chapter eighteen #2
Willa grinned, breath catching as Frankie’s hands slid up, just under the band of her bra—teasing but not pushing.
“Then do something about it,” Willa said, eyes dark and daring.
“Oh, baby,” Frankie said, leaning down, lips brushing her ear. “I’m trying so hard to be good.” Her voice dropped lower. “But I want to wreck you.”
Willa’s hips lifted involuntarily, her fingers gripping Frankie’s waist.
“I want your mouth everywhere,” Frankie whispered. “I want to make you come just from kissing you long enough.”
Willa whimpered—actually whimpered—biting her lip hard.
“I want that too,” she said, voice barely audible.
Frankie kissed her again, all tongue and heat and hunger, grinding down just enough to make both of them gasp. Willa’s hands slid down to Frankie’s ass, pulling her closer, deeper, desperate for more even if they weren’t going all the way. Not yet.
Frankie sucked a bruise into the side of Willa’s neck. “Tell me when to stop.”
“Not yet,” Willa said breathlessly. “Don’t stop yet.”
So Frankie didn’t. She kissed her harder, deeper, until Willa was arching beneath her, until every sound that slipped past her lips felt like gasoline on fire.
Frankie’s hands roamed, learning the shape of her, the give of her curves, the places that made Willa tremble.
The world narrowed to heat and breath and the desperate press of mouths and hands—until there was nothing else but them.
* * *
Frankie
It was nearly 7 p.m. by the time they finally emerged from their rooms, stepping into the cold Nashville evening like cave dwellers blinking into the light.
Dinner was with the band, and it was loud and messy in the best kind of way.
Beers clinked with cheers, and appetizers were passed around like bribes.
Kara, Juno, and Ember were deep in a conversation that had them laughing so hard Kara had to wipe her eyes with a napkin, while Malik tried to argue with the server about why sweet potato fries should never be considered a side dish.
Frankie barely tracked the topic. She was too busy memorizing the way Willa fit beside her in the booth—her hand resting on the bench behind them, fingertips grazing Frankie’s shoulder every so often like it was a habit now. Natural. Easy.
Like she belonged there.
Kara caught Frankie’s eyes across the table and gave her a small, knowing grin, mouthing, I like this for you.
Frankie rolled her eyes and kicked her gently under the table, but she was grinning when she did it. She liked it too. Liked it way too much.
Which sucked.
Because Willa was leaving in two days.
And Frankie had no idea what the hell to do with that—what to do with this—now that she was actually getting attached. Really attached. The kind of attached that made her feel warm and stupid and wildly, wildly vulnerable.
After dinner, they broke off from the group and wandered downtown.
Just the two of them, ambling slow through narrow streets and glowing neon.
They ducked into record shops and vintage bookstores.
Willa snapped photos of weird murals and half-lit signage and dodged overly ambitious street performers with a laugh that Frankie already knew she’d miss in her bones.
She should have kept her mouth shut. Let the moment stay what it was.
But her heart—traitorous and bright—had other plans.
“You wanna go on a date with me tomorrow?” Frankie asked, trying for casual, trying to sound breezy. She failed. There was too much hope stitched into her voice.
Willa blinked. “Like… a real date?”
Frankie’s heart did an embarrassing little stutter-step. “Yeah. Like you and me. Dinner. Drinks. Not just… making out in bunks and hotel beds.” She gave a lopsided smile. “Although those are great, too.”
Willa smiled, slow and soft, her eyes shining under the Nashville streetlamps. Frankie’s chest tightened—God, she was so fucking cute. Too cute.
“Of course I do,” Willa said, leaning in and kissing her like it was the easiest answer in the world.
Frankie kissed her back, trying not to fall even harder.
Failing completely.
They walked hand in hand back to the hotel, the quiet hum of the Nashville night settling around them like a soft wrap. When they reached their adjoining doors, Willa slowed to a stop, still holding Frankie’s hand.
She leaned in, kissed her—slow and warm and somehow still dizzying—then pulled back just enough to murmur, “Good night, Frankie.”
Frankie tried to hide her disappointment. She nodded, squeezed Willa’s fingers, and said, “Night, Wills,” before slipping into her own room alone.
She changed into soft cotton shorts and a loose tank top, washed off her makeup, and twisted her curls up into a messy bun on top of her head. She moved through the motions like muscle memory, but her body was still buzzing, her skin still singing from Willa’s kiss.
She was just about to climb into bed when she heard a soft knock at the adjoining door.
Her grin was instant. She padded over barefoot and opened it.
Willa stood on the other side—barefaced, brushed hair falling in loose waves just past her breasts, bare legs golden and endless beneath an oversized Frankie Monroe Tour 2024 T-shirt. Frankie’s T-shirt. And fuck if that wasn’t doing something feral to her brain.
“Hi,” Willa said, her voice soft and a little shy.
Frankie blinked. “Hi.”
Willa shifted, thumb brushing the hem of her shirt. “I want to sleep with you—is that okay?”
Frankie’s heart damn near stopped. Her mouth went dry. She blinked again.
“Just so we’re clear,” Willa added quickly, “I mean like… actually sleep. Mostly. Maybe some kissing. Some touching.”
Frankie stared at her for a half second longer, then grabbed her gently by the wrist and pulled her inside.
“Fuck yes,” she said, already kissing her. “Come here.”
Willa laughed against her mouth, lips warm and familiar. Frankie walked her backward until her calves hit the bed, then climbed in with her, curling around her like it was the most natural thing in the world. And maybe it was.
Because even after everything—after all the waiting, the not-quite-yet, the almosts—this felt inevitable.
Like, of course she was here. Of course she was staying.
* * *