Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Frankie
I really needed to stop kissing Chandler. Or almost kissing him. Or thinking about kissing him. But the way I wanted to was like a hold around my throat, siphoning off more and more oxygen the longer I was around him.
“Well, at least we’re already prepared for the storm,” I said loudly, rushing by Chandler as soon as he unlocked the inn’s front door.
The weather had gone from ominous to torrential in the stretch between the sandwich shop where we’d quickly scarfed down dinner and the old building, the rain spilling from the sky like a broken faucet. I’d been the one who suggested we walk. After that moment in the shop, with his hands framing my face and the hungry tangle of his stare in mine, there was no way I could get back in the car with him. The closed space. The heavy silence. I couldn’t do it. I needed space. A minute to breathe.
And it would be faster to walk than to drive and find parking. At least, that was what I told him. But it wasn’t fast enough to beat the storm.
The whole building seemed to shake when he shut the door, thunder rattling the frame.
“Are we?”
Our eyes met, and then mine slid over him. His shirt plastered to his broad chest. His dress pants molding to muscled thighs. We were both soaked to the bone.
“Hopefully it will pass through quickly,” I offered, and as if Mother Nature wanted to laugh in my face, there was another flash of lightning and an even louder roll of thunder.
I folded my arms and forced my gaze anywhere else in the hall. If it weren’t for the storm, it wouldn’t be so dark in here yet, but the clouds were rapidly blanketing the sky in night.
“I’ll start a fire, if you want to change first.”
A fire sounded good. And so did a dry pair of clothes.
I followed him into the living room and crashed right into the wall of his back when he stopped short.
“Sorry.” I practically jumped back, but his attention was elsewhere. His head whipped in every direction, scanning the room. “What is it?” I stepped beside him, squinting into the darkness when his phone flashlight came on.
Why didn’t he just use one of?—
“The lanterns are gone.”
I stilled, following the source of his light as it roamed every corner of the room. The mattress was as we’d left it. The firewood was still by the hearth. But sure enough, it wasn’t just the batteries and bulbs that had gone missing, but the entirety of the lanterns themselves.
“Stay here. I’m going to check the rest of the floor for them.”
I opened my mouth, but he was already gone.
My heart thudded in time with the thunder as I moved deeper into the room, using the intermittent bursts of bright light through the windows to find my bag and the candles I’d brought over earlier. Cinnamon. Too bad for Chandler.
The wick puttered to life and light, the familiar warmth instantly settling me. It didn’t matter if the lanterns were missing, we were just going to go to bed anyway, just like we had the last two nights. Still, I found myself walking the perimeter of the room, searching for the missing lanterns.
This wasn’t exactly what I was thinking when I told Nox we needed to take it up a notch.
It didn’t matter, the storm would throw off anything else he had planned, and that would only leave one night left. One night to prove without a doubt the inn was haunted. One night left to sleep beside the man who made me want things I’d never wanted before.
The thunderstorm rioted outside, shaking the windows and quaking the ground. I stopped in front of the window, watching lightning streak electric tears through the sky to the edge of the horizon. It was so consuming, I didn’t hear Chandler come back into the room, let alone come to stand behind me until he spoke.
“Frankie.”
I jumped and spun. My cry of surprise turned into a whimper of pain when the sudden movement sent hot wax spilling from the candle onto my hand, burning me instantly.
“Shit,” I muttered, my brain fritzing between adrenaline, pain, and him.
“Let me.” Chandler took the candle with one hand and my hand with the other.
“I’m okay—” The words hitched at the end as he lifted my hand closer to his face, a gentle stream of air blowing through his lips to cool the wax.
But that was about the only thing it cooled .
Something hard and hot condensed in his eyes. Seeing the wax on my skin, it did something to him, and it was doing something to me. Something dangerous and exciting and one hundred percent trouble.
“I thought you liked the burn,” he rasped low, his thumb making a slow pass over the lump of cooled wax.
My throat tightened. This wasn’t the kind of burn I’d meant when I’d taunted him days ago…but it was the kind of burn I suddenly wanted to feel.
“I do,” I heard myself mutter, enrapt by the way he was staring.
A deep sound rumbled from his chest as though an animal were caged inside it.
It didn’t take much force from his finger to dislodge the solid wax, the sound of it falling to the floor disappearing in the booms of lust. The touch was silent. Like a hot, electric lightning bolt of lust. But it was the following thunder of ache that reverberated through me. It shook my bones and quaked through my blood. It wasn’t just wanting him that was forbidden, it was the way I wanted him that felt dangerous, too.
He traced the perimeter of the red skin like the patch was a sacred sight.“Do you know what temperature soy candles burn at?”
What temperature…my eyelids fluttered. Why was he trying to test my candle knowledge right now?
“One…” I paused and swallowed. “One thirty-five to one hundred forty-five degrees.”
He made that low sound again. The one that was hot and heavy the way it dripped down my spine and hardened the ache in my core.
