Chapter 10
Frances
I’m kissing Luciano Romano. Again.
For the past couple of weeks, I’ve been kissing my nemesis. My bully. My tormentor.
And worst of all? I like it.
I don’t know what possessed me to give in to his blackmail, but here we are.
The only thing I don’t like? The asshole insists on plopping me on his lap every single time we make out.
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t self-conscious about it. I mean, I’m not one of those petite girls who hang all over him at school, laughing at his jokes and batting their eyelashes like he’s God’s gift to women. Not only do I refuse to feed his ego, but I’m also what most people call a big girl.
Personally, I like to think of it as being a whole lot of woman. And while I’m comfortable in my own skin, there’s something to be said about being this close to Lucky. Having his hands on my hips, his breath hot against my bare skin. It all makes me feel… exposed.
If he has concerns that I’m packing a little more junk in the trunk, he sure as hell doesn’t show it.
In fact, if the way his hands tighten around my waist, thighs, and ass is any indication, he likes having something soft to grab onto. And damn it, I like it too.
And if this so-called experiment is going to remain our little secret, then why the hell not? Why shouldn’t I enjoy it?
He’s right, after all. Once I take my vows, this will be forbidden. No kissing. No touching. No Lucky.
That never bothered me before. But now? With his lips moving against mine, his tongue teasing just enough to make me want more, I hate the idea of giving all this up.
Lucky knows how to kiss. The bastard has had more than enough practice, no doubt about that. It wouldn’t surprise me if he’s kissed half the girls in school—and maybe half of Chicago, too. Because it shows. Big time.
Not that I care where his lips have been before they’ve kissed mine. If anything, it just makes him a better tutor. And right now, I’ve never been more eager to learn and ace a subject in my life.
For these last two weeks, he’s made good on his promise. A couple of hours of studying first, making sure I don’t fail calculus. Then, he takes me to the kitchen, where the ingredients I requested the night before are perfectly laid out, waiting for me to create some magic.
Sigh.
I don’t know what I look forward to the most—cooking or kissing.
Back at the orphanage, food is just fuel. Bland. Basic. Enough to keep us going but never meant to be enjoyed.
But here? Here, I can create. I can mix spices, experiment with flavors, and for a little while, I can forget all my troubles and just…be.
Lucky never rushes me while I’m cooking. Though sometimes I can tell he gets antsy. The way he discreetly keeps checking his watch gives him away. But he’s never vocal about it, insisting I have all the time in the world to prepare whatever dish hits my fancy. And after I’ve cooked up a storm to my heart’s delight, he just watches me eat.
Sometimes, he takes a bite or two, but mostly, he just sits there, grinning like he’s savoring the sight of me almost as much as the food.
Freak.
I’ve never heard of a kink where a guy gets off watching a woman eat, but if there is one, Lucky definitely has it.
He never lets me clean up either. Yet somehow, by the time we’re back at his brother’s place the next day, the kitchen’s spotless, and the pantry and fridge are fully restocked.
I don’t ask how or when he does it. Maybe it’s just Lucky’s way of being nice. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to waste a single second when there’s kissing to be done.
Either way, when we finish eating, we move to the couch, where, once again, he refuses to let me sit anywhere but on his lap.
It’s more than just kissing now. His hands roam more freely around my body. A slow glide down my back, a possessive grip at my waist, fingers digging in just enough to make me shiver. But more often than not, one of his hands always finds its way to my hair.
I get the appeal. I love running my fingers through his hair, too. It’s so obnoxiously soft that it feels like he bathes in overpriced shampoo and hair masks every night.
“Fuck,” he groans into my mouth when I shift the slightest bit in his lap.
I smile against his lips, doing it again, just to hear him curse and tighten his grip.
I’m starting to learn what he likes, too. And more importantly—what I like.
I don’t like it when he shoves his tongue down my throat with no prompting whatsoever.
Tried it. Didn’t love it.
