by Lucy Score
He dropped his forehead to hers, relief coursing through him.
“Are you sure you’re okay? I didn’t cross a line or something?”
“You didn’t shove your dick up my ass without asking first, so I think we’re fine. Can we just pretend this part never happened?”
“What part?”
She laughed and another tear escaped. “Oh my God. Maybe you don’t suck so bad after all, Kilbourn.”
“Are you hungry?” he asked.
“I could eat an entire buffet in under ten minutes.”
He wanted to kiss her on that tear-stained cheek. Kiss her and stay buried inside her where he felt something good. But he didn’t do that sort of thing. And she wouldn’t trust it if he did.
“Let’s see how many dishes we can order from room service,” he said, reluctantly sliding out of her and reaching for the phone.
Chapter Twenty-Five
There was nothing like a walk of shame to make Frankie feel like she was twenty years old again. Except this time, she was thirty-four, and she was sneaking out of a man’s room wearing his Yale t-shirt because he’d ripped her dress in his desperate haste to fuck her to five mind-altering orgasms.
She clutched her shoes to her chest and balled up the remains of her gown and slipped out the door.
They’d dined on champagne and tender steaks in bed and ended up naked and panting again. She had every intention of leaving, of going back to her room to pack and regain whatever shred of sanity she had left, but had instead fallen asleep next to Aiden, a tangle of limbs and sheets.
She woke with a start, sunlight beaming obnoxiously in her face between the slice of curtain they hadn’t bothered closing. She’d been horrified to find her face snuggled into Aiden’s neck. Her hand resting on the smattering of chest hair above the slow and steady beat of his heart.
Her leg was thrown over his crotch, and his erection was digging into her thigh. The magnitude of last night, of not just giving in to his chase, but demanding he take her, hit her like a heavyweight champ. And the things she’d let him do to her? The things she’d done to him? Hell.
Apparently, she was as forgiving as Pru. Or as hormone driven as ol’ one-eyebrowed Margeaux.
She must have forgotten to pack her dignity.
“Well, well, well.”
Frankie jumped a mile in the hallway as she pulled Aiden’s door closed.
“Jesus, Pru. You scared the ever-living hell out of me.”
Her best friend was still in her wedding gown, her hair a disaster, her makeup smeared. She smelled like a distillery and was grinning like a kindergartner turned loose in the Hershey Chocolate Factory.
“You and Aiden?” Pru squealed at dog whistle frequency.
“Shhh! Jeez. Keep your voice down.”
Pru listed hard to the side as if she were walking the deck of a boat. “I’m super drunk but not drunk enough to not be really, really excited.”
“Have you even been to bed yet?” Frankie asked.
Pru shook her head violently from side and side and walked into a wall. “Nope. ’s my party. Hey! Wanna hold my hair while I throw up? You can tell me why you’re sneaking out of You Know Who’s room with sex hair and teeth marks on your neck.”
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Pru could be a professional vomiter, Frankie observed. She tucked her knees under her neatly in front of the toilet and gracefully sighed up the contents of her stomach.
“You know, when I barf, I sound like I’m trying to bring up a foot of intestine,” Frankie pointed out.
“Blaaaaaah,” Pru crooned to the toilet. She sat back on her heels looking proud of herself and flushed. “Barf drunking is so much easier than barf sicking. I prolly won’t even remember this tomorrow… or today.”
“Yeah, but you were like this with the stomach bug of 2005 too.”
“The trick is not to fight it,” Pru said sagely. “When you fight it, it makes it so much harder.”
Vomit lessons from a cheerful zombie bride. At least this was keeping her mind off of the satisfied ache in every well-used muscle. Off of the naked man down the hallway who had shown her things in the dark that she couldn’t comprehend in the daylight.
“Where’s your husband?” Frankie asked, handing Pru a glass of water.
“My husband is sleeping under the head table on the terrace,” Pru said proudly. “Now, tell me exactly how you got beard burn on your neck.
