Page 39

FRANCESCA

How is it possible to feel this content when my life has gone to hell in the last few hours? Finally giving in to the tension that had been building for weeks, for years, if I’m really being honest with myself: it’s even better than I imagined.

It doesn’t fix what happened, not even close, but it’s one hell of a consolation prize.

No. That’s not right. He’s not a consolation prize. He’s everything I’ve ever wanted.

Which is how, in maybe one of the most intense post-orgasmic hazes of my life, three little words that I’ve only ever uttered to a handful of people slip out of my mouth.

“I love you.”

The panic rises almost instantly, not just because I said it, but because I meant it, wholly and fully, without reservation.

I love him.

I have loved him, maybe for years, and now he knows.

And he’s not saying anything.

He’s just staring down at me, hair a riot from the absolute vice of a grip I had on it just seconds ago when his mouth had sent me over the edge, just like everything else about him does, in all the best ways.

Most of all, it’s how much belief he seems to have in me.

It’s startling, every single time. And it doesn’t feel possible.

“Frankie . . .” he begins, and then stops, his eyes meeting mine with a question in them, like he’s not sure if I meant it or if I want to take it back or if maybe, just maybe, I’m terrified that he doesn’t feel the same way.

So, he lets us both off the hook. “My mother always told me never believe what a woman says after you make her come twice.”

The tension eases and I can feel it as I leaves my body, though the sparks of pleasure from his efforts are still brushing up against my skin from within.

“Your mom was a wise woman.”

“It wasn’t actually my mom.”

“Shocking. Was it Javy?”

He shrugs one shoulder in admission of the truth.

“Same thing, then,” I tease, and love him even more because this is how it should be, an intoxicating mix of lust and friendship and knowing each other, maybe better than we know ourselves. That’s love. That’s what I want with him.

Charlie snorts and then falls down to the bed beside me and I roll over to rest my chin on his chest, looking up at him as his eyes fall shut, not in sleep, but in satisfaction, and when I press my lips to his skin and then trail a path down the center of his body to where his dick is still resting, hot and hard and leaking against his stomach, I watch him swallow roughly, clearly holding himself back, letting me take control.

When my hand finally circles around him, he lets out a wavering exhale and a soft, muffled groan.

Crawling down his body, I settle over one of his powerful thighs, the muscle well built from years behind the plate and perfect against me as I lean over to run my tongue along the sharp cut of his abdomen down to the underside of his dick.

He’s thicker here than I imagined and my body clenches at the thought of him inside me, stretching me, filling me.

My hips find a rhythm against his thigh as I lower my head to him with purpose now, a solid grip at his base as I finally take him into my mouth.

I raise my eyes to his and watch him, watching me.

I’ve never felt more powerful than in this moment, with him at my mercy, the weight of him in my mouth, the salty tang of him on my tongue and the fire in his eyes as I slowly drive him to the same heights he brought me to.

“Fuck,” he grinds out. “You’re so fucking pretty like that.”

And I punish him for it just a little bit with just the slightest nip of my teeth before I take him as fully as I can once more, losing eye contact as my hair falls over my face and my hips lose the rhythm I set before, wanting him to lose it, to come down my throat.

But before I can make that happen, his hand tangles into my hair, pulling me off him and meeting my mouth with his in a frenzy of lips and tongue and teeth.

And when he releases me from the kiss, he dives straight for my neck, mumbling into the skin as his arms circle around me, pulling me closer, his dick trapped between us.

“I wanted—” I manage to gasp out.

“Later,” he insists, his mouth now at my breasts again, giving both equal attention. “I need to fuck you. Do you want me, Francesca?”

“Yes,” I whisper, pressing closer, my mouth at his ear. “Fuck me.”

His hands span my ass, holding me to him as my hand falls to his dick again, fingers trailing along it as he lets out a long hiss.

“Like this,” I say, bracing myself on his shoulder with my free hand and he lifts me up with ease just so I can lower myself down onto him.

My mouth falls open as my body stretches to accommodate him, a sweet tinge of fullness as he slides in completely.

And it’s so, so good: my breasts against his chest, his thighs holding me up, my arms around him, his wide shoulders bracing me as his hands grasp at my hips while I grip him tightly inside.

