Chapter 22 Frankie
FRANKIE
Shit.
Owen Brodie is a good dancer, and I am so screwed.
I was screwed when he kept checking in with me all day.
I was screwed when I saw him in that tight black T-shirt that hugs his biceps and pecs.
I was screwed when he was staring at me in my red dress.
I was screwed when he touched my face and kissed me even before saying hello.
I was screwed every time he said every single thing he’s said since I got here.
And now I am so, so screwed. Because we’re dancing to some sexy mid-tempo song that I don’t know, in this tiny crowded space between the bar and the seating area, and he doesn’t move like a tired dad who hasn’t been out on a date for ages and just needs to get some.
He moves like a man who knows what he wants. And he wants me.
I am so, so, so screwed because I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone or anything—more than I want to make people laugh, even.
I didn’t think I’d ever want anything more than I want that.
And I don’t know how to stop wanting him.
I can’t even pretend that I don’t want him anymore. I don’t even want to pretend.
This is the worst fucking thing that’s ever happened to me.
I don’t know how I can be so scared of someone who makes me feel this good, but I’m terrified.
All I can do is breathe and move my feet and sway my hips and shoulders and try so hard not to fall that I forget how to breathe and keep moving when this is all over. Whether it’s over in the morning or in August. Or whenever. Because it’s more than one boy I’m falling in love with here.
I had no trouble giving all of myself to Sam as soon as I met him, but I will always worry that if I give too much to his dad, I won’t get it back.
I don’t think I can turn this into a joke, and I certainly don’t want to be the punchline.
Owen is watching me as if he can read my every thought. His electric-blue eyes are warm, and I can’t look away. “Hey.” He curls his index finger beneath my chin, tilting it up so he can kiss my lips, quick and easy. As if to say, Get out of your head, Frankie Hogan. This is supposed to be fun.
He’s right.
If I just concentrate on the way he’s moving and the way he’s looking at me and the tingles in my lady business, I’m fine.
More than fine.
More than anything.
I run my fingers through my hair and sway my shoulders and my hips a little more. He does the same. He puts his hands on my hips, and I grip his shirt with both hands. I move in closer until I can feel it on my thigh—how aroused he is. I want to touch him there, with my hands, but it can wait.
“You want to get out of here?” His voice is deeper now, and I can feel it even more than I can feel the bassline of this music in my bones.
“Yeah. I want to.”
He texts “the driver” to ask him to come pick us up.
He texts his gorgeous celebrity friends while we’re waiting for the elevator, instead of finding them to say goodbye.
He texts Dylan to make sure Sam’s doing okay.
As soon as he gets Dylan’s response telling him that Sam’s doing great, Owen is clearly as relieved as I am tense because this means it will probably be just him and me until we go meet up with them for brunch tomorrow.
Hours and hours and inches and inches of him and me.
I’m already quivering.
And I can’t tell if I’m more worried that it will be too much for me to handle or not nearly enough.
We’re alone in the elevator all the way down to the lobby, and we kiss the whole time.
It’s not frantic kissing like in Tampa. It’s this is going to last all night kissing, like grown-ups who know what they’re doing.
I’ve never thought of myself as one of those before, but I feel like one now.
Owen Brodie’s lips and tongue and hands and that stiff, wonderful thing in his pants, they’re all making me feel like the grown-up woman I never knew I could be.
“You are so fucking gorgeous in this red dress, Frankie.”
I try to think of some witty reply, but I can’t. So I just say, “Thank you.” And I mean it.
“I can’t take my eyes off you.”
“Good.”
It’s warmer and more humid out here on the sidewalk, or maybe I’m warmer and more damp after that long, slow kiss, but I like it.
The New York summer night air is balmy and sultry, and it only smells a little bit like sewer and garbage.
Owen keeps his arm around my waist, and I feel so safe with him.
Even earlier today when I was by myself or with my girlfriends in Brooklyn, I just felt so much safer than I usually do when I’m out and about in the world.
I didn’t realize it until just now, but it was because I knew Owen cared about me.
