Page 15 of Frankie and the Fed (Untamed Rascals #3)
I was a fool.
I thought I could come out here tonight and stay in control, but whatever tenuous grasp on my sanity that I had retained after the ghost tour was gone to alcohol and the sway of her hips in that tiny skirt while she sang and danced on the stage.
Tonight was torture, plain and simple. I was one second away from devolving into a drooling mess, draped at her feet, begging for scraps of her attention.
I didn’t have to, though. The way she watched me with her hungry eyes told me she was feeling it, too.
“My god, your voice,” she said when I reached the back wall, stopping close enough to her to hear her over the next song, not nearly as close as I’d like to be. It took everything in me not to push her against the back wall and devour her lips.
I was a little worried when she suggested karaoke tonight. I wanted to say no. Memories of scratchy walls and falsely cheery songs assailed me at the mention of music, but I had a job to do.
That job was far from my mind now, easily replaced by thigh-high boots, a frilly skirt, a tiny top with no bra underneath, and the image of her moving her voluptuous body seductively to the music she had chosen.
Thankfully, no one had tried to approach her while I sang.
I would have ripped them apart if they had even tried.
I had just enough to drink to forget about my worries and sing my heart out on stage for a crowded bar. In truth, I sang for an audience of one, and apparently that one wasn’t immune to it.
“Your voice is magic. I think I’m going to get off to the memories of you singing.
So low and silky.” She stared at me with slightly glassy eyes.
She’s had plenty to drink tonight, but she wasn’t gone yet, and neither was I.
I’d had just enough to silence any critic in my head and give into what I’d barely let myself dream of.
My heart skittered and then raced at a staggering pace at her declaration. A combination of the heady feeling and my lowered inhibitions had me doing something I never thought I’d be brave enough to do.
All my earlier worries were erased, replaced with want and need and a buzz that raced along my skin, pushing me to act.
I closed the space between us, laid my hand on her soft stomach where it peeked out under her cropped top, the heat of her skin scorching me—burning away all the parts of me that held me back and turning me rabid.
Her eyes were bright and wide as they focused on me.
She was so small compared to me, but then I was large for a woman.
Large for a person, full stop. Too tall to be demure and dainty like everyone always told me a woman should be.
It served me well in my work, but tonight was the first night I felt right in my skin, and it was all because of that look in her eyes.
“Show me,” I said as I ran my hand along her stomach, loving the faint lines of her stretch marks and the way her softness let me sink into her.
I settled my hand at her side, along her ribs, just below her bare breast. God, I wanted to touch them, run my hand over them, see them free, trace a path to the nipple that poked out of her thin top.
“What?” She seemed as dazed as I felt.
“Show me what my voice does to you. Show me how it will get you off.” I sounded so rough and eager. I barely recognized myself.
“Here? Now?” she asked, but she moved, pushing her chest toward me like she was as desperate for my touch as I was to touch her.
I didn’t move my hand, though. Now that it was in my head, I needed to see her come apart, to know that just my voice could bring her there.
It was thrilling and terrifying how much I needed her.
“Yes, here. Yes, now.” I shouldn’t push her like this. I should back off. I should have done a dozen different things that didn’t involve pressing her to the wall while I demanded a show.
Her chest moved with each heavy breath, and her eyes never left mine.
So fucking slowly that I thought I would lose my mind with waiting and wanting, she ran her hand down her body opposite of where I still held her, my hand fused to her skin.
I followed her hand, locked onto the path it took down her side. She stopped to cup her breast, holding it while her thumb briefly ran along her nipple through her thin top. I licked my lips, wanting to taste her skin and suck her nipple into my mouth.
She lowered her hand, following the dip in her waist, the flare of her stomach, and along the hips I wanted to sink my fingers into until she reached the hem of her skirt and lightly traced her thighs.
I wanted to drop to my knees and follow that path with my tongue, feel her shudder while I tasted her skin and learned what made her scream.
“Are you wet?” I leaned over her and whispered.
“Yes,” she gasped, her head thrown back, her eyes now closed, her hand tracing a slow, torturous path along her thigh and up her skirt.
“Show me. Show me how wet you are.” I leaned back enough to see. I kept my hand on her, anchoring her to me, or me to her. I wasn’t sure which one of us needed it more.