“It’s why soy wax is the safest. It has the lowest melting point, so less likely to burn the skin,” he rumbled, and my brows slowly drew together, watching him bring my hand to his lips. The first brush was a lesson in tenderness. The press of his lips to the wound like a kiss could heal it. “I’d still hold it farther away so it doesn’t do this.” His tongue slid out and licked my skin, but it was impossible to say which affected me more—the touch or what his words implied.
I’d been making and selling candles long enough to have a basic knowledge of what was involved with wax play. Which candles were good, which ones were better. Every so often, adventurous and unabashed honeymooners would wander into my shop and confirm that the soy wax used in my candles was safe for skin.
I’d wondered about the kink. I had at least a dozen scars from hot wax on my hands and arms, but every time it happened, there was only a flash of pain followed by a low, pulsing burn. A burn that made me wonder in those brief, unfiltered moments what drips of hot wax would feel like on other parts of my body. Pain mingled with pleasure. A burn on the outside to match the burn within.
His tongue flicked over the tender skin, sending a shiver along my spine. A charge. A spark.I didn’t want to wonder anymore.
“Show me.”
Chandler stilled. His wet clothes reflected the ripple that went through his muscles at the words that weren’t a plea but an order.
I wanted to know, and I wanted to know with him. Rules be damned. Situation be damned. Consequences be damned.
Frankie be damned.
His eyes lifted to mine, the dark pools molten with a kind of lust that made my nipples furl even tighter. Painfully tight.
“Show me,” I repeated, just in case he doubted what he’d heard.
“Frankie— ”
There was a loud bang from inside the house, and he whipped around, barricading me behind him.
“Stay here.” His tone was hard. “Someone’s in the kitchen.”
The kitchen. He disappeared with my candle, and it only took a second for me to follow him. Nox wouldn’t be here—shouldn’t be here. Not in this storm. But if he was…
I was almost running by the time I reached the kitchen, and I instantly came to a halt. There was no sign of Nox. Thank God. But Chandler was standing on the counter in front of the window— the one I told Nox to use to sneak into the building. He wore a scowl when he looked at me, but it was no surprise that I hadn’t listened to him.
“The latch on this window is broken.” His gaze bored into mine, almost like he knew.
Crap.
“Oh?” I had plenty of excuses for my voice’s higher pitch.
There was a pause. A long pause to see who would crack first.
“It was a gust of wind that must’ve caught it and caused it to bang,” he said, shimmying the window and trying to force the lock to engage. “I saw a hammer and some nails in the hall closet. Can you grab them for me?”
My jaw went slack and then snapped shut. “Yeah.”
I took the candle from where he’d set it on the counter and moved mindlessly into the hall. Sure enough, there was a hammer and a tattered box of nails in the closet left from when they’d started doing work to restore the inn.
“Here.” I handed him the hammer, watching as he sealed shut my secret weapon. There was only one night left, and if Nox couldn’t sneak in…I’d find another way. I’d have to.
“That should keep it closed.” His shoes squelched when he hopped down from the counter, landing right in front of me .
“Chandler…”
“Let’s start the fire before we both catch a chill,” he said and maneuvered around me, his footsteps firm as he walked back to the living room.
He was trying to fight it, and maybe I should be, too; he was…who he was, after all.
But he was also the man who worked by my side without question. Who talked to my customers and sold my candles like they were his own. And he was also the man who was willing to do anything for the people he loved—even cutting himself out of his mom’s life if it would spare her pain.
I could resist every other temptation the man possessed except the broken-hearted loyalty that had crushed him earlier.
I stood next to him as he crouched in front of the hearth, holding the candle steady as he unwrapped and lit a brand new log. The wood cracked and popped to life, the flame slowly sinking its teeth through the worn, hard layers, not unlike desire, which had latched onto me. Onto us.
“You should change,” he muttered, staying low by the fire.
My throat tightened.
“I don’t want to change.”
His shoulders jerked back, and then he straightened and turned in one swift movement to tower over me with an angry glare.
“What do you want, Frankie?” he dared, his husky voice making my core clench painfully.
I wasn’t ashamed of who I was or what I wanted, and no matter the outside circumstances that brought us here, I wasn’t going to share now.
I handed him the candle, holding his eyes. “I want you to show me.”
His expression turned pained. “Frankie…I can’t—we can’t. ”
My chin lifted. “Because you don’t want to?”
Something like a growl drifted between us. He moved so our chests were almost touching, his head dipping lower as he uttered, “I’ve never wanted anything more.” He took the candle from my hand. “But I won’t do that to you, or to me, because we’re adversaries.”
My hand landed on his chest, stopping him from walking away again.
“Not in here, we’re not,” I murmured. “Not tonight.” I felt him shudder against my palm. “Do what you promised.”
His jaw tensed. “And what was that?”
“Don’t mix business with pleasure.”
His eyes flickered. Popped. Cracked. I shivered.
And then the flame erupted when his mouth claimed mine.
His kiss burned away the chill from my bones. He set the candle somewhere because his hands were on the sides of my face an instant later, tipping my head, angling it for the deep press of his tongue.
