Page 3 of Tempting Frankie (Lust & Luxury #1)

Alexander

T he phone rings, interrupting my thoughts as I sit in my penthouse office. I recognize the number instantly—it's the catering company I slipped a hefty donation to last week. My pulse thrums as I answer.

“Mr. Steele? It's John from Elite Crown Catering. You asked us to keep you informed about a certain employee's schedule?”

I sit up straighter, my cock already twitching with anticipation. “Go on.”

“We had a last-minute cancellation for tonight's charity gala at the Rosewood Hotel. Francesca just agreed to fill in. I thought you'd want to know right away.”

“Excellent,” I growl, already hard at the thought of seeing her again. “I appreciate your discretion, John. An extra donation will be in your account by morning.”

Hanging up, I fire off a text to my assistant.

Get me an invite for tonight's charity gala at the Rosewood. Now. I don't give a fuck who you have to threaten. Make it happen.

My cock throbs as I picture Francesca in that tight uniform, those goddamn curves on display as she moves between tables. It's been a week since I last saw her, and the hunger is driving me mad.

I loosen my tie, imagining how it would look wrapped around her wrists. How those big brown eyes would widen as I pushed her against the wall of some dark corner, hitching up her shirt and sliding my other hand between her thighs.

Feeling how warm and wet she would be, how fat and juicy her cunt would feel.

Fuck, I adjust myself before I cum in my slacks. I need a cold shower before this event. Or a hot one where I can stroke myself raw to thoughts of bending her over and burying myself in her and pump her full of my cum just fucking hoping one takes so I can tie her to me forever.

My phone chimes, taking me out of my illicit thoughts.

Done. You're attending as a last-minute donor. Car will be ready at 7:30, sir.

Grinning, a predatory excitement courses through me, imagining Francesca's wide-eyed surprise when she sees me again.

Will she tremble? Blush a delicious shade of pink?

Snark at me, trying to act annoyed? Cameron may have been too much of an idiot to appreciate what he had, but I intend to worship every goddamn inch of her until she's trembling and begging for more.

Until she calls me Daddy.

Making my way to the bathroom to get ready, thoughts of gagging her with my cock overtaking my head.

Splashing cold water on my face, I stare at my reflection.

A wolfish grin appears because tonight I’m going to make sure I get what I want.

Just like I do with everything else in life.

Miss DeLuca will bend and fold underneath me because if I can’t have her then no one else can either.

Walking into the ballroom, my eyes scan the sea of glittering gowns and crisp tuxedos. The air is thick with perfume and bullshit small talk, but I couldn't give less of a fuck about any of these vapid socialites. There's only one person I'm here to see.

I look across the crowd for at least five minutes before I finally spot the object of my desire and my obsession.

Francesca fucking DeLuca.

My cock twitches as I drink her in. That uniform hugging every curve, her breasts straining against the buttons again as she gracefully moves between tables. Her dark curls are piled high, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. I imagine sinking my teeth into that soft flesh, marking her as mine.

She's balancing a tray of flutes, her movements fluid and practiced.

I adjust myself discreetly, already half-hard just from looking at her. Christ, the things I want to do to her, and I’d do them all right here and now if I could. Let these fucking cretins watch, knowing they’ll never have her.

She hasn't noticed me yet. I hang back, content to watch her for a moment. She plasters on a polite smile as some drunken asshole tries to grab her ass, deftly twisting away without spilling a drop. That's my fucking girl.

I clench my fists, resisting the urge to march over there and break that fucker's fingers even though she’s capable of handling herself. No one touches what's mine.

Francesca finally turns, and suddenly those doe eyes lock onto mine. I see the moment of recognition, the way her lips part in surprise. A delicious blush spreads across her cheeks, and the tray trembles ever so slightly in her hands.

Smirking, I raise my glass in a toast, letting my gaze roam blatantly over her body. Her eyes narrow, her attitude flaring to life.

She spins on her heel, that perfect round ass swaying as she disappears into the back. The little minx knows exactly what she's doing to me.

I down another scotch, my blood boiling with lust and possessive rage. That idiot who grabbed her ass is still hovering near the bar, leering at the servers. I suppose I can teach this motherfucker a lesson. It will certainly make me feel better.

Sauntering over, I size him up. Balding, paunchy, reeking of desperation and cheap cologne. What a pathetic excuse for a man. How the fuck did he even get an invitation to this, anyway?

“Enjoying the party?” I ask, keeping my tone deceptively light.

