“Say yes.”
“Yes,” I cried out.
The blunt tip of his thumb breached me and a sting of pleasure followed. How something so intrusive felt so godly was lost on me. My lips shaped into an oval, my eyes closed.
“You okay?” Frankie was huffing harder than me. The still night held the sound of bubbling water, snapping hips, and terse, shallow breathing.
“Good,” I managed, pushing my hips toward him. “I can take it.”
“I know you can.” He pressed his finger in farther and a spark of heat licked up my spine. I dropped my face into my elbow and bit down on my forearm as he filled me in two places at once, dominating me in a way I was more than happy to be.
“So good,” Frankie mumbled as he quickened his pace, pounding into me. The pressure was addictive, my core throbbed around him, and my clit tingled readily. I was overtaken with sensation, as if I could feel every last vein and ridge of his cock touching me from within, riding me to a point of no return. My lower belly tightened on cue, the corners of my vision blurring.
Frankie’s finger wriggled inside my ass and I saw stars.
“I can tell when you’re there, O. Is this about to make you come?”
I moaned a pathetic confirmation, nodding my forehead up and down against my forearm.
“You like being all filled up like this. You love it.”
God, he knows everything.
“I plug this tight little hole up, and your pussy starts milking me, Ophelia. You can’t hide shit from me when I’m inside you. I know exactly what this cunt wants.”
“Fuck,” I keened. My legs started shaking and I played rapidly with the swollen nerves at my peak. Frankie’s strokes were debilitating. His breath fanned in and out over my back, hoarse grunting complimenting my shriller, weaker whines of ruin.
One of Frankie’s hands wrapped around me, putting perfect pressure on the expanse of skin over my middle and I broke, like throwing a rock through a wall of glass.
“Oh, Godddddd.” My nostrils flared, vision glitching momentarily as I was shot into a long, hard release.
Before I had time to relax my arms were wedged behind me, wrists bound to my lower back by his strong palm. Frankie continued to fuck me harshly, pulling his thumb from inside me and lifting me so my back met his chest and I was completely at his mercy. My nipples met cool, crisp air and my teeth sunk into my bottom lip.
“You just came on me raw, O. I felt every fucking drop of it,” he mumbled against my ear. “Pretty little orgasm. Everything you do is so beautiful it makes me crazy.”
He was owning every inch of my body, manipulating my limbs, taking what he needed to reach that delicious, sought-after peak he was on the very edge of. I could sense it in his longer strokes, the air catching in his throat in gusts with his mouth against my hairline. His free forearm came across my chest and bracketed me to his body, taking away my ability to move except for my hips as I bounced them into his lap to encourage that well-earned end.
“I’m gonna come,” he warned.
“Please,” I begged. “Please, please.”
He squeezed me so hard it felt like I very well may be crushed to death with a beautiful and shockingly well-endowed man buried to his fucking nuts inside me. But a second later Frankie unsheathed himself so violently I gasped out of sheer, emptying loss.
Hot ropes of his spend splashed across my ass and lower back, a strained roar rumbling along with them. I let my head fall back and rest against his shoulder as his warm breath fanned across my cheek, evening out just enough for him to tilt my jaw toward his lips and claim my mouth in a satisfied kiss. One that felt gratified, appreciative. Like every time I let him have me, he needed me to know it meant something.
“I can’t believe we just did that outside,” I said.
Frankie dropped down into the hot tub gracelessly, running a hand over his face as I slunk down next to him. My bikini floated in front of us like a sad sailboat.
“I can’t believe you just let me put my thumb in your ass.”
32
We’d lived off sugar cookies and leftover ham sandwiches, popping the corks off wine bottles in our pajamas, since Christmas Eve.
Every few hours Frankie and I emerged from the blanket cocoon we’d turned into an erotic fun house, stood around a shared plate of cold food, and used our hands as utensils in the most barbaric and unsanitary way possible.
I’d never lived with a man before, or shared more than a few nights and very early mornings with the same one. Usually having a steady hook-up for me entailed being very drunk on liquor I could no longer drink in good faith, a bed without a headboard, and my internal clock jolting me out of sheets that I realized much too late I didn’t particularly enjoy sleeping in.
I very, very much enjoyed Frankie’s bed. The coffee he made me with the fancy espresso machine, the closet of endless military-issued sweatpants and sweatshirts that Frankie hadn’t fit in for almost two decades at my disposal, and waking up with said man's head buried thoroughly, hungrily, between my legs.
There’d been more testosterone rocking its way through the walls in the prior three days than a Zeppelin concert.
Ghoul Nat returned in full force after the proposal, and Frankie and I took turns guessing whether or not our friends were filming or having genuine, albeit flamboyant sex. Hell, I’d thought about asking Frankie to film us, as a souvenir to take with me and reminisce under the covers back home in Colorado. For the first time I understood why someone may sell a theatrical version of themselves getting fucked on a full-queen, because I would damn sure pay to see Frankie nude and gyrating from every single angle imaginable.
It was all that downright illicit energy needing a rest that sent us out of the house and to the beach for the first time in days. Mateo complained about being torn away from the bedroom the entire ride, and if it weren’t for us burying him up to his neck in the sand, I was sure he would have been trying to take his new fiancée for a ride in the lifeguard tower.
Frankie patted the ground around Mateo with a tiny plastic shovel. All that remained visible of his best friend was a thick neck and thicker head, sun-washed brown locks peppered with all that naturally shiny grain.
The late December sun was scorching as I flipped from front to back on my towel like a Pop-Tart in a toaster. Every single time I moved, the man next to me perked up a bit, brown eyes tracking me beneath the shade of a pair of sunglasses. There was nothing subtle about it, but I pretended not to notice. Frankie had a way of making me feel like the only person for miles. There were a hundred attractive women on the beach and his attention never strayed.
Every so often Natalia lifted her hand and inspected it like a compact mirror, or pulled her phone out of her bag and took a photo with the foam-rolling waves as a backdrop.
By mid-afternoon I recognized that flashy movement as a conversation starter, and if my best friend weren’t basically bursting at the seams to talk nuptials, I was more than happy to iron out details like hors-d'oeuvres, seating charts, party favors, and all the delicious drama that came with stuffing big, opinionated families together for a long weekend.
“What are you thinking venue-wise?” I lifted my shades to the top of my head. “Are we doing a destination? Keeping it close to home? I’m trying to mentally budget the next several months to years of my life.”