chapter twenty-one
Willa
They barely made it through the door before Frankie had her pressed against the wall, hard enough to rattle the cheap frame hanging there.
One hand clamped at Willa’s hip, possessive and firm; the other tangled in her hair, yanking her into a kiss that was all teeth and heat and five weeks of unresolved want.
Willa moaned into it, dragging her nails down Frankie’s back, like she needed to mark her.
“Fuck,” she gasped against her mouth. “Finally.”
Frankie growled, low and guttural, pinning her harder. “You have no fucking idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”
She kissed her again—messy and rough and greedy—hands sliding under Willa’s shirt like she was trying to memorize her skin.
Five weeks of banter. Of pretending she didn’t want this. Of watching Frankie swagger onto stage night after night like she wasn’t driving Willa insane.
Willa’s hands were frantic, exploring hard muscle and soft skin, that scar she’d never asked about but always noticed. She pulled back just long enough to growl, “Clothes. Off. Now.”
Frankie chuckled darkly, forehead pressed to hers. “Bossy.”
“Yeah? Gonna do something about it?” Willa smirked.
“I’m gonna do everything about it.” Frankie stripped off her own shirt, then Willa’s, flinging it aside like it offended her. She paused—just a second—to look. To take in Willa, half-naked and breathless, flushed from tequila and tension and need.
“Jesus Christ,” Frankie murmured, brushing her thumbs just beneath Willa’s bra. “You’re better than every filthy dream I’ve had.”
“Then stop dreaming,” Willa rasped, grabbing Frankie’s belt loops. “Do something about it.”
Frankie walked her backward until Willa hit the edge of the bed and eased her down, crawling over her like a storm. Her bra came off with a practiced flick, and Frankie ducked her head, sucking bruises into her skin like she needed to leave proof she’d been there.
“Since Provincetown,” Frankie muttered against her chest. “Since the second you looked at me like you wanted to murder me and fuck me in the same breath. I’ve wanted this.”
“You’re not the only one,” Willa gasped, fingers tugging at Frankie’s hair. “Please. Frankie, please.”
Frankie moved lower, her tongue tracing fire down Willa’s stomach. She popped the button on her jeans with her teeth, and Willa made a noise that wasn’t even human.
“Patience,” Frankie murmured, dragging the denim down inch by inch, revealing damp black lace.
She kissed the inside of Willa’s thighs—open-mouthed, lingering—deliberately avoiding the place she ached for most.
“Frankie—” Willa’s voice cracked, need threaded through every syllable.
“Look at you,” Frankie murmured, dragging two fingers along the soaked fabric of her panties. “Fucking drenched for me.”
Willa whimpered, hips bucking helplessly into her touch. “Please, baby…”
Frankie only smirked, then hooked her fingers into the waistband and eased the panties down slowly, like unwrapping something sacred. “So goddamn pretty,” she whispered.
Then her mouth was on her.
Willa cried out, hands flying to Frankie’s hair as her back arched. “Oh my god—yes,” she gasped, voice breaking.
Frankie licked her slow at first, long strokes that made Willa tremble. “Taste so fucking good,” she groaned against her. Her hand braced Willa’s hip, holding her steady when she tried to squirm away from the intensity.
“Don’t stop,” Willa begged, her thighs already shaking. “Feels so good, Frankie… please.”
Frankie chuckled low, then closed her lips around her clit and sucked, hard enough to make Willa’s cry echo off the walls. “That’s it, baby. Give it to me.”
Her tongue flicked sharp, relentless, until Willa’s breath came in short, broken gasps. Then Frankie slid two fingers inside her, slow at first, stretching her before curling just right.
Willa sobbed, clutching her tighter. “Oh fuck—right there—yes, Frankie—don’t stop.”
“That’s it,” Frankie rasped, thrusting harder, her voice ruined with hunger. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel you.”
The orgasm ripped through Willa like a wave, sharp and unrelenting. She came hard, gasping Frankie’s name, her body clenching tight around her fingers as tears stung her eyes.
But Frankie didn’t stop. She coaxed her through it, slowing only enough to drag it out, kissing her thighs, her stomach, licking her messy and thorough until Willa was shaking and boneless.
When she finally crawled up Willa’s body, Frankie kissed her deep, letting her taste herself on her lips.
“You’re mine now,” Frankie whispered against her mouth.
Willa’s reply was ragged, certain. “Yours.”