Her neck wasn’t the only place she’d gotten it. But she wasn’t about to mention her inner thighs right now.
“Aiden and I had sex,” Frankie admitted.
Pru started cackling.
“Geez, what? You laugh any harder, and you’re gonna spew again.”
“I was jus’ thinking that I can’t wait to tell this story at your wedding!”
“Why would you tell this story at my wedding?” Frankie asked, horrified.
“’Cause you’re gonna marry Aiden, and I’m gonna be your matron of honor!”
“I’m not marrying Aiden! We had a one-time momentary lapse in judgment.”
“Uhhhh, judging by the orgasmic look on your pretty, pretty face, you had a life-altering one-time momentary lapse.”
Frankie slumped against Pru’s vanity. “Okay, it was good. Really good.” So fucking good every sexual experience from now on was going to pale in comparison. That was a cheery thought.
“And?” Pru prodded, fluffing the skirt of her dress around her.
“And the key phrase is ‘one-time.’ We are not each other’s types no matter how good in bed we are together.”
“Okay, okay. On a scale of Jimmy Talbot and Tanner Freehorn, where does Aiden fall?”
This was the problem with having a best friend who knew everything about you. She created sex scales based on your worst and best experiences. Jimmy had been her first and sweetly awkward. Tanner was a random hookup at a New Year’s Eve party ten months ago who had given Frankie her first multiple orgasm.
“Ugh. Don’t make me do this!” Frankie begged.
“You have to,” Pru ordered. “It’s in the friendship rules. Jimmy to Tanner. Go!”
“Tanner plus three,” Frankie mumbled under her breath. She traced the grout line with her finger, refusing to meet Pru’s eyes.
“Tanner plus wha?” Pru demanded. Her post-puke voice echoed off the marble.
“Three.”
She watched drunk Pru do the math very slowly on her fingers. “Oh hell. Five. I had five orgasms, okay?”
“Is that even physically possible?” Pru shrieked. “Wait, hang on.” She leaned over the toilet bowl and blahed again. She bobbed back up, perky as a morning TV show host who hadn’t just thrown up a carafe of champagne. “Five orgasms in one night?”
“Yeah. I think it’s like a super power or something.”
Or something all ridiculously rich dudes could do. Could money buy sexual prowess? No wonder women were always chasing them.
“I. Am. So. Happy. For. You.” Pru stabbed the air with her finger to emphasize every word.
“Again, one-time thing,” Frankie pointed out. “But let’s talk about how happy I am for you, Mrs. Stockton-Randolph.”
“Did you see my ring?” Pru asked.
Frankie had seen it approximately nineteen times since the ceremony.
“I would love to see your ring.”
“What kind of ring do you think Aiden will get you?” Pru asked, closing one eye. She slid down to lay on the marble floor, her dress puffing up around her.
“No ring. No more sex either.”
“But he’s good enough for you, Frankie.”
“Okay, you’re clearly all heart-eyes and alcohol-ed because you’re telling me to marry the guy whose brother kidnapped your fiancé on the eve of your wedding.”
“I forgot about that. But still, Aiden is amazing.”
“He’s also a perennial bachelor who likes to swap out his women every mont
h. And again, brother kidnapped Chip.”
Pru waved a dismissive hand. “Details, details.”
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Frankie found herself in the middle seat of the plane wedged between a tiny Asian lady with very nice headphones and a guy whose chest hair was woven around the thick gold chain visible because he had the first four buttons of his shirt open.
The lady smelled like vanilla. The man like half a bottle of Drakkar Noir. It was going to be a very long flight. But at least she’d escaped Barbados without facing Aiden. She wondered if he’d been pissed or relieved when he woke up to find her gone.
She plugged her earbuds into the seatback entertainment and randomly selected a music station. So maybe she was running away. And maybe she was a coward, but had she spent one extra second next to Aiden’s perfect, naked body, she would have literally died. Could one die from perfection? She’d come close. Or maybe it had been too many orgasms.