She used one hand to hold her skirt up, showing me the black silk panties stretched around her other hand as she slipped down to touch herself.
I could hardly breathe. I couldn’t think. The bar and the crowd didn’t exist. There was only Frankie and her small whimpers and gasps and the brush of her chest on mine as she gathered her wetness.
She brought her hand up, letting her skirt fall, her fingers glistening in the dull neon light that bathed us. My eyes fused to that wetness as she brought it to her plump, lush mouth and smeared her juices along her lower lip.
All the air was punched out of me at that move and the sight of her wet lip. I needed to taste her more than I needed air to breathe.
“Make yourself come,” I demanded. I didn’t lean in to lick her lips, to chase that taste of her, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from her tongue as it peeked out, gathering her flavor.
I groaned, my fingers digging into her side enough that it had to be painful for her.
She whimpered, “Jamie.” The word was barely more than a breath, spoken like a plea, and I gave her what she needed. I gave her my voice.
“Look at you,” I purred, leaning in, my words only for her. “So pretty with your hand in your panties for me.”
Her jasmine and musk perfume surrounded us, cocooning us in a riot of sensation and need. Under it all, a scent that was just hers, one that drew me in and promised to ease all my pain if only I could bury myself in it.
“More,” she begged.
Fucking perfect.
“So wet for me. Just for me. Are you silky and warm? I bet those pretty black panties are absolutely ruined with your cum,” I growled, my voice rumbling with need.
Her breathing sped up, whimpers falling from her lips.
I finally moved my hand that had been glued to her ribs and grabbed her thigh in a painful grip as it inched toward my hip, giving her more room, opening her up for pleasure.
“That’s it, Frankie, come for me.”
She fell apart in my arms—her eyes wide and entirely focused on me, my name on her lips—glorious.
I couldn’t hold back, not now .
I bent down—impatient and hungry—and captured her lips in a punishing kiss, tasting her, drinking from her, devouring her every whimper and moan.
Light exploded through me, coalescing where our lips fused to each other, her thigh in my hand, my fingers sinking into her.
My pussy throbbed, begging for attention of its own, but I couldn’t tear myself away from her taste and her tongue stroking along mine in a ravenous caress.
Later, I would play this moment in my mind until I combusted from the heat of it. One touch and I would be unmade.
How could I ever believe I liked men when Frankie existed? My chest ached to realize what I’d been denying myself.
No more. When this was done, and I was back in my real life, I was going to put myself out there and date women.
That felt like a betrayal while I had Frankie’s lips on mine.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said, hardly moving my lips from hers lest I never feel them again.
“Yeah.” She leaned against the back wall, her wig mussed, her shirt askew, and her skirt wrinkled.
She had a fucked-out expression on her face, fueling the raw need that roared through me. I did that to her with just my words.
“Right. Let me help you.” I straightened her out and then ordered a car. Hopefully, she was just dazed and drunk enough to realize that I didn’t ask for her address.
I settled the tab before we left and pulled her close while we waited for our ride .
She wrapped an arm around me and rested her head on my chest while we waited. We fit like puzzle pieces, perfectly snapping into place.
That was fucking dangerous. She was my target, and this was my job. I wrapped my arms around her, tightening a tad too much, but she didn’t protest.
I had right now.
Tomorrow could wait.
“You’re coming home with me, right?” She phrased that like a question, but her tone told me it was a demand. She slid her hand under my shirt to rest on my back, and any protest I could muster died.
Fuck it.
I kissed her again. Job or no job, this kind of connection with someone didn’t come along every day. It didn’t have to be more than that. We could have an amazing night tonight, and then I would… I would do what? Investigate her? Arrest her if need be?
No, I couldn’t think about that right now.
I’ll find who is really behind the counterfeit goods smuggling ring—because I couldn’t accept it was her—and she will never have to know that it wasn’t supposed to be real. Tonight, I was Jamie, the tour guide.
One night.
If that was all I would ever have with her, I was going to take it. Fuck, I was going to do this.
“Yeah. I’m coming home with you.” I kissed her again as headlights shone behind my eyes and my phone buzzed to tell me our ride was here.