Chapter thirty-seven #2
Willa kept going until the tremors faded.
Only then did she pull back, kiss her inner thigh, and look up.
Her lips were slick. Her cheeks flushed. Her pupils blown wide.
She climbed into Frankie’s lap again, straddling her like she belonged there.
“I fucking love you so much,” Willa said, her breath brushing Frankie’s mouth.
Frankie was still panting, dazed and glowing.
“I love you too,” she managed, a grin spreading slow and satisfied across her face. “Holy fuck, Willa.”
Willa smoothed damp hair back from her forehead, kissed her temple, and whispered, “You deserve everything.”
Frankie wrapped her arms tight around her, burying her face in Willa’s shoulder.
And for a long, perfect moment—
Sweaty, glowing, undone—
They just held each other.
No rush, no plan. It was just them, just love.
* * *
Willa
By the time they finally pulled apart, Frankie tugged her shirt back on with trembling hands, still flushed and smiling. Willa smoothed her hair in the mirror, cheeks pink, lips swollen. Then came the knock at the door, the rush of voices spilling in, and the world pressed close around them again.
The afterparty didn’t start at the bar. It started in the dressing room.
Bodies buzzing with adrenaline and post-show glow.
People Frankie loved piled into the cramped space like champagne foam—overflowing with energy, laughter, and glitter still clinging to their skin.
Someone passed around tequila shots like communion.
Frankie’s mom had been there, too.
Suzanne went straight to Willa, pulling her into a hug that was warm and firm and so familiar it nearly made her cry.
“You’ll come for dinner soon, right?” Suzanne said, holding her by the arms, giving her a look that brooked no excuses.
Willa nodded, a little flushed. “I’d love to.”
Suzanne leaned in. Her voice lowered. “She’s special. I’m glad she has you.”
Then she kissed Frankie’s cheek, offered a last wave, and headed home—leaving the night to the next generation.
The group that went out was stacked. Lena. Grace. Jordan. Malik. Ember. Blake. Kara. Tevin.
The people who’d made the tour what it was.
The people who mattered.
And Willa was there too.
Not as a journalist. Not behind a lens.
Just as Frankie’s.
And it showed.
Grace took to her immediately—dragging her onto the dance floor, shouting compliments over the music, slinging an arm around her waist like they’d been friends for years.
Frankie fit seamlessly with Willa’s people too. Lena and Jordan were obsessed. Even Kara, the queen of side-eye, gave her subtle nods of approval from across the table.
Willa couldn’t stop smiling. Not once.
Frankie never left her side—fingers laced with hers, a hand on her lower back, lips brushing her temple every time she walked past. They laughed. Danced. Snuck kisses like they were the only two people in the room.
Then the bass shifted.
Something low and sultry pulsed through the speakers.
Frankie slipped behind her, pulled Willa in until her chest was pressed flush to her back. Her hands found Willa’s hips. Gripped tight.
Willa sank down slow, grinding back against her. Smiling. Wicked.
“Fuck,” Frankie breathed at her ear. “You’re trying to kill me.”
Willa just looked over her shoulder. Smirked. “Maybe.”
Later, when they were laughing breathlessly at the bar, catching their breath, Lena leaned over and raised her voice.
“You think I can steal her for a sec?” she asked Willa, eyes on Frankie.
Willa blinked, surprised, then nodded. “If she’s up for it.”
Frankie sipped her whiskey, already nodding. “I’m good.”
She gave Willa’s hand a quick squeeze and followed Lena and Jordan toward a booth—tossing a wink over her shoulder that made Willa’s stomach somersault.
Grace appeared beside her like a perfectly timed gust of wind. “Jesus, it’s hot in there. Want to get some air?”
“Please,” Willa laughed, grabbing her drink and following her out to the enclosed patio.
The air outside was cooler, damp with spring rain. Thank God.
Rain was falling again.
Willa stepped close to the glass, watching droplets streak lazily down the windowpane, the city lights blurring behind them. Her voice came soft—almost to herself.
“Mae loves the rain.”
Grace caught it anyway.
Her smile curled slowly. “Okay… now I know it’s real.”
Willa glanced over. “Because I know she likes rain?”
“Nope. Because you called her Mae.”
Willa’s brow lifted. “That rare?”
Grace took a sip of her beer, nodding. “The last two girls she ‘dated’ didn’t even know it was her name.”
“You were there,” Grace said. “You being there probably meant more than she could say.”
Willa swallowed, her chest full and aching. She glanced back toward the door, where the muffled thump of bass still leaked through. Grace followed her gaze, smirk tugging at her lips.
“Come on,” she said. “Before Malik starts a Beyoncé medley without us.”
Willa laughed, shaking her head as Grace looped an arm around her shoulders and steered her back inside.
They danced until their feet hurt.
Until Malik passed out in a booth.
Until Grace was singing Midnight Train to Georgia into a straw and Kara was asleep on Ember’s shoulder.
It was 3 a.m. by the time they stumbled outside—cheeks pink, hands laced, laughter still echoing in their throats.
The city was wet, streets shining slick with rain. Neon lights blurred in puddles, the air damp and cool against their skin. Cabs hissed past, tires throwing up spray, the whole world humming like it was alive with them.
Frankie hailed one with a whistle, her arm snug around Willa’s shoulders. The driver pulled to the curb, headlights flashing across the wet pavement.
“Brooklyn?” he asked through the cracked window.
Frankie looked at Willa, rain clinging to her curls, making her glow under the streetlamp.
“Home,” she said, smiling.
And Willa nodded, squeezing her hand. “Yeah. Home.”