Talk about cheese.
I don’t even recognize my own thoughts anymore.
He gives my waist a little reassuring squeeze.
He can probably tell I’m all up in my head again.
A black stretch limousine with tinted windows pulls over and double-parks in front of us.
I’m expecting Jay-Z and Beyoncé to climb out of it or maybe one of the Olsen twins.
Instead, Owen pulls me over to it and takes hold of the door handle.
“Wait. What?”
“This is us.”
“Oh fuck off. You got a limo?”
“Technically, my manager got a limo.”
I like how he said “my manager” instead of “your uncle.” Not that I’ve forgotten who his manager is. Not that that’s going to stop either of us from doing whatever it is we’re about to do tonight.
He opens the door to the back seat, leans in to tell the driver he doesn’t have to get out, and then gestures for me to climb aboard. “Milady.”
I peer inside first to ensure there isn’t some reality show camera crew in there waiting to record my reaction.
There isn’t.
So I have to get in.
I haven’t been inside a limo since prom. That one was white, and my date and I shared it with six other grads. This is nothing like that.
I slide down to the rear seat and scan the interior.
Dark-gray leather, blue LED lighting, sleek bar setup, glossy wood paneling, flat screen TV, privacy window between us and the driver… Do I want to stand up and stick my head through the sunroof like Tom Hanks in Big? Yes, indeedy, I do. But this is not that kind of date, unfortunately.
Owen settles in right next to me. “Will you relax, Hogan?”
“Nope. I don’t think I’ve even been on a date with a guy who wears a belt before—how am I supposed to relax in the back of a limo?”
“I have some pretty good ideas.” He presses the button on an intercom, waits for the driver to answer, and tells him he can take his time getting us back to the hotel. Head up to Central Park and drive around, he tells him—and keep the privacy barrier up, if he doesn’t mind.
I know what that means.
We slowly pull into traffic, and I squeeze my thighs together because Dear Lord things are getting tight and wet up in there.
Owen fiddles with some controls on the stereo system.
When he finds a satellite station he likes—I dunno, I guess there’s a special one for Limo Nookie—he leans back against the seat.
He doesn’t look at me. He just removes my shoes and then places his hand on my bare leg, just above the knee.
He strokes a tiny section of my skin so gently, but I feel it intensely, everywhere.
Then he angles himself toward me, touches my face with his other hand, bringing me in for a kiss.
He lifts the backs of my knees to rest my legs on his lap, and my hand goes straight for the crotch of his pants.
I make no pretense of being a lady, and wow I love how hard he’s getting, even though he seems so cool and in control.
I’m so used to being the performer when I’m with a guy. Always felt like I had to put on a show of passion and satisfaction. But I trust that Owen is going to make me feel all the things he wants to make me feel, and I think for now I’m just going to let him do it.
I curl up in his arms. His breathing gets heavier, his kisses more and more urgent. Still, his hand travels slowly up the side of me—my leg, my hip, my waist. Any resistance I had left in my body and my mind is gone. Just gone.
He trails kisses down my neck and my chest until his mouth meets his hand on my breast, and Oh God it feels so good, I gasp.
“I’ve been thinking about these tits for days,” he growls as he tests the low neckline of my dress to see if the material stretches, and Hallefuckinlujah it does!
He pulls it down, exposing my nipple because I’m not wearing a bra.
He grunts, staring down at it. “So fucking hot, Frankie.” He licks me once and then squeezes.
“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”
Oh my, I guess it’s time for the dirty-talk portion of the evening.
“Tell me.”
“You feel how hard I am?”
“Yes.”
“Nobody gets me this hard but you.” He kisses me all over my breast, licking and sucking, and I’m already so close to orgasm I want to cry.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” His hand slides down my thigh and then up under my dress. “Whatcha got for me under here?” His fingers slip inside my panties, and he groans when he feels how wet I am, like he’s in pain. “Fucking hell, baby. You really like me, don’t you?”
“I like you a lot right now.”
“You do, huh?” He maneuvers me so my back lies flat on the seat and yanks my panties down, startling me.
