11. Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Frankie
L ater that evening, after too much studying and far more lasagna than any human should eat, Frankie rolled into bed and burritoed herself in for the night. While the apartment felt eerily quiet, the night-before-Thanksgiving-Day ruckus outside her window was in full swing. Hordes of excited students danced around the streets, rejoicing in the freedom of the long holiday weekend and the prospect of their mothers washing their accumulating mountain of laundry.
“Go home,” she grumbled. “Don’t you know it’s”—she snatched up her phone and squinted at the time—“just after ten? What’s happened to me? I used to be young.” Flipping a forearm over her eyes, phone still clutched in her grip, Frankie sank back into her blankets to mourn her abandoned youth. She began to drift, only to be jolted awake by the buzz of a text message. Startled, she flung her cell halfway across the room.
She scurried out of bed, picked up the accidental projectile, and whispered an oath of thanks to her OtterBox case.
Sheriff Howards:
Are you back tonight or waiting till tomorrow morning?
Shit, Clint.
She’d completely forgotten to tell him she wasn’t going home for break. The realization that she’d be waiting another four weeks to get laid sank in, and she considered throwing the phone again, this time on purpose.
Frankie:
Change of plans. I need to stay here and study.
Sheriff Howards:
Well, that’s unfortunate. Anything I can say to change your mind?
Frankie:
Sorry, but no. I need the extra time to work through this reading.
Sheriff Howards:
Your teacher’s a real ballbuster.
Frankie:
You’re telling me.
Sheriff Howards:
Are we extending the rain check?
Frankie:
Why not? :)
Sheriff Howards:
All right then, princess. Get some rest.
Frankie’s loins screamed in protest. She hadn’t gotten any—not so much as a kiss—in eighty-one days. One hundred and six if she counted full-blown sex.
Damn her newfound scruples.
Flashes of rippling abs, veiny biceps, and a hard jawline flitted through her mind. Clint had a beautiful body, both in his uniform and half-bare in an unzipped wetsuit that exposed his dripping torso. Frankie swallowed thickly and reached for her side table drawer. Using her favorite vibrator, she conjured more images of the hunky sheriff. She imagined how the evening would go after he cashed in that drawn-out rain check. They’d probably be at his place, warm and cozy by a fire.
His large hands would skim the sides of her body. Playful, deep brown eyes gazing down at her as his lips poised to capture hers in a needy kiss. But he’d hold back, warm breath playing across her jaw, dancing to her ear. She’d slide her fingers through the loose blond curls that managed to give him that California surfer boy innocence. A true wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Frankie trailed the tip of the sapphire blue toy around the perimeter of her panties, the slight hum muffled by the heavy blanket. She spread her knees and used her free hand to play with her nipples.
Clint would slide his palm down between her legs, exploring with his strong, calloused fingers as the first contact would pull a little gasp from the back of her throat. He’d whisper in her ear. What would he say? Would he say naughty things to her or just groan her name? Would he be into playing up his authoritative role? Insist on her calling him sheriff?
“Do you like this?”
She’d nod, unable to produce words.
He’d slide a finger, two fingers, into her before slowly pulling them out again.
Frankie feverishly increased her own motions, pinching and flicking as she pictured him hovering over her, his dark, coiffed hair pulling loose from its structured style.
A rumbling chuckle would reverberate up her neck as he made his way to her lips. The five o’clock shadow that seemed to appear around ten every morning would deliciously abrade the sensitive skin at her jaw. He’d nibble gently on her plump lower lip, whispering filthy, commanding things, then remove his probing fingers and grip the head of his rigid arousal.
“Is this what you want?” he’d ask, a smirk in his deep voice.
Another nod.
“Say it,” he’d demand with a gruff voice at her collarbone, braced against her, ready to sink deep.
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, Professor Clark.”
He’d let out a devious chuckle, his endless blue eyes connecting with hers, and push swiftly into her.
Frankie’s orgasm engulfed her body from head to toe, back arching off the mattress. She pulsed hard against the vibrator, letting the sensation of fullness and release dance across her sensitive skin. The tension slowly retreated as her senses returned, and her breath gently returned to a normal rhythm. Only then did she register where her fantasy had swept her, ending with a completely different man than it had started.
“Shit,” she murmured violently into her pillow.