Page 6 of Fixed (Spicy Bites #2)
FRANKIE
Sunlight needles my eyelids, prying them open against my will.
I feel warm air brush the back of my neck and groan as my mind wakes up completely, instantly replaying exactly what happened last night.
My sore girly parts wince as I give a little wiggle.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to realize the heat blasting against my back is Seth, sleeping with his arm locked across my middle like I’m a flight risk.
His nose is jammed against the nape of my neck, breathing slow and steady, but I can feel the tension in his bicep where it curves under my breasts and in the thigh thrown over mine. The bedsheet is around my waist at best, and his skin is welded to mine in every place that counts.
Last night returns to me in flashes as I remember how he carried me from the door, the whiskey burn of his tongue, and how his cock was buried so deep I thought he would break me in half.
My thighs ache, my neck is raw, and there are literal, visible fingerprints on my hip where he pinned me to the wall.
If I died right now, I’d go out with a smile and absolutely no regrets.
I try to roll over, but the arm tightens. “Don’t move,” he mutters, voice gravelly with sleep, but there’s nothing groggy about the way his hand slides up and cups my breast. His thumb skates over my nipple, sending a fresh aftershock through my battered nervous system.
“Don’t order me around,” I manage as he pulls me closer.
He grunts, but I can feel his smile against my neck. “You didn’t complain last night.”
“Your huge cock stole all my brain power.” I twist my head around and finally manage to get a look at his face. It’s unfair how handsome he is in the morning, the sharp lines all blurred a little by sleep, beard stubble softer but no less lethal.
He grins at me, slow and dangerous. Then he presses his hips forward, and I feel his rock-hard cock slip between my ass cheeks.
Holy moly. My brain shuts down completely while my hussy body prepares for round two.
Or is it really round three? My pussy pulses with want, even as every muscle in my legs threatens to spasm.
He must feel it, because he slides his hand down, palm flat against my belly, and pulls me tight against him.
"Let’s see how much brain power you have left. ”
“Let’s,” I say, but it comes out as more of a question than a challenge.
His hand slides between my legs, finding me slick and swollen and so ready it’s embarrassing. “Fuck, you’re drenched,” he says, voice thick with satisfaction.
“Shut u—” I forget the whole topic of our conversation as his fingers circle my clit, causing my eyes to roll back in my head.
He moves fast. In one impossible motion, he flips me onto my stomach, drags my legs open, and buries his cock inside me before I can even gasp.
It’s rough and perfect and just freaking right.
I claw at the sheets, desperate for leverage, but he’s got my wrists pinned to the mattress.
His hot breath pants in my ear with each thrust.
He fucks me like a madman. Every thrust slams the headboard against the wall, and the sound it makes—bang, bang, bang—echoes around the room. My wild hair falls like a curtain over my eyes until he gathers it in one fist and pulls my head back, exposing my throat for him to nibble on my ear.
“Seth…” I gasp, but it’s not really a word, just a sound. His other hand leaves my wrists and clamps around my hip, squeezing hard enough to bruise. I don’t care. I want him to mark me. I want to remember this every time I sit down for a week.
“You like that?” he growls, teeth on my shoulder.
“Yes,” I scream into the soft bedding.
He moves faster, the bed shaking under us, my breasts mashed into the pillow, his cock splitting me open with every thrust. My body lights up, nerves sparking from the base of my skull all the way to the tips of my toes.
I come hard, grinding back against him, hips bucking so he loses rhythm and nearly slides out of me.
He laughs, a dark sound, and slams back in. This time, he’s relentless, making sure to hold nothing back. I can feel him getting close, balls tightening, cock twitching inside me. He grabs my hair tighter and bites my neck, just hard enough to leave a mark.
When he comes with a low roar, emptying himself deep inside me until it’s dripping down my thigh, he stays like that. His body holds me down, his panting breath rough and uneven.
The only sound in the room is our gasping and the AC kicking on. After a minute, he lets go of my hair and collapses onto the bed, dragging me with him so I’m half on top of his chest.