What I do love is the build-up. The way our kissing starts slow and sweet, like the flickering of a matchstick, and then bam! Suddenly it’s a fucking forest fire.
Yeah. The climb is my favorite part. And no matter how long we spend like this—tangled up on his couch, lips fused, hands roaming—it never feels like enough. Like there’s some deeper ache burning inside me, begging to be satisfied.
Lucky feels it, too. I know it because every time the alarm rings on my phone, telling me the time’s up, he always holds me there a little longer like he can’t quite let go.
When I finally push off his lap, he yanks a pillow over himself, shifting like it’s no big deal. But I know exactly what he’s trying to hide—the proof of just how much he wants me. And damn it, if seeing him like that doesn’t send a sick kind of thrill down my spine. Talk about an ego boost.
“God, you smell good,” he murmurs between kisses, his nose brushing along my jaw.
He talks a lot when we kiss, too. Normally, his constant chatter drives me insane. I swear the boy talks just to hear his own voice.
But when we kiss? I love every word that comes out of his mouth. I more than love it. Because every word that spills from his lips, no matter how absurd, feels like something he designed just for me.
“I smell like curry.” I laugh against his lips.
“That and vanilla,” he counters. “With just a hint of cardamom.”
I’m still at that. Because he just described my favorite perfume to a T. The one Sister Agnes gave me for my sixteenth birthday a few years back. The same perfume I’ve been extra careful about using, only spritzing it behind my ears and on my wrists for special occasions. Though lately, I’ve been wearing it a lot more often than I should.
“But you taste even better,” Lucky groans, sealing his lips over mine again, deepening the kiss until I’m dizzy.
I bite his bottom lip just enough to catch my breath.
Lucky’s reaction, though? Instant.
“Jesus, fuck,” he chokes out, his grasp tightening on my waist. His eyes burn into mine, dark and hooded. “Do that again.”
“This?” I tease, tugging at his lip again before tracing it with my tongue.
“Fuck,” he groans, shuddering beneath me. “You’re starting to get really good at this.”
“I’ve had a good teacher.”
“Hmm,” he hums, his voice rough, deep. The sound alone makes my pulse race.
And then… there it is. That ache deep in my belly. Growing. Waiting. Needing.
That ache.
That hollow, desperate ache that never truly goes away until I’ve distanced myself from him.
“Frankie,” Lucky groans, his voice thick with desperation. “Think we can move to phase two of our sessions?”
I keep kissing him, letting his lips mold against mine, his fingers practically digging into my flesh.
“That depends,” I tease, breathless. “What’s phase two?”
“How about I show you?” The corner of his lips curls into a sexy smile.
“Tell me first. Then, if I say yes, you can show me.”
“Straddle me.”
I pull back slightly, blinking. “Straddle you? What are you, a horse?”
He laughs against my lips, the sound deep and wicked.
“Fucking hung like one right now.”
I don’t get his joke, but even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. Not when my mind is still reeling from what he just asked me to do.
“Just straddle me, Frankie. And let me kiss you someplace else that isn’t your mouth.”
My body tenses at that. My heart stutters.
“I’m not sure I want that.”
I like kissing Lucky. If his mouth is busy somewhere else, that means I’m not kissing him. And I don’t know how I feel about that.
“It’s called foreplay, Frankie.” His voice is softer now, coaxing. “We have to move up eventually. I promise I’ll keep it tame. And if you don’t like it, you can tell me to stop.”
I think about it. Long and hard.
“So if I don’t like whatever you’re about to do, you’ll just stop?” I arch a suspicious brow.
“That’s how this works. You say stop, and I’ll stop. That’s how it should always work.”
I study his face, looking for any crack, any flicker of deceit, but there isn’t one.
Hmm. He was right about the kissing. Maybe he’ll be right about this, too. And if he’s not? Then we can always stick to just kissing.