Frankie knew that had Aiden woken up and brought up the subject of a temporary relationship, she would have sat up and begged like her parent’s cocker spaniel. Out of sight, out of her sore yet satisfied pussy. Mind. She meant mind.
A hasty exit was for the best. Aiden would forget about her and their few hours of mind-boggling, flesh-searing, soul-shattering pleasure.
Chest Hair gave her the side-eye, and Frankie realized she’d moaned out loud. If this is what five orgasms skillfully doled out by Aiden Kilbourn did to her, she couldn’t imagine what a temporary dalliance would do.
Her phone was off, and she had to work tomorrow. It was back to normal… with a few erotic memories that she could relive for the rest of her life.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Aiden took the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding. He’d been revved since waking up that morning. And all those hours in between, he’d been ready to snap.
She’d left him. He’d woken up to an empty bed with no trace of her in his room. And by the time he’d pulled on a pair of shorts and stormed down the hall to bang on her door and drag her back to bed, the maids were already cleaning it. Checked out. Sorry sir.
Franchesca had a thing or two to learn about just how he did business.
This place smelled like mothballs and dust. The stairs creaked ominously under his feet. There was no security on the door, and half the streetlights on the block were dark. And it had taken no more than a “please” to get Mrs. Gurgevich in 2A to buzz him in.
Everything pissed him off.
And that translated loud and clear when his closed fist met the door that stood between him and the source of his annoyance.
“Jesus, break down the door, why don’t you, Gio?”
Frankie’s eyes widened in surprise and, very possibly, fear. She probably would have slammed the door in his face had Aiden not shoved his way inside.
The apartment was small, on the shabby side, but clean. There was a kitchen, a living/dining room, and what Aiden assumed was a bedroom. Her TV, a pathetic thirty-inch, was on, and there was an open beer on the coffee table. The couch was deep and cushioned.
He turned to face her, and he felt it, that magnetic connection. It hadn’t been the tropical setting or the adrenaline. It was the way she reacted to him. He was used to attraction. He used it as a snare when necessary. But what echoed between them? It was elemental. It was the primitive lust of one body desperately needing the other. She didn’t want his money or his family name. She wanted him and how he made her feel. And that was more potent to him than any aphrodisiac.
“What the fuck are you doing in my apartment?” She stood, hands on hips, wearing leggings and a thick sweater that draped over one shoulder. She had her hair pulled up in a thick tail.
He fisted his hands at his sides so he didn’t reach for her and strip the tie out of her hair. “Why did you run?”
“I didn’t run. I had a flight.” She was cocky, self-righteous, and lying.
“Why didn’t you wake me or say goodbye?”
He saw the shadow of guilt in those big eyes. “It was a one-time thing, Aiden. That’s all.”
“Bullshit.” His voice rang out sharply. He was tired, angry. And despite that, he wanted to touch her. Punish her. Please her.
“Oh, come on, Kilbourn. We had a good time. Now it’s back to the real world.”
“We are not done, Franchesca.”
“I think once was more than enough,” she snapped back, eyes flashing.
“Twice,” he corrected. “And do you really?”
“Go the hell home, Aiden.”
He closed the distance between them and forced himself to take a gentle hold on her shoulders. She was melting into him even as she swore. Aiden felt relief, swift and sharp, knowing that she still felt that need. Even if it was only pure biology, body-recognizing body. It was enough, and somehow more.
“Last night?” he began. “That doesn’t just happen. And running away from it is cowardly.”
“Are you suggesting that I’m afraid of you?” Frankie’s voice was low.
“I’m suggesting that what we shared was a first for me. That… connection. I don’t want to just walk away. And I don’t think you do either.” If she wanted honest and real, then that is what he’d give her. Aiden only hoped the price wouldn’t be too high.
“I don’t want to be some guy’s plaything. I deserve more than that,” Frankie shot back.
“You do,” he agreed. “You’re the one who labeled it as such. Just because I’m not interested in marriage doesn’t mean I’d be disrespectful or callous toward you.”