We don’t say anything for a while. He traces circles on my back, fingers gentle now, almost apologetic.
When I finally have enough breath to talk, I say, “I like how you say good morning.”
He laughs, and it’s not a nice sound. It’s raw, real, and a little desperate. “I’m fucking glad,” he admits. “I plan to do it again as soon as my cock recovers.”
“Sounds like a plan to me,” I mumble as I snuggle closer to his hot, muscular body.
We doze for an hour in the cratered aftermath, and I’m starting to think my crappy luck has taken a turn. Like maybe we can just wake up every day in a tangle of limbs and sweat, trading smartass comments, rough kisses, and hot, bed-shaking sex.
But before any of that can happen, I have to let Seth in on my little secret.
"I need to tell you something," I say before I'm able to chicken out. The words hang in the air like smoke from a just-blown-out candle, sucking all the oxygen from the sunlit bedroom.
He props himself up on one muscular forearm, his sleep-tousled hair falling across his forehead as his expression shifts from languid satisfaction to sharp-eyed attention. "Nothing good ever starts with those words."
"Well," I say, my voice trembling. "I should've told you who I am before now." My heart hammers against my ribs like it's trying to escape. "My full name is Francesca Aliénor Foxworth."
He blinks. Once. Twice. His square jaw tenses, the muscle in his cheek jumping beneath his morning stubble.
"You mean, like—" He trails off, those piercing cobalt eyes scanning my face for any hint of a joke, his full lips parting slightly.
I nod, twisting the Egyptian cotton sheet between my fingers. "My dad is Charles W. Foxworth, the current Governor of Texas, and my older brother is Benjamin Foxworth, the U.S. Senator."
He whistles low, the sound cutting through the heavy silence.
"I knew you looked familiar," he mutters, rubbing both calloused hands over his face, dragging the skin down.
"Fucking hell." He sits up fully, the pearl-white sheets pooling around his narrow waist, revealing the sculpted ridges of his abdomen.
For the first time since I met him beside my smoking Fiat, Seth looks genuinely shocked, his usual confidence cracked like a windshield. "I… did not see that coming."
"It's not who I am," I blurt out, words tumbling from my lips like marbles from an overturned jar.
"I don't want to be just the Foxworth daughter with the perfect smile and the designer wardrobe.
" I got tired of that title years ago, of being a prop in family photos.
"I work my own jobs, pay my own way. I don't touch the trust fund.
I don't do charity galas where everyone whispers behind crystal champagne flutes.
I just—" I run out of words, my throat closing like a fist as I watch his expression, hoping I haven't already blown my chance with the only man who's ever made me feel like more than a political accessory.
He stares at the eggshell-colored wall, jaw clenched so hard I hear the faint crackle of his molars grinding together like tectonic plates shifting beneath the earth. Then he turns, and those storm-blue eyes find mine, but where I expected lightning, I find only the calm after rain.
He scrubs a calloused mechanic's hand through his thick chestnut hair, making it stand on end above his high forehead.
"You're really something, you know that?
" The words roll out in that honey-gravel drawl that makes my toes curl against the thousand-thread-count sheets and sends a shiver racing down my spine like a drop of ice water.
“Something in a good way?” My stomach knots itself into a pretzel as I brace for rejection. But he surprises me.
“In the best way.” Those work-roughened fingers reach for mine, his grip tight enough to anchor a ship in a hurricane, grounding me when I feel like I might float away.
"Doesn't matter if your family owns half the state," he says, voice low and raw as an open wound. "I'm not letting you go. You’re mine."
He says it like it's carved in stone. Like he's already mapping battle plans against whatever army, whether political, social, or familial, that might try to come between us.
For a second, I can’t breathe. No one’s ever chosen me before—just my last name, my pedigree, my ability to smile for the cameras and behave at dinner.
Seth looks at me and sees the real me, and he’s still all in anyway. Heck yes. My luck definitely has taken a turn for the better.