Page 9 of Summer Breakdown (Training Seasons #2)
It takes all her strength, but she cups Jasmine’s breast in her hand, then twists her nipple properly.
Jasmine bucks her hips against her thigh and makes a noise Frankie swears could power her for the rest of her life.
Somewhere between a moan and a whimper, it gets caught in her throat, and Frankie truly, honestly wants to focus on Jasmine, but her moan sends a shockwave through her, and she’s coming against Jasmine’s hand.
Frankie tilts her head back, and Jasmine bites her ear as her fingers keep moving.
It’s the most euphoric Frankie has felt in the longest time.
Jasmine groans against her, letting her ride it out, kissing her through it, slow and sweet and filthy, worshipful to the end.
She barely has time to take a deep breath before Jasmine is hovering above her. She looks so pleased with herself, and Frankie adores it.
“Hi,” Jasmine says. “Can I use my mouth?”
“God, yes.”
Jasmine smiles, kisses her once, and then she’s gone. Her lips press against Frankie’s ribs, her hipbone, and down until she hooks Frankie’s thighs over her shoulders.
“Jasmine,” Frankie whispers. She doesn’t want to be quiet.
It takes some thought to keep her mouth closed.
She wants to lose herself to it, but she doesn’t know how.
What if she moans and she sounds like a seal?
What if she says something that sounds sexy in her head and Jasmine laughs at her?
What if she does something and the light in Jasmine’s eyes goes out?
She’s pulled from her thoughts by Jasmine’s tongue against her.
It’s warm, heavy, and curious. Jasmine is everywhere, and it takes Frankie a moment to grip the sheets.
Jasmine moans against her, and it’s hot—so hot.
Frankie doesn’t even know if she finds it this hot when she’s going down on someone.
She wants to go down on Jasmine right now, but her fingers are gripping the sheets so tightly she might never let go.
“Oh, fuck,” Jasmine whispers, looking up at her, her voice deeper than before. She really might make Frankie come again in seconds. “You taste even better than I imagined.” She moves back, and Frankie tenses her jaw.
“Holy shit. Uh, fuck, do that again,” Frankie says, and Jasmine does. “God, you’re perfect.”
Jasmine hums against her, the pads of her fingertips digging into Frankie’s thighs.
Perhaps they’ll leave an imprint. Frankie has been obsessed with a fingertip press ever since she went to Rome to see the statues in the Borghese.
Frankie is so sure if she ran her own fingers over her thigh tomorrow, she’d feel Jasmine’s presence.
It would make sense, that Jasmine could create something worthy of displaying in a museum with her touch alone.
“Tell me something,” Jasmine says. Frankie can’t think of anything other than the way her body feels electric. How she doesn’t know Jasmine at all, but she feels all the better knowing she exists.
“Something true,” Jasmine whispers, and her tongue is back against Frankie.
“You’re so fucking pretty.”
Jasmine hums and Frankie can feel her smiling against her. She wants to see it though. Frankie looks down at her, and Jasmine’s eyes are dark, smouldering as she looks back up at her, like every fantasy she’s ever had but could never adequately describe.
She’s going to come again, and naturally, now Frankie is happy and safe and feeling fucking fantastic, the voice of whatever-her-name-was hits her solidly in the chest. Frankie’s so big.
Her thighs are massive, and Jasmine can’t go down on her, because what if Frankie crushes her?
Frankie knows it’s not true, but now that’s all she can think. She’ll crush her .
“I—“ she tries, but the only neurons firing in her brain are making her toes curl and her back arch. “Jas—Jasmine, come here.”
“Hmm?” she asks, but her hands stay against Frankie’s thighs, pulling her against her face.
Frankie’s hands wrap around her curls. Frankie always wants people to figure out what she needs without telling them explicitly.
It’s a curse she’s been working on in therapy for the past fourteen years.
She doesn’t want to suffocate Jasmine. So, she tugs, and she hopes that’s enough.
She hopes Jasmine crawls inside her brain, only to the light part, and figures out what she needs.
Jasmine’s fingers slide up her thigh, her thumb pressing against her clit in slow, agonising movements.
Jasmine kisses her hip, then her stomach, her ribs. She’s everywhere. She pulls Frankie’s nipple between her teeth, and it’s not enough.
“You want me here?” she asks, wiping her mouth against her own arm.
“Yes.” She can’t crush her from here.
“Okay,” she replies, a little shy for someone who had their tongue inside her. “Was it okay?”
“Yes,” Frankie pants, and Jasmine manoeuvres until she’s straddling Frankie’s thigh, and she feels the wet of her cunt against her.
Knowing Jasmine is this wet just from making Frankie come is almost enough to shove the anxiety back into her chest. That, the flick of Jasmine’s fingers, and the way she looks at her almost have her coming again in an embarrassingly short amount of time.
Frankie holds off—barely—until Jasmine lowers herself closer to her.
“I might dream about your thighs for the rest of my life,” Jasmine whispers, then she kisses her once, but Frankie holds her close.
It’s filthy the way their tongues touch.
The way she’s cataloguing every needy moan Jasmine makes.
The way Jasmine grinds against her. It’s fast, and sloppy, but it matches the way her fingers move .
Jasmine is good at sex. She wasn’t wrong. Frankie has barely told her anything, and Jasmine’s figuring everything out based on the small movements and sounds Frankie makes. She pulls her nipple with her teeth; she bites at her neck. She’s the hottest thing that has ever happened to her.
Frankie isn’t. She won’t be the best thing that’s happened to Jasmine.
This is Frankie’s role—what Frankie is supposed to do.
She’s supposed to be making Jasmine feel good.
Soon, Jasmine will make her come for the second time, and then Frankie will have to be even better than that.