I wanted more. I wanted everything. I’d been so focused for so long—so single-minded on my own success—that I didn’t leave room for distraction. But tonight, I wanted to be free. Tonight, I didn’t want to care about anything except easing the ache that had been building from the second I’d met him.
Tonight, I wanted to be taken by my own trouble.
“Chandler…”
Water ran along my fingers and splattered onto the floor as I squeezed his shirt and pulled him tight. A groan rumbled from his chest, as unsteady as the ones that quaked from the sky, and he deepened the kiss.His tongue pierced every corner of my mouth, licking and stroking— scorching scars of pleasure with the same white-hot heat as the lightning outside.
I shook. The old building shook. The same rain that pelted the windows dripped from our clothes onto the floor. It was as though the fury outside was nothing more than a mirror for the tempest that consumed us. The tighter he held me, the louder the booms. The deeper the kiss, the heavier the rain.
My hands skated up to his nape, threading the damp strands of his hair and wringing them dry. He was so hot, like molten stone pressed to my chest, and all I wanted was to be closer. All I wanted was to melt against him.
I didn’t even realize when my hips began to rock, aching for the hard ridge of him wedged against my stomach.
“You’re going to be the death of me,” he rasped, his hands locking on my waist with a punishing grip as his mouth trailed a wet path along my jaw to the sensitive spot right below my ear.
I tipped my head back and panted. “I get that a lot.”
“Not like this, you don’t.” He growled like a lion protecting his pride, and when I shivered, he ordered, “Take off your clothes.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “So bossy. Do I call you Mr. Collins, or would you prefer sir?’”
A hint of a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth before it disappeared, and he gripped my chin, the intensity of his expression making my core clench.
“Such attitude.” His thumb traced my lips. “I wonder how smart that mouth would be when it’s stuffed with my cock.” My jaw dropped, and instantly his thumb dipped inside and pressed on my tongue as he bent forward and muttered, “To answer your question, call me whatever is going to be easier for you to scream.”
And then his hand was gone. His heat. His proximity. He stepped back against the fireplace, his hands reaching for the buttons on his shirt as he stared expectantly for me to do the same.
Seconds passed, filled with the sopping slop of clothes peeling from skin and landing on the floor. The hearth hissed with the growing fire, or maybe that was just him—the breath leaking from his lungs as I stood in front of him, wet and bare and wanting.
I didn’t hurry the moment because I needed to look my fill. He was gorgeous, and even though I expected it, I wasn’t prepared. The raw beauty, all toned muscles and pulsing veins, and his thick cock hanging heavy in front of him. Good god, did the man have any physical flaws? If he did, I was utterly blind to them. Like this, he wasn’t put together or professional. He wasn’t buttoned up, believing he was only good for business. Like this, he was exposed. Unfiltered. Unhindered.
And mine.
“Give me your hand,” Chandler ordered, his voice sounding stripped, and my eyes snapped up from his waist.
Without hesitation, I extended my arm, and his grip locked firmly around my fingers. I watched him take the candle he’d set on the mantel and bring it close, the flame pulsing wildly like it was caught in our electric erotic storm.
Chandler held my eyes, swallowed them up in the dark pools of his. “I’m going to make you burn for me.”
My nipples furled tight, and I taunted, “You can try.” It was better than admitting I was already set aflame.
Again, his half-cocked smile appeared and sent a fresh rush of heat between my legs in anticipation. The candle tipped, and the liquid wax collecting around the wick shifted. Surged. Spilled. I shivered just before the first drops landed onthe inside of my wrist and then gasped at the familiar but oh-so different sensation. It was hot. Scorching.But before I could process any pain, his mouth was there. He blew on the pool of wax, cooling it on my skin, and then he pressed his thumb firmly on top of it.
“Are you okay?”
My tongue slid along my bottom lip. “Yes.”
But also no.
How many times had I burned myself with fire or wax in the last decade? Countless. It was a hazard of the job. But this was no hazard. This was intentional, illicit intimacy. This went beyond trusting him with my pleasure, I was trusting him with my pain—trusting him to wield both like the deadliest, double-edged sword.
“Good,” he said gruffly. “Because I’m going to mark every inch of you.” He lifted his thumb away, leaving behind a wax thumbprint like a seal over my pulse.
Instantly, I imagined those fingerprints burning all over me. My arms. My breasts. My stomach. Between my thighs.
“Chandler…” My throat strangled out his name.
In one quick movement, his thumb peeled off the hardened wax, the red skin underneath instantly covered by the heat of his mouth. The soothing kiss did nothing but make the ache inside me stronger.
I reached for his face, his expression angry like I’d ripped food right from his starving mouth. But I was starving, too. He was trying to go slow—to be tender. And while my chest squeezed at the notion, I knew what I was asking for. I knew exactly what I wanted.
“Burn me again,” I begged throatily. Mark me as yours.
The kind of person who pleaded to play with fire didn’t think twice about being consumed. That was how fire worked. There was no half-flame or partial light. There was only on fire or not. And tonight, I wanted to be on fire for him.