“Fine,” I relent before pushing myself up from his lap to stand. From this angle, I watch Lucky lean back against the couch, his jaw tight, his hands clenched at his sides, his pants straining as he tries not to let me see just how affected he is by me.
I see it anyway. Any other time I would tease him about. But not now. Not when I’m just as turned on from just kissing as he is.
“What if I hurt you?” I ask, hesitating.
Lucky’s gaze darkens, tracking the way my eyes flicker to his lap.
“Already kind of hurting with you looking at me like that,” he replies, tension knotting in his jaw, silent but telling, while his bulge twitches under my heavy gaze.
I take a steadying breath and shift onto the couch, planting one knee beside his thigh. Then the other. My hands clutch his shoulders, doing my absolute best to keep my full weight off him.
Lucky doesn’t like that, though. His hands lock onto my hips, yanking me fully onto his lap, making me gasp as my thighs spread wider over him.
“Much better,” he murmurs, lips curving into a wicked smile.
“Are you sure I’m not hurting you?” I ask, feeling self-conscious.
He licks his lips, his chestnut eyes turning molten.
“I’m in fucking agony right now, Frankie. But no, you’re not physically hurting me.”
“Then why—”
He exhales sharply, pushing my hair to one side, his fingers trailing up and down my spine, sending goosebumps racing across my skin.
“If you have to ask, then I’m not doing a good job at this tutoring shit.” His frown deepens. “Let me see if I can up my game.”
His hand tangles in my hair, tugging my head to the side. His nose skims up my neck, his breath warm against my skin.
“This is gonna feel weird for a second,” he warns, “then it’ll get good. Really good. Just trust the process.”
I nod, giving him permission. His lips ghost along my pulse point, his mouth hot, teasing.
“That tickles,” I mumble, trying to scrunch my shoulder to block him.
“Stay still.”
His hands possessively clutch my hair, keeping me in place, forcing me to give him full access. He starts slow, pressing featherlight kisses along my throat, working his way up to the shell of my ear. His tongue flicks against it, and I jolt. The sensation is strange. Warm, wet, electric. His teeth graze my earlobe, alternating between licking, biting, and soothing the spot with slow, torturous drags of his mouth. And I find my body melting into it.
“That feel good?” he rasps, his voice gravelly.
“Yes,” I pant, my head tipping back.
“Show me.”
“How?”
“Rub up against me.”
My heart stops at the order. “Rub?”
“Yes. Fuck, Frankie,” he groans, his frustration laced with something darker. “Just move.”
He lets go of my hair and plants his hands on my hips. Then he pulls me flat against him. I gasp at the friction, at the hard press of him beneath my panties. Back and forth, he goes, repeating the slow torturous dance.
“I got it,” I whisper after my body catches his rhythm.
“Good girl,” he praises, his breath hot against my ear again as I start to move.
Back and forth. Slow at first. Then faster.
The friction between us is delicious, the hard ridge of him pressing just right between my legs. A moan spills past my lips, my forehead falling against his shoulder. Lucky groans against my neck, sucking harder, while his hold on me intensifies, urging me to keep going.
The ache inside me grows. A pressure that coils tighter and tighter with every rock of my hips.
“Fuck, just like that, baby. Jesus fucking Christ, don’t stop, Frankie.”
The desperation in his voice sends a thrill straight through me, pushing me closer to the edge. I can feel the heat of his skin through his clothes. The tension in his muscles. The raw, frantic need pulsing between us.
Sweat beads along my skin as I bury my face in his neck.
“Lucky, look at me,” I whisper, my hands sliding up to cup his face. He shakes his head, biting his lip. “Lucky.”
I brush my lips along the corners of his mouth, kissing his jaw, tracing my tongue along the seam of his lips.
He always responds to my kiss. And this time is no exception. His hands dig into my waist as he kisses me back, his grasp punishing like he wants to leave bruises.
I break away, panting, my movements becoming more frantic.
