Page 33 of The Worst Best Man

“Wait, what’s our backstory? Who are you? Who am I? How do we know Trell?”

“Trell?” Aiden asked, his lips quirking on one side.

“Obviously if we’re her friends we don’t call her Trellenwy.”Duh.

“Fine. I’m an old friend of Trellenwy, and you’re my date.”

“Why aren’t I an old friend of Trellenwy?” Frankie demanded. Her foot caught on a thick root and she went sprawling to the ground. “Oh, man! How am I going to get poison berry juice out of this?” she rubbed at the stain from the plant she’d landed on. It looked like the period fairy had just shook her wand over Frankie’s hip. “Crap. Okay. I can fix this. I’ll soak it in… something.”

Aiden sighed. “Franchesca, what’s more believable? A socialite has an acquaintance with a wealthy New York business owner with a reputation for dating women just like her or the daughter of Brooklyn deli owners?”

“Excuse me. Are you saying I can’t pass for upper class?” Frankie demanded.

“Just shut up.”

He clamped a hand over her wrist and dragged her forward, skirting the lights and music.

It was nearly one a.m. in paradise, and she had a sexy, crazy rich bachelor who could have made a lucrative career out of being beautiful dragging her around in the dark. Frankie should have been squealing with joy on the inside. Instead? She was pissed. Annoyed at the whole thing. That someone would take Chip. That she couldn’t “pass” for being some dumb socialite with more money than street smarts. That some security guard would potentially believe Aiden would have a better chance of knowing Trellenwy. That they didn’t exist in the same worlds. And she didn’t know why that mattered.

Sure, she could let Mr. Big Deal Kilbourn put his hands on her. But in the eyes of the entire world, she was the lesser partner here. He had the power, the control. He’d tire of her and move on, just as he had with every other woman in his life.

The sound of the waves was louder now. The lights and thump of the music was behind them. She could see moonlight dancing on the ocean through the trees that separated them from the beach. There was no more talking now. They were just a billionaire and his nameless date out for a late-night stroll.

A twig snapped under her foot, and Aiden swore quietly. He turned and pulled Frankie against him. She wanted to tell him to get his damn hands off of her. To go to hell.

He took her down to the sand in a move so smooth she barely felt the shift in her gravity.

“What are you doing?” she hissed as he covered her body with his. She shoved at his shoulders and froze when she felt his cock twitch against her as it hardened.

He didn’t bother answering her before his mouth crushed down on hers. She wasn’t prepared. Couldn’t have prepared. Not for the rush of heat that washed through her, the electricity that coursed through her. His lips were strong and firm, demanding. But Frankie wasn’t one to give up the upper hand. She gripped his lapels and fought for control of the kiss. When he opened his mouth, it was her tongue that surged forward. Aiden growled low in his throat and stroked into her mouth, tasting and toying.

She felt dizzy with power, with madness.

His erection was thick and hard against her center, and Frankie opened her legs so he could settle between them. When he grinded against her, Frankie’s world went black. She could come like this, dry-humping a billionaire on a beach.

She should have been embarrassed, should have had better judgment. But before those thoughts could take hold, Aiden trailed one large, capable hand down over her breast and surged against her again.

She murmured meaningless words against his mouth.This. Now. Here.She didn’t care.

“Fuck,” he whispered, before diving back into the kiss. Her blood had gone molten. Lava flowed through her veins now. More was the only word left in her vocabulary.

Aiden abandoned her breast, and when Frankie moaned her disappointment, he made up for it. That hand was now shoving the skirt of her dress higher. Her body sang to the heavens. If he didn’t shove a part of him inside of her in the next thirty seconds, Frankie knew she’d die a slow and agonizing death.

He was grinding against her thigh now, prodding her with what felt like a painful erection.

“More, Aide,” Frankie whispered. Begging. She never begged. But in this second she was happy to plead her way to orgasm.

“Hang on, baby,” he murmured against her lips. “I want you so fucking bad.”

This was not the ice-cold man she’d met in the ballroom. Or the game-playing chauffeur from the airport. No, the man whose hand danced over the satin of her thong was a sinful lover, all heat and dark promises.

“Fuck,” he whispered again when he pressed the tips of his fingers to her center.

She cried out, softly, brokenly as he started one of those tiny circles he’d worked his way up her thigh with under the table. He knew how to touch her. Whether it was instinct or obscene experience, she didn’t give a good damn.

“You’re so damn wet, Franchesca. So wet for me.”

Frankie bucked against his hand. “Touch me,” she demanded. When he looped two fingers under the seam of her underwear, when his knuckles brushed her soft folds, she reached for him.