He turns, giving me a once over. “Sure am. The booze is good, and the eye candy is even better, if you know what I mean.” He winks, gesturing toward the area where Francesca vanished.

In one fluid motion, I grab his wrist and twist, applying just enough pressure to make him gasp.

“Listen closely, you worthless piece of shit,” I growl, my voice low and menacing. “If I ever see you lay a finger on one of the waitstaff again, I'll break every bone in your hand. Then I'll use my considerable influence to destroy your sad little life. Are we clear?”

His face goes pale, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. “Y-yes, of course. I'm sorry, I didn't mean?—”

I increase the pressure, feeling the delicate bones of his wrist grind together. “I don't give a fuck what you meant. Keep your hands to yourself or I'll cut them off. Now get the fuck out of my sight.”

I release him, and he scrambles away, cradling his wrist. Goddamn pathetic.

I watch that sniveling fuck scurry away like the cockroach he is, nursing his wrist. Let that be a lesson to keep his grimy paws off women.

My eyes snap back to the doors as Francesca emerges, looking flushed and a bit flustered. That blush on her cheeks makes my cock twitch, imagining how she'd look sprawled across my bed, panting and begging for more.

She's got a fresh tray of drinks, moving with a grace that makes my mouth water. I want to kneel at her feet and bury my face everywhere I can reach.

But I restrain myself, content to watch her work the room for now. My eyes never leave her as I mingle, making small talk with the usual crowd of socialites and trust fund brats. I nod and smile at all the right moments, but I couldn't give less of a fuck about their inane chatter.

All I can think about is Francesca's soft skin under my hands, the way she'd moan as I spread her legs and slide my thick cock inside her tight little pussy. I'd fuck her so hard she'd feel me for days, claiming her as mine inside and out as I put the baby she begs me for deep inside her.

The night drags on, a blur of fake laughs and bullshit small talk. She's professional as always, but I catch her stealing glances at me when she thinks I'm not looking.

The gala begins to wind down, the crowd thinning as drunken patrons stumble toward their waiting cars. Francesca starts gathering empty glasses, her movements slower now.

I slip out of the ballroom, making my way outside, and finding a spot near the employee exit where I can wait unnoticed.

Finally, after what feels like hours, the door swings open.

My mouth goes dry as she stretches, and I can picture her stretching just like that but on her back and in my bed. She starts unbuttoning her top, revealing inch after glorious inch of soft skin.

“Fuck me,” I mutter as she peels off the shirt entirely.

Underneath is a small crop top that barely contains her breasts. But it's the cheeky text that makes my cock jump.

I'm fat because every time I fuck your dad he makes me a sandwich.

I can't help the predatory grin that spreads across my face. Such a dirty girl.

I have to stifle a groan as she stretches again, arching her back in a way that makes her breasts strain against the fabric dangerously. I imagine cupping them in my hands, feeling their weight before I suck her nipples into my mouth, one right after the other.

I'm going to fuck her so hard she won't be able to walk straight for days. I'll make her scream and beg and cum over and over on my cock until she's a trembling mess.

And then I really will make her a fucking sandwich, because she's going to need the energy for round two.

She starts walking toward the parking lot, and I can't take my eyes off the sway of her hips, the jiggle of that ass with each step. My mouth waters thinking about spreading those cheeks and eating her ass until she's begging for me to slide right in.

I step behind her, my voice low and rough. “Nice shirt. I'm curious what your favorite sandwich is.”

Francesca whirls around, those brown eyes going wide. “Jesus Christ, Mr. Steele! Are you trying to give me a heart attack?”

“Let me guess. You like it hot, messy, and stuffed full of meat?”

She snorts, pushing against my chest. “You're ridiculous.”

“And you're wearing a shirt advertising how much you love fucking dads. Quite the pair we make.”

Her eyes narrow, that razor-sharp wit coming out to play. “At least I'm not some creepy old man stalking young girls in parking lots Mr. Steele. Hello 60 Minutes, I’d like to report a new special for you.”

“Alexander,” I correct. My gaze lingers on the words stretched across her chest, and my lips curve into a slow, wicked grin. “Interesting choice of words. I could just buy 60 Minutes, you know.”

Her cheeks flush, but she holds her ground. “It’s called a sense of humor. You should try it sometime.”

I chuckle, enjoying the way her eyes flash when she’s annoyed. “Oh, I have one. Trust me. But I have to ask…were you thinking of anyone specific when you bought that shirt, hmm?”