“Look at me,” I plead again, needing the connection that only his eyes on mine can create.
His eyelids flutter open, causing my breath to catch in my throat. There, in his gaze, is everything I’ve been trying to ignore since this started. Raw. Unfiltered. Desperate. A perfect reflection of the ache clawing at my insides.
“Fuck,” he groans. “Don’t fucking look at me like that.”
“Like what?” I pant, still rolling my hips, gasping when the friction hits just right.
“Like you fucking want me inside you,” he grits out, his hands clutching my ass cheeks now, his restraint slipping.
I don’t get a chance to reply.
Lucky curses under his breath while anchoring me closer.
“Fuck. You’re so fucking beautiful, Frankie. So fucking beautiful.”
His fingers dig into me, guiding me, urging me to move faster.
“I could come just looking at your face,” he pants, his jaw clenched. “Fuck. I am going to come. God… Fuck!” he curses, his body jerking beneath me.
His fingers squeeze my ass, rocking me harder, chasing both our highs.
“And if I’m coming, you’re going to fucking come too.”
It sounds like a promise.
Or maybe it’s a threat.
I’m not sure anymore.
The only thing I am sure of is that I want to come too. God, do I want to.
“Make me,” I whisper, my voice barely audible between heavy breaths. “Please. I want to.”
Lucky lets out a guttural growl, his hands moving away from my ass and tightening around my hips. Before I know it, his mouth is on me, lips wrapping around my nipple over my clothes, his teeth sinking down just enough to send a sharp jolt of pleasure-pain through my entire body.
The mix of sensations—the friction, the heat, his desperate grip on me—it’s too much.
A wave crashes over me, drowning out everything except the sound of my own voice shouting his name as I come apart. My vision blurs, stars exploding behind my eyes, my entire body wracked with tremors as warmth rushes through me, soaking my panties.
Lucky doesn’t stop, though. He uses my hips to grind me against him, dragging out every last ripple of pleasure until he stiffens beneath me, cursing under his breath, his face buried between my breasts.
I hold him there, fingers curling into his soft hair, both of us shaken, breathless, coming down from whatever high we just hit.
When our breathing evens out, I loosen my grip, and Lucky leans back just enough to run his knuckles over my cheek. His touch is softer now, his chestnut eyes locked onto mine.
“Phase two complete,” he murmurs, his voice gentler than I’ve ever heard it. Almost… tender. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
I shake my head, too dazed to form words.
But then something hits me.
Oh, God.
My stomach plummets. My face flames.
Oh, no. No, no, no! I think I just … wet myself on him.
A fresh wave of mortification crashes over me.
Lucky’s hands are still on me, his relaxed expression morphing to worry.
“What? What’s wrong?”
I can’t say it. I won’t say it.
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
But I have to, don’t I?
The second I move off his lap, he’s going to see what I’ve done. And then that’s it.
No more tutoring sessions. No more cooking dinners. No more… this.
“Frankie,” he says, his tone turning serious. It’s the same tone his father used that day at their house—calm, authoritative, undeniable.
“Don’t make me say it,” I whisper, my voice small. “It’s embarrassing.”
“Whatever it is, you can tell me. This is a safe space, remember? Nothing we do here leaves this apartment. No one will ever know.”
I swallow hard. “Promise me. I need your word that you won’t tell anyone.”
Him finding out is bad enough.
His jaw clenches, looking somewhat insulted I even had to ask, but nods, nonetheless. “You have my word. Now tell me what’s wrong?”
I inch off his lap, curling into myself at the other end of the couch, knees pulled to my chest.
“I think…” I hesitate, voice barely above a whisper. “I think I wet myself.” The words burn in my throat as they leave my mouth.
Lucky looks down at his lap, the dark stain soaking into his trousers, all the evidence he needs.
I close my eyes in utter shame. I can’t look at him. This is by far the most humiliating thing that has ever happened to me.
