special. Like you." I shrug, suddenly self-conscious. "Sorry, that was cheesy."
His expression softens, a smile spreading across his face. "I like cheesy. At least when it comes from you."
Something warm and tender expands in my chest. This is what Frankie does to me. He makes me softer, kinder, and more open to the sweet parts of myself I’ve tried to hide for years under all my walls and attitude.
He returns to the dough, starting to roll it out for the crust. I watch, entranced by the play of muscles in his forearms as he works, the careful precision of his movements.
"Want to help?" he offers, noticing my stare.
I step closer, and he positions me in front of the rolling pin, his chest warm against my back as he guides my hands. "Like this," he murmurs, his breath tickling my ear. "Gentle but firm."
The double meaning isn't lost on me, and I lean back against him slightly, enjoying the way his breath catches when I do. "I think I've got it," I tell him, even though I'm in no hurry for him to step away.
When the dough is finally thin enough, Frankie reluctantly steps back, reaching for flour to dust the pie plate. A playful impulse strikes me as I watch him concentrate. I dip my fingers in the flour and flick some at him, catching him square in the chest.
He looks up, shock written across his face before it transforms into mischievous determination. "Oh, it's like that, is it?"
Before I can react, he's reached into the flour bag and tossed a handful my way, the white powder dusting my hair and face. What follows is nothing short of chaos—flour flying back and forth, both of us laughing too hard to aim properly. The kitchen quickly resembles a winter wonderland.
"Truce!" Frankie finally calls, holding up his hands in surrender. "I'm waving the white flag—literally!" He wiggles his flour-covered fingers to demonstrate.
"What are your terms of surrender?"
"Unconditional," he says, trying and failing to look serious with flour dusting his eyelashes. "I am at your mercy, mighty Storm."
"Well then," I declare, stepping closer. "As my first act of mercy, I'll help clean you up."
I reach up, seemingly to brush flour from his cheek, but instead smear more across his face. His mouth drops open in shock before he bursts into laughter.
"You're terrible!" he exclaims, grabbing for me.
I dance away, giggling, but he's quicker than I expect. His arms wrap around my waist, lifting me off my feet in one smooth motion. I squeal in surprise as he spins me around, both of us laughing until he sets me down on the counter, his body positioned between my knees.
Our laughter fades as we realize the position we're in. His hands still on my waist, my legs framing his hips. Flour dust floats in the air around us, catching the afternoon light streaming through the windows. In this moment, he doesn't look like the shy, hesitant beta from the Omega House. He looks confident, playful—the Frankie who exists beneath the careful exterior he shows the world.
"I've missed this," he says quietly, his brown eyes warm as they meet mine. "You, laughing. Being carefree."
I reach up to brush real flour from his cheek this time, my touch gentle. "You bring it out in me," I admit. "You always have. Even in that place, you found ways to make me smile."
His hands tighten slightly on my waist. "That's all I ever wanted. To see you happy. Even when it seemed impossible."
The simple confession touches something deep inside me. Frankie has been my constant, my one true friend through the darkest period of my life. When others in that Omega house saw me as a problem, a designation, a burden to be managed, he saw me —the real Storm beneath the defiance and attitude.
"Kiss me," I whisper, my hands moving to frame his flour-dusted face.
He doesn't hesitate, leaning forward to capture my lips with his. Unlike our previous kisses, always conscious of the others nearby, this one deepens instantly. The kiss is sweet and gentle at first, but when I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, something shifts. His kiss grows more confident, more passionate as his hands slide up my back to tangle in my unruly curls.
He tastes like apples and cinnamon. His scent surrounds me in a cloud of warm comfort. I melt against him, my body responding.
"Frankie," I breathe when we finally break apart, both panting slightly. "I want?—"
A sharp cramp cuts off my words, making me wince and curl forward slightly. Pre-heat. The symptoms have been coming and going in waves, manageable one moment and overwhelming the next.
"Storm?" Concern fills Frankie's voice, his hands gentle as they support me. "What's wrong? Is it pre-heat?"
I nod, unable to speak as another cramp ripples through me. At the same time, I feel the now-familiar rush of slick between my thighs. My dark chocolate scent explodes around us, filling the kitchen with the rich, sweet notes of omega arousal. Frankie's pupils dilate visibly, his own cinnamon and toasted marshmallow scent deepening in response.
"I should get Reed or Alexander," he says, already starting to pull away. "They'll know how to help with the cramps."
"No," I catch his wrist, keeping him close. "Stay. Please. I want you, Frankie."
Uncertainty flickers across his face. "But your heat?—"
"Isn't here yet," I finish for him. "Just pre-heat." I lean forward, pressing a soft kiss to his lips. "And I want you. I've wanted you for so long, even before I knew it."
"I've wanted you too," he confesses, resting his forehead against mine. "Since that first day when you sat down across from me and demanded I play cards with you."
I smile at the memory, then wince as another cramp hits, this one sharper than the last. "Frankie," I gasp, my fingers digging into his shoulders. "Please. It helps with the cramps, makes the fire manageable. My pre-heat—I need relief. The symptoms are getting worse."