“Jesus Fucking Christ,” he growls out, and with a thrust of his hips, he pushes just a little bit deeper and at just the right angle so that I see stars.

We find a rhythm, slow and grinding, sweat-soaked skin sliding against each other and gasping moans filling the air, no longer concerned with being overheard, just lost to sheer sensation and the overwhelming rightness of finally being together this way.

“What do you need?” he asks, as I keep circling my peak, but then losing it.

“I . . . I don’t . . .” I manage to stutter, for once in my life unable to find the right words.

“I’ve got you.” And in one smooth motion that I’m too far gone to really understand, I’m beneath him, pressed into the mattress again, with him still inside me.

He slides free and then reaches above my head for a pillow.

“Lift up,” he says, with a hand at my hip and I raise them just enough for him to slide the soft cushion under my ass.

“Like that?” he asks, a hand across my stomach pushing down just as he presses forward again.

“Yes. Oh God, Charlie, yes,” I ramble, as he sets a punishing pace, his body hammering into mine and hitting just the right spot inside of me over and over again.

It’s so good my back arches up off the bed, my head thrown back, completely unconcerned with the scream that tears from my throat as my entire body convulses around his when his thumb finds my clit.

I’m still so sensitive from his mouth and it’s more than enough to launch me onto another plane of existence, my soul crashing up and out of my body as I take him with me to a place where it’s just the two of us and this rapture, forever.

When I finally come back to myself, it’s to the sound of gasping breaths, his and mine. He’s collapsed, half on top of me, like his strength gave out when he came, but he had just enough judgment left to shift aside so he didn’t crush me completely.

“Holy shit,” he slurs, almost drunkenly, the words like kisses against the place where my neck and shoulder meet. “You’re fucking incredible.”

And my mind is still barely functional enough to manage, “My best friend always told me to never believe anything a man says after he comes inside you.”

His body hitches with silent laughter. “You should, though.”

“What?” I ask, half losing track of what we’re talking about as a sweet aftershock slides through me.

“You should believe me,” he murmurs, “because I love you.”

Struggling to blink my eyes open, I shake my head. “You don’t have to . . .”

“I do, though.” His voice is suddenly firm and clear.

“Look at me.” And just like it has for the last hour, my body obeys his every command.

My gaze meets his, warm and serious. “I love you. I think I’ve loved you for years, but I know I’ve loved you every damn day since I saw you climb into that car on a rainy morning at the airport. ”

His hand slips over my ass and down my thighs before tracing his fingertips back up over the curve of my waist and the underside of my breast before pressing into the center of my chest, right above my heart.

“I love you, Frankie Sullivan, and I’m sorry I had to tell you on the worst day of your life.”

“It is, isn’t it?” I ask, covering his hand with mine and holding it tight, warm and calloused and mine. “But things are looking up.”

“Yeah?” he asks, somehow still unsure, and I hate that so much I can’t let it stand.

“I love you. I said it and I meant it, and it might be the worst day of my life, but you’re the one I want with me for the worst days and the best days and the exciting days and the boring days.”

He makes a disbelieving sound in the back of his throat. “I know one thing – boring isn’t something we have to worry about.”

A laugh bubbles out of my throat and then another, which is joined by a chuckle from deep in his chest, and I love this too, laughing together: our bodies still stick with sweat, his come still staining my thighs and mine all over his mouth and jaw.

I nudge his hip and he takes his cue, just like he has every other one tonight, and lifts up so I can slide out from beneath him to go use the bathroom.

We didn’t use a condom and, even though I have an IUD , that’s pretty irresponsible of me and, without the warm weight of his body and his breath against my skin, it’s easier to remember that.

I stop at the doorway to his bathroom and turn, bracing my hip against it, catching him watching me, propped on his side, his hand holding up his head.

“Protection next time,” I say, simply, “and we’re both getting tested when we get back to New York.”

“My last one was clean,” he assures me.

“Mine too, and I have an IUD , but it’s still a good idea, for the both of us.”

“No problem,” he says, smiling, and it’s all I can do to turn back around and close the bathroom door behind me, because if I run back into that bed, I won’t be getting out of it again for hours.

He knocks on the door just after I flush the toilet and start washing my hands.