“Of course, you’re a squirter,” he mutters to himself as if the universe just personally targeted him. “Because you just had to be that fucking perfect.”
My head snaps up. “What?”
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he lifts his gaze to mine, calm and utterly composed.
“You didn’t do anything wrong. There isn’t anything you have to be embarrassed about. This is normal, Frankie. And believe me, I’m just as responsible for ruining my pants as you are.”
“Don’t patronize me, Lucky.”
“I’m not,” he vows, his expression almost kind. “I swear on my family that this,” he gestures to his lap, “wasn’t just you. I came too, remember?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, his words trying to worm their way into my brain.
Health class never mentioned anything like this. Men ejaculate? Sure. But not women. At least, I never heard of such a thing.
Maybe… maybe I’m broken. Just like I always thought I was.
Damaged goods.
No wonder my parents gave me away.
Somehow early on they must have realized that I’m…defective.
“Give me your panties,” Lucky orders, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts.
“What?” I gasp.
“I said, give me your panties.”
“No. I’m not doing that.”
“You are. Or do you want one of the nuns to see them when they do your laundry?”
Shit. He’s right. They’d see. They’d ask questions. And then? Everything would be over.
Damn it.
“Fine,” I grumble, not exactly ecstatic about the situation. I slide my panties slowly down my legs, my hands trembling as I hold them out. Lucky takes them without hesitation and pockets them. “What are you going to do with them?” I ask, wary.
“Wash them, of course.”
“So you’re giving them back?”
He smirks. “Eventually.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “What does that mean?”
“It means we covered a lot of ground today, but we’ve barely scratched the surface.”
“I think we’ve covered more than enough,” I grumble, squeezing my knees to my chest.
Lucky leans in, smirking. “Do you still want to be a nun?”
“Of course I do,” I reply without missing a beat.
“Then we haven’t covered enough.” His voice is smug, knowing. “Remember, you need all the facts.”
“Whatever. Take me home,” I demand, but Lucky doesn’t move. Instead, his hands cup my cheeks, his fingers warm, solid.
“No.”
“No?” I stare at him in amazement. “What are you going to do? Keep me hostage here to be your sex slave?”
“As tempting as that sounds, no.” He then pulls me in, wrapping his arms around me and holding me against him. “I’m not taking you home while you’re this upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Prove it.” His eyes glint with challenge. “Kiss me.”
I scoff. “I thought we skipped that stage already.”
“We’ll always be at that stage, Frankie. Now stop giving me lip and use that gorgeous mouth for what your God actually intended. Kiss me.”
As much as I’d like nothing more than to lose myself in his kiss, I can’t. I’m still mortified. Still reeling from what just happened.
But Lucky… he doesn’t look disgusted. Doesn’t look bothered in the slightest. If anything, he looks like he wants me even more. He always looks like he wants me.
“Kiss me, Frankie,” he repeats, his eyes so pleading that I can’t find it in me to refuse him.
So, I kiss him.
At first, I hold back, uncertain of how we could just move on from what happened.
But Lucky? Lucky never holds back.
His lips move over mine eagerly, his tongue teasing the seam of my mouth until I open for him. Blossom for him. And before I know it, I’m melting into him, drowning in him.
By the time he pulls away, I almost whine at the loss.
Almost. I’m not a child.
“There she is,” Lucky murmurs, his thumb brushing against my lower lip. “That’s my Frankie.”
I freeze.
My Frankie. Baby. Good girl.
Those were all the words he called me this afternoon.
I tell myself it’s just part of the game. Just part of the lesson. That I shouldn’t read into it.
I’m not special. He said so himself.
Right? Right.
Only a fool would believe anything that comes out of Luciano Romano’s mouth.
I may be inexperienced—just like he loves to remind me—but I’m no fool.
Even if, for one stupid, reckless second, I want to be foolish enough to believe I’m different.
That I’m special. At least to him.