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed quickly by determination. "Tell me what you need," he says, his voice steady despite the flush spreading across his cheeks. "Teach me."
In answer, I reach for the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head in one fluid motion. Frankie's eyes widen. His breath catches audibly at the sight of me in just a simple cotton bra. His gaze travels over me, awed and heated all at once.
"Your turn," I prompt, my fingers finding the buttons of his shirt.
He helps me, shrugging out of the flour-covered garment to reveal his chest. He's leaner than the alphas, less broadly muscled, but no less beautiful for it. I run my hands over his skin, fascinated by the differences, by the way he shivers slightly at my touch.
Another cramp has me gasping, my scent spiking with a mixture of discomfort and arousal. Frankie's hands settle on my hips, steadying me through it.
"What helps?" he asks, his voice rougher than usual. "What do you need me to do?"
I reach behind me to unclasp my bra, letting it fall away. "Touch me," I whisper, taking his hands and guiding them to my breasts. "Please."
He moves with gentle confidence, his hands warm as they cup my breasts, thumbs brushing over my nipples. The contact sends sparks racing through me, temporarily drowning out the discomfort of the cramps. I arch into his touch, encouraging him as he explores.
"Like this?" he asks, watching my reactions carefully.
"Yes," I breathe, my head falling back as pleasure builds. "Just like that."
His touch grows more assured as he learns what I like. When his mouth replaces one hand, his lips closing around my nipple, I cry out, tangling my fingers in his hair to hold him close.
"Frankie," I moan, heat pooling low in my belly. "I need—I need more."
He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his own darkened with desire. "Tell me," he urges, his voice husky. "Tell me what you need, Storm."
I reach for the button of my jeans, my movements urgent now as another wave of cramps threatens to overtake the pleasure. "Help me get these off," I manage, already lifting my hips to push the denim down.
Frankie helps, tugging the jeans down my legs. His breath catches when he realizes I'm not wearing anything underneath, his eyes traveling over my newly exposed skin with appreciation.
"You're beautiful," he says. The simple sincerity in his voice makes my chest tight with emotion. "So beautiful, Storm."
I reach for him, pulling him close for another kiss, this one deeper, hungrier than before. His hands skim my sides, my thighs, everywhere except where I most want them.
"Touch me," I plead against his lips. "Please, Frankie. I need your hands on me."
He draws back slightly, studying my face. "Show me," he says. "Show me what you like."
I take his hand, guiding it between my thighs where I'm already wet with slick. My body produces so much more now my heat is so close. His fingers explore tentatively at first. When he finds my clit, I gasp. My hips buck involuntarily against his hand.
"There," I breathe, my body tense with building pleasure. "Right there."
Frankie watches my face as he works, his fingers establishing a rhythm that has me panting, clinging to his shoulders for support. The cramps have faded to the background, overtaken by waves of pleasure radiating from his touch.
"Is this okay?" he asks, his voice a rough whisper. "Am I doing it right?"
"So right," I assure him, my words break on a moan as he slips a finger inside me. "God, Frankie, that feels amazing."
Encouraged by my response, he adds another finger, his thumb continuing to circle my clit. The pleasure is growing stronger, deeper inside me. I'm close, so close, my body trembling on the edge of release.
Then he curls his fingers just right, hitting a spot inside me that makes me see stars, and I'm falling, crying out his name as waves of pleasure crash through me. He works me through it gently, his touch gradually slowing as the aftershocks subside.
When I can focus again, I find him watching me with something like wonder, his brown eyes soft with an emotion that makes my heart skip.
"That was..." he starts, seemingly at a loss for words.
I lean forward, kissing him deeply, pouring my gratitude and affection into the contact. When we part, I'm pleased to see he looks as affected as I feel, his breathing uneven, his pupils dilated with desire.
"We're not done," I tell him, my hands moving to the button of his jeans. "Not even close."
Frankie swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. "We don't have to?—"
"I want to," I assure him, already working his zipper down. "I want all of you, Frankie. Every part."
His breath catches as my fingers brush against the hard outline of him through his boxers. I can feel his heart pounding, see the flush spreading down his neck to his chest. His cinnamon scent has deepened, taking on spicier notes that make my mouth water.
"Storm," he groans as I slip my hand beneath the waistband of his boxers, wrapping my fingers around him.
I slide forward on the counter, bringing our bodies flush against each other, my legs wrap around his waist. Frankie's hands move to my thighs, his touch reverent as he strokes my skin.
"Will you taste me?" I ask, suddenly desperate to feel his mouth on me. "Please, Frankie. I need your mouth."
His eyes darken further, desire flaring hot in their depths. Slowly, and maintaining eye contact, he sinks to his knees before me, his hands gently spreading my thighs wider. His breath washes warm against my core, making me shiver with anticipation.
"I've dreamed about this," he confesses, his gaze locked with mine. "About tasting you, making you come with my mouth."
The raw honesty of his admission sends a fresh wave of arousal through me. "Show me," I encourage, my fingers tangling in his hair. "Show me your dreams, Frankie."
He leans forward, his breath hot against my sensitive flesh. His eyes never leave mine as he closes the final distance, his tongue tracing a deliberate path through my heat.