Frankie smiled—dark and starved—and rolled them so Willa was straddling her.
“Good,” she rasped. “Because I’m not done with you yet.”
Willa groaned, her legs trembling, but her pulse thrummed with something sharper than nerves. She’d been wrecked already, torn open in ways she didn’t expect—but now she wanted the reversal. Needed to see Frankie break for her.
She leaned down, lips brushing Frankie’s ear, her voice low and dangerous. “My turn.”
She kissed her way down Frankie’s throat, tasting salt and sweat, dragging her nails across her stomach, slow enough to make Frankie writhe. The power of it—the way Frankie arched into her, helpless and begging—sent heat surging through Willa’s chest.
“Let me take care of you.”
“Fuck. Yeah. Anything. Just—” Frankie gasped when Willa’s mouth closed around her breast, tongue flicking over her nipple.
Her moans vibrated under Willa’s lips. God, she sounded beautiful like this—wrecked, desperate, undone.
“God,” Frankie panted. “You’re gonna kill me.”
“That’s the plan.” Willa smirked against her skin, moving lower. She trailed her mouth down Frankie’s ribs, leaving damp heat in her wake, until her hand slipped between her thighs. She was soaked.
Willa’s breath caught. The rush of it—the knowledge that Frankie Monroe was this far gone for her—nearly undid her. She pressed her fingers into the slick heat and was rewarded with a guttural moan that made her thighs clench.
“You took me apart,” Willa whispered, her lips ghosting Frankie’s stomach, “now let’s see how loud I can make you scream.”
Frankie bucked, gasping. “Shit—baby—”
“Who said I play fair?” Willa growled, and pushed inside—two fingers, slow at first, savoring the stretch before setting a rhythm.
Frankie’s head slammed back, her hands clutching the sheets. “Fuck—yes—don’t stop—”
Willa’s chest ached with want. She curled her fingers, angled just so, watching Frankie arch and fall apart. “That’s it,” she coaxed, her own voice breaking. “All those nights on the road. All that attitude. You’ve been waiting for this, haven’t you?”
“Yes,” Frankie sobbed, hips rolling frantically into her hand. “Weeks—every night—I thought about you—your mouth—your fingers—”
“Say it.” Willa’s command was rough, born of need. “Tell me what you’ve been thinking.”
Frankie’s eyes squeezed shut, her words spilling ragged. “You—riding my face—telling me I’m yours.”
Willa’s breath caught, hunger tearing through her. She thrust harder, curling her fingers until Frankie cried out again. “You are mine,” she growled. “Say it.”
“I’m yours,” Frankie sobbed, voice breaking.
That was it.
Her body convulsed, tightening around Willa’s fingers as her orgasm ripped through her. The sound she made—raw, desperate, helpless—burned itself into Willa’s memory. She wanted to hear it every night for the rest of her life.
But she didn’t let go of her. She slowed her hand, coaxing, working her through the tremors until Frankie gasped her name over and over, like a prayer Willa would never get tired of hearing.
When she finally eased out, Willa licked her fingers, savoring, then kissed Frankie deep—slow, filthy, letting her taste herself.
Frankie blinked up at her, dazed, laughing breathlessly. “You’re fucking dangerous.”
“I know.” Willa kissed her again, softer this time. “But you love it.”
Frankie chuckled, ruined. “Yeah. I really fucking do.”
The thrill of it, the sight of her wrecked and radiant—it made Willa ache all over again. She straddled Frankie’s hips, leaned close, voice a promise against her ear. “Next time, I want your mouth on me. I want to sit on your face. And I want you to beg.”
Frankie groaned, hands clamping around her thighs. “Baby, name the time. Name the place. I’m already on my knees.”
Willa laughed—low, dangerous, drunk on her power—and kissed her hard.
Neither of them slept a minute. Not when there was still so much left to ruin.
* * *
Frankie
The hotel room was still, soft with sleep. Outside, the city buzzed—low and muted through the heavy windows—but inside, everything was quiet. The air still warm from the remnants of their bodies tangled hours before.
Willa lay curled on her side, one hand stretched across the pillow where Frankie’s head had rested earlier. Her breathing was steady, lips parted, hair messy around her face. Peaceful. Unaware.
Frankie padded across the room, bare feet brushing the cool wood floor, still foggy from sleep. She was reaching for the bathroom when her toe caught on something near the bed. She muttered a curse and bent down.