He bends one of my legs to the side of him and holds the other one up, kissing me from my ankle—slowly, agonizingly slowly—down to my inner thigh.
“I’m gonna make you feel so good, you won’t remember what it was like to hate me. ”
“Big talker,” I mumble, staring up at the ceiling.
“What was that?” He slaps my ass.
“It’s going to take a lot to get me to forget how much I hated you, is all I’m saying.” God, I’m sassy. I don’t know where I get the strength, but I had to throw one more taunt out there before I start chanting his name and dissolving into a pool of lady fluids.
He curls his arms around my thighs, tilts, and opens me up, and I hear him mutter, “You asked for it,” before flicking his tongue at my clit and then circling it.
I reach back for something to grab on to—because I’m gonna need it.
I’m wriggling around so much. I’m not a scientist or anything, but I’m probably creating so much friction between the inside of my thighs and his ears, it will produce a flame.
Owen struggles to hold me in place so he can control what he’s doing.
I have never felt so out of control in my life, and—surprise, surprise—I love it.
He does all the things I always wished a guy would do down there.
The thumb thing. The warm breath thing. The guttural-sounds-that-create-vibrations thing.
The tongue-fucking thing. He pauses, pulls his head back to kiss the inside of my thigh again—because he’s evil or because he’s a genius.
The delirious shuddering and trembling had no beginning, and it seems there will be no end to this exquisite torture.
He stops kissing me altogether, and now he’s just making me wait.
My hands find the top of his head and tug at his hair. “Owen,” I plead.
“You want more?”
“Yes.”
“You sure you’re ready? I don’t think your pussy can take much more of this.”
My hands curl into fists, and I punch the back of the seat with one of them. “I am so mad at you.”
I swear like a marine as I try to sit up, but he forces me back down, flips the skirt of my dress up, and just goes to town French-kissing the most tender part of me until I cry out.
No words, just pure anguish and pleasure.
My body moves with his head and his tongue.
I have never said yes so many times in a row in my life, and I have no idea if the limo is moving or what neighborhood we’re in, but there’s so much dropping and rolling and tumbling going on below my belly button.
There’s a jolt of electricity, and my back arches.
I’m suspended in time and place for who knows how long, until I’m dropping and rolling and tumbling again.
Owen doesn’t stop.
No, I keep saying. I can’t take any more of this, my brain is telling me.
But my body wants more, and this man seems to know exactly what my body wants.
Suddenly, his head pulls out from between my legs.
He flips me around and maneuvers me so I’m sitting up with my hands against the window, one foot on the floor.
He slides under me like a fucking acrobat, grips my ass with both hands, and pulls me down so he can suck on my clit—which is just mean.
I make a high-pitched yelping sound, and then his tongue goes deep inside me. In and out and in and out.
It’s too much.
I don’t ever want him to stop, but it’s too much.
If anyone had told me a month ago that I would be riding Owen Brodie’s face in the back of a limo in New York City, I would have slapped them and told them to shut up.
But this is happening.
I will have to retire the red dress and maybe my vagina too after tonight because no experience can possibly top this.
The palms of my hands are pressing so hard against the window, I’m afraid we’ll both crack from the pressure.
It’s like all the energy that powers this city is concentrated in my abdomen, and now it’s being released to every cell in my body.
I can’t even make a sound.
He keeps kissing me there until I go limp.
I lift myself up, lie down on top of him, the side of my face flat against his pec. His heart is pounding. His jaw must be so sore. I want to return the favor, but I think it will have to wait until we get to the hotel room.
When I’m finally able to lift my head up enough to see his face, I find him looking down at me, grinning. His eyes are hooded and blurry, and I’ve never found them so beautiful. He slowly wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, holding my gaze, and then dips down to kiss my forehead.
“Got any notes for me?”
It’s not funny, but I laugh and bury my face in his chest.
I’ll get him back, but I will let him have this moment of glory.
“Congratulations. You killed,” I mumble.
And then I wrap my arms around his waist and fall asleep.