How is she supposed to figure out what she likes so quickly?
How is she supposed to face her tomorrow and wonder if everything she did was awful but Jasmine’s too nice to tell her?
Other girls, she’s not all that bothered.
It’s not hard. Half the time she feels like she’s in an eighties porno, with the noises they make.
Jasmine gasps against her, and it feels true.
It feels like Jasmine wants Frankie to have a good time. Like she cares if she’s happy.
Jasmine’s free hand grips Frankie’s, linking their fingers together and above her head. She’s so good.
It’s not enough, and Frankie knows it’s not.
It won’t be, because her mind is elsewhere.
Jasmine won’t know that part of her. No one knows that part of her.
But Frankie doesn’t want to disappoint her.
She doesn’t want her to think she’s done anything wrong, so she’ll stay.
She can come, if she thinks hard enough.
She flicks through the scenarios in her head that she plays when she touches herself.
Random fanfic scenes, that one porn video she watched at eighteen and never found again. Jasmine. Jasmine. Jasmine.
Oh, God. She could fake it. It’s against her morals, and she thinks maybe she won’t get to heaven, but Jasmine being happy might be worth it. God gave her bipolar; surely he could let it slide just this once.
“You want my tongue again?” Jasmine asks.
“No,” Frankie replies. She’s frustrated now. Not at the situation, but at herself. It’s not Jasmine’s fault she’s not straight. It’s not her fault she doesn’t know Frankie’s insane. Her throat burns, and she’s terrified she might start sobbing. How embarrassing.
“You want me to stop?”
Frankie pauses. Does she? Not really. She doesn’t want Jasmine to think she’s done anything wrong.
“It’s okay,” Jasmine whispers. She drops her lips against Frankie’s temple and slowly removes her fingers. Frankie is never sure why it feels so much more intrusive when the fingers come out than when they go in. “We’re done. You okay?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
Jasmine rubs her thumb against her hairline, and Frankie wonders if Jasmine wishes Frankie had hair.
Jasmine blinks rapidly, her gaze across Frankie’s face. “Are you hurt?”
Frankie frowns. “No.”
Jasmine looks at her as she wipes her fingers against her sheets. They’re softer than anything Frankie has laid on before. It’s possible she doesn’t get all her bedding from the supermarket.
Jasmine smiles at her softly, kissing her once. She doesn’t try and make anything else happen, but she stays close anyway. Frankie needs to make her come; that’s her only job. That’s all she had to do. She counts to three, and then she’ll be able to do it.
Frankie takes a deep breath, then she spins them over and kisses her. It’s not hard, but her mind isn’t quite there. She doesn’t want to let her down.
Jasmine kisses her back, but then she pulls back, pushing Frankie lightly with her hand against her jaw.
“Take a breather,” Jasmine mutters.
She doesn’t want Frankie to touch her. It’s the only thing she’s good at, and she’s made sure Jasmine doesn’t want to do it with her. Frankie nods.
“Can I get you anything?” Jasmine asks .
She wants to tell her that she’s lovely with her wild curls against her pillow, and Frankie’s sorry for what she’s going to do next.
She wants to tell her the way she looked at her tonight was true, even if the next part suggests it’s not.
She wants to tell her she was serious when she said she wanted to see her again, but Frankie isn’t able to have the people she wants to have.
She wants to tell her she needs to leave, but she’s not sure how.
“Can I have some water?” she asks instead, like a coward.
Jasmine smiles. It’s easy, like she doesn’t mind making her come and then having to stop. Like maybe she’s not embarrassed by it. Like maybe getting water for her isn’t a big deal.
“Of course, my girl.” She kisses her on the nose. “brB.”
“You’re so old.”
“You’re older than me,” she says, while she moves from under Frankie. Frankie watches her the entire time. The slight jiggle of her bum, the light sheen of marks against her hips. She wonders if she’s ever been asked to pose for a painting. “You’re basically a cougar.”
Frankie laughs, but it does nothing to settle the panic in her chest. She can’t leave…
right? Jasmine doesn’t deserve for her to leave.
Frankie’s never had this issue before. Either someone kicks her out, or she leaves when everything is said and done.
This feels worse. She could tell Jasmine she needs to go.
She’d let her; Frankie is sure of it. However, she might ask her why.
She might offer her a lift home. She might want information that Frankie has spent her entire thirty years keeping to herself.
If Jasmine asked her, she’d tell her. She knows it to be true.
But it’s not fair to start manically sobbing in the kitchen of a one-night stand.
Frankie knows in her heart of hearts that it’s unkind to leave, but she’s moving anyway.
Her vest is on, her trousers are in her hand, and she sneaks down the hall while listening to Jasmine hum in the kitchen.
She tries to figure out what she’s singing along to, but she’s never been much use at the music round of the quiz, let alone now, when the stakes are so high.
The water runs, and Frankie hates that she knows Jasmine is waiting for it to be cold for her. She probably chose a fresh glass and got some ice and a slice of lemon for an after-fuck glass of water. Even something as simple as a glass of water is done thoughtfully.
Frankie waits in the shadows of the front room like a creepy loser. Her forehead rests against the half-open door, and she hates herself, as she should. It’s calculated—the way she waits for Jasmine to pitter-patter back down the hall. Tears fall down Frankie’s cheeks so quickly.
“You know,” Jasmine starts, and she’s far enough away for Frankie to tiptoe to the front door.
She chokes on a sob as she opens the door, thankful that they were too into it when they got in for Jasmine to worry about the deadlock.
Even as Frankie creeps out, she wants to text Jasmine with the number she never asked for because she was too terrified that she’d say no, even as she held her hand on the walk home, to remind her to lock it now.
The only thing she hears after the soft click of the front door is a distant,
“Frank?”