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Franny

Franny paced her bedchamber, from one end of the gold and sage Aubusson rug to the other. He wasn’t coming. She should have known. But, of course, she had thought there was still a chance. Before he’d suddenly withdrawn, dinner had been going so wonderfully. Rupert had teased her, teased. And then all of a sudden, he’d said he wasn’t feeling well. She didn’t think one went from feeling perfectly fine—laughing and smiling and flirting—to silent and distant in the span of a single breath.

Dim-witted Franny. Daft Franny . Dunderhead Franny.

She always got so pitifully excited when the real boy—or man, now—peeked out behind the puppet’s facade. It seemed Rupert could pull his own strings now, pull himself back, careful, under control, and utterly dull. It was simply dinner, and he couldn’t even allow himself to enjoy that?

She glared at the door connecting their bedchambers. It was a dark walnut and ornately carved. Shut tight and about as good to talk to as the man who hid behind it. Oh, she knew he was there. She had heard the telltale signs of life, the opening and closing of drawers, the thud of boots being removed.

A soft light glowed from underneath the door. Still awake. She glanced at the lone candle she had left lit, barely illuminating the room. Because of him. Because he apparently didn’t want light when they… She shook her head. How foolish of her to hold on to any hope.

The light under the door went out. Well, that was clear.

Her shoulders sagged, two heavy chains of disappointment pulling them down. She’d been so looking forward to another night with him. To experience that feeling she couldn’t quite name—an indescribable blend of being seen, possessed, of possibly being enough for the first time in her life.

She walked over to her bed, confusion and frustration warring with her thoughts, not allowing them to form into a single, intelligible one. She had given him her virtue, and he had turned into a surly grouch. If her husband didn’t want to bed her again, did that mean her marriage was doomed? She reached for the covers.

And abruptly spun around, her white nightdress whirling around her. No, I do not give up that easily . She marched over to the door. She had two legs, didn’t she? She would just go to him. Husbands could demand their marital rights, could they not? Well, why couldn’t a wife do the same?

He was going to bed her, and he was going to bloody enjoy it! She’d thought he had the other night. He’d sure made an array of noises that suggested so. Perhaps it was him pulling his strings again. Was he upset that he liked bedding her? Did he really struggle that much with allowing himself any enjoyment in life?

She pushed open the door, took a step into the room, and halted in her tracks. Her jaw dropped, and she hastily scrambled back into her room, silently shutting the door. She collapsed against it and brought a hand to her racing heart, her eyes falling shut.

Mistake.

Visions of Rupert were seared into the backs of her eyelids—her husband sprawled on his bed without a stitch of clothing on, his naked skin glinting in the light of the single candle by his bed. Her breath shot out of her, sharp and shallow. Flat on his back, one leg bent at the knee, the other outstretched, as…as… Her core tightened.

And then her entire body tightened, a rigid, knife-like rage snapping her straight. How dare he. She was right here! A few paces away. Hadn’t she made it clear on their wedding night she was willing to learn what he liked? Yet, he preferred to lie alone in bed and-and-and—

And have fun all by himself!

Well, she would tell him what she thought of that.

She spun around, swung the door open, marched in.

And promptly faltered.

All reasons for charging into his room dissipated like a breath on a cold night. Oh dear . This was a very nice view. Rupert on his bed, one hand fisted in creamy white sheets, the other fisted around—her breath got stuck somewhere in her lungs.

Very.

Nice.

View.

She couldn’t look away. He stroked himself, the muscles in his thighs flexing with each pass, his abdomen tightening, his neck straining. He dragged his hand down his cock before coming back up, picking up speed. She hadn’t had the luxury of studying it on their wedding night. He had fallen onto her like he was a dog and she his bone. Had that really fit inside her? No wonder it had bloody hurt. But she knew it got better. Her readings promised untold pleasure. She wanted that.

And she wanted Rupert. She didn’t understand it. She didn’t even like the exasperating man. He’d been a thorn in her side since the day they met. But oh dear, her body wanted him. Her heart fluttered in her chest. Whispering that perhaps it wasn’t just her body.

She swallowed, her tongue heavy in her mouth. She was transfixed. Every glide from root to tip built a heady pulse between her legs. She desperately wanted to touch it. Taste it. Be filled with it. Lord, where had all the air in the room gone?

Rupert's jaw went slack, his hips pushing up into his hand as he fisted downwards, a low moan leaving him.

Then he groaned one word.

And Franny was completely unable to breathe.

Had that been her name?

He thrust harder into his fist, the muscles of his arse bunching and releasing. And then he said it again. A shiver danced down her spine—at the rough, ragged rasp. Definitely her name. Her gaze flew to his face, contorted in a grimace, eyes shut tight.

He thought of her. While he touched himself. Heat flooded her core, the intense pulsing too much for her to ignore. She stepped back and carefully closed the door until only half a foot of space remained.

He thought he was going to frig himself to thoughts of her ? She rucked up her nightdress, fumbling in her haste. Well, then she would touch herself while watching him . Cool air whispered over her legs, and her fingers delved between her thighs. Her eyelids dropped shut, eyes rolling back. Her fingers flew over her soaked, swollen skin.

A deep groan reverberated through the bedchamber and shot straight between her legs. Her eyes flew open and locked on Rupert’s fist as it shuttled over his cock, his labored breathing filling the room, drowning out hers.

“God,” he moaned, his fist picking up speed, his feet pressing into the bed, hips slamming into his hand. “Franny.”

The pads of her fingers circled over where she was most sensitive, slipping in her slickness, pleasure streaking through her, so hot it burned. She bit her lip, imagining herself beneath him, his hips slamming into her, his cock driving into her. Like last night. Filling the aching emptiness inside of her. Twenty years of emptiness.

Rough exhalations and grunts came from the bed.

Images sped through her mind. Him gripping her. Bruising. Marking. Biting. Her breath hitched.

A curse filled the room as Rupert’s entire body went rigid, a long, deep moan pulling from him.

It was too much. It wasn’t enough. Her fingers circled faster, pressed harder, core coiling to a breaking point. And then the pleasure broke, flying over her, inside her, and it took everything in her power to keep from calling out.

She rested her head against the door frame, body bowed over itself, trembling and panting heavily. She slid her hand out from between her thighs and dropped her skirts. The skim of the fabric over her legs had her over-sensitive nerves tingling.

She soundlessly shut the door. The night hadn’t gone anywhere close to how she would have wanted it to. But she had hope. Rupert wanted her. She just had to figure out why he was putting up barriers. And break them down.

If Franny was good at anything, it was destruction.