Her fingers brushed the familiar worn leather.
Willa’s notebook.
She picked it up to set it aside. But it had fallen open. And there, scrawled in blue ink across the page, was her name.
Not Frankie.
Mae.
Frankie froze. Her breath hitched, sharp and involuntary. She told herself not to read. She knew better. But her eyes caught the words before she could look away.
Mae.
Mimi.
Dementia.
Mae’s voice.
Mae doesn’t even realize she’s still singing when she sleeps.
The intimacy of it slammed into her. Frankie’s pulse roared in her ears.
She flipped a page before she could stop herself.
More lines. Observations. Lyrics in the margins.
Notes about the tilt of her head on a high note, the way she gripped the mic like it was holy.
The way her hands shook when she was overwhelmed.
Her stomach twisted. And then she saw it. Bottom right corner. Underlined. Circled.
She’s just a story.
The words echoed like a scream inside her skull. Willa’s voice, imagined—clinical, detached, a journalist’s pen slicing through everything they’d been.
Her chest went hot, then cold. Nausea rose.
She whispered it once, hollow: “Just a story.”
But she wasn’t. She wasn’t just a story.
She was a person. Someone who had given Willa her real name. Mimi. The rawest parts of herself. And Willa had been writing it all down. Like it was notes, just research for the article.
The notebook burned in her hands. She dropped it to the floor with a muted thud and turned away like it was toxic.
Her body moved before her brain could catch up—grabbing jeans, boots, the tank top she’d tossed over a chair.
Her hands shook so badly she fumbled the zipper on her duffel, shoving clothes inside without seeing what she grabbed.
Her charger slipped, clattering to the floor.
She cursed through tears she couldn’t blink away.
She couldn’t breathe. The air had shifted—turned sharp, hostile. Every kiss, every whispered confession, every moment of trust suddenly felt tainted. Polluted.
Maybe none of it had been real. Maybe Willa hadn’t had feelings for her at all.
Maybe she was just material. Her heart hammered so hard it hurt. Panic clawed at her ribs. She needed to get out. Now.
But then she heard it.
“Frankie?”
The voice was soft, groggy—sleep-warm and unguarded.
Willa’s.
Frankie whipped around, dizzy with it.
Willa was sitting up in bed, the sheet slipping from her bare shoulders, hair tangled, confusion pinching her brow. Her body still heavy with sleep, but her eyes sharpened as soon as they found Frankie. Found the notebook in her hand.
“What—what’s wrong?” Willa rasped.
Frankie lifted the notebook, pages fluttering in her shaking grip. “You used me.”
Willa blinked. “Wait—”
“Don’t,” Frankie snapped. Her voice broke, jagged.
“You’ve been writing me down like I’m a fucking subject.
Mimi. My real name. My songs. The way I breathe.
” She shoved the notebook at her like a weapon.
“I’m not your goddamn assignment. This whole time I thought you saw me.
Not the glitter. Not the name on stage. Me.
And all along you were reducing me to notes in the margin. ”
“No—baby, it’s not like that—”
“Don’t call me that.” Frankie’s hands shook harder.
Willa froze, eyes wide. “Please, just listen—Frankie, please, that’s not—God, just let me explain—”
“No.” Frankie stumbled a step back, shaking her head. Her heart pounded so loud she could barely hear herself. “You don’t get to explain. You don’t get to write me down like I’m a project and then fuck me like it’s love.”
“It is love!” Willa cried.
Frankie’s chest heaved. “You wrote—” Her voice cracked. She screamed it, raw and gutted. “Just a story.”
The words shattered between them.
Willa flinched, tears rushing to her eyes. “That’s not what it is. That notebook—”
“Don’t,” Frankie cut in, sharp. “Don’t try to make this better now.” The words echoed in her head like a curse: Just a story.
“I didn’t—baby—Frankie—”
“Don’t call me baby.” Frankie shook her head. She couldn’t hear her anymore. The betrayal was louder than Willa’s words. Louder than her tears.
“I trusted you,” she whispered.
Willa broke apart at that, her body folding in on itself like the words had knocked her flat.
Frankie didn’t stay to see it. She grabbed her boots, her hoodie, slung her bag over her shoulder with fumbling hands. Willa’s voice chased her—her name, raw and pleading—but Frankie yanked the door open, slammed it hard enough to rattle the frame.
And then she ran.
* * *