She chewed on her lower lip, staring intently at the top button of his shirt. “So how exactly would this kind of arrangement work?”
He scented victory, knew it was within his grasp. “We spend time together. I give you anything you want.”
“Temporarily,” she added.
“It’s not like there’s an expiration date, Franchesca.”
“But you always lose interest.”
“I might point out that you happen to be single, too. Is that because you’ve always lost interest?” He let his fingers roam up to the back of her neck, toying with the curls there.
She sighed and finally, finally raised her gaze to his.
“Look, I’m not looking for forever either. I don’t know where I want to be in five years. I’d rather figure that out before I have to take someone else’s wants and needs into consideration. And God help the woman who wants it with you.”
He ran his hands around her tight shoulders. He turned her slowly in his arms, kneading her tense muscles. She sagged back against him.
“Then why aren’t you saying yes?” he whispered darkly in her ear. “Are you making me work for it?” He didn’t know why that made him hard. A Kilbourn never willingly relinquished control.
“Whoa! Am I interrupting?”
The man lounging in Frankie’s doorway looked more interested than angry to find her wrapped up in another man’s arms. He was broad shouldered and muscled. He wore a tight Henley that showed off that fact and ignored the thirty-degree weather outside. He was holding a bag of food that smelled better than any five-star meal in Manhattan.
“Gio,” Frankie greeted the man as she tried to shrug out of Aiden’s grasp. He didn’t care for that. “Are you early?” she asked, shooting a panicked look in Aiden’s direction. He really didn’t like that.
“Huh?” Gio asked, fishing a phone out of the pocket of his track pants.
He held up the phone and snapped a picture.
“Don’t you fucking dare!” Frankie wasn’t nervous anymore. She was a snarling lioness.
“Oops. Too late,” he shrugged. “You wanna introduce me to your friend?”
Aiden went from trying to keep Frankie in his grasp to holding her back as she took a swipe at the smugly grinning man.
“You are such an asshole!”
Gio’s phone dinged, and he grinned, glancing at the screen. “Ma’s lo
oking forward to meeting your friend Sunday.”
Aiden had to grab Frankie around the waist when she lunged for him. He picked her up and spun her around while Gio laughed.
“I’m Gio,” the man said, extending a hand well out of Frankie’s reach. “This hellion’s brother.”
Aiden shook with his free hand.
“Aiden,” he said.
“So, you two dating?” Gio asked.
“Yes,” Aiden said.
“No,” Frankie countered.
“Well, either way, you just got me out of awkward fix up attempt number sixteen. Mary Lou Dumbrowski.”
“Mary Lou’s single again?” Frankie said, ceasing her attempts to kill her brother.
Gio crossed to the tiny table and dumped the bag of food on it. “Yeah. Husband number three keeled over last month at the dry cleaners. Bam. Dead before he hit the floor.”
“Ma must be getting desperate if she’s moving on to fresh widows for you,” Frankie pointed out.
Aiden squeezed her hand and then released her. She didn’t seem murderous anymore.
“Ma don’t like having a 36-year-old bachelor son,” Gio explained. “She also doesn’t like being the only one of her sisters without grandbabies.”
“Marco just knocked up Rachel,” Frankie reminded him. “Marco’s our other brother and Rachel’s his wife,” she explained for Aiden’s benefit.
“Well, don’t worry because you just gave her even more grandmotherly hope,” Gio teased, unpacking the bags.
Frankie shook her head. “I hate you. What did you bring?”
Gio unpacked four deli sandwiches, pickles wrapped in wax paper, and a large bag of barbeque chips. “The usual. You hangin’ out, Aide?”
No one in his entire life had called him Aide before Franchesca. It appeared that the Baranski family enjoyed assigning nicknames.
“We taped the UFC fight from last night,” Gio said, wiggling a sandwich at him.
“Mixed martial arts?” Aiden asked, eyeing the glorious stacked sandwiches.
“Ugh,” Frankie rolled her eyes. “Fine. You can stay. But I call dibs on the roast beef.”
