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CHAPTER 5
SETH
The ride back to the Silver Spoon Inn is short, but I drag it out, giving myself time to get my shit under control. I take the long route, slipping through silent back streets where the only eyes on us are sagging porch lights and a brave raccoon rifling through someone’s garbage.
Frankie is sitting next to me, legs crossed, and body turned just enough that I can see the barest hint of thigh when the Mustang hits a bump. She’s so fucking close I can smell her delicate fragrance, and my cock has been hard enough to drive nails since the moment I saw her standing in the Silver Spoon Inn.
She glances at me as I make the final turn. “You gonna walk me to my door?”
I shoot her a look as my cock orders me to walk her to the goddamn door. “Of course.”
She laughs, and the sound rolls through my head on repeat. I punch the Mustang’s parking brake and cut the engine. I barely remember grabbing her hand, but suddenly we’re moving past the lobby and into the elevator.
The hotel is stone quiet except for the click of her heels and the soft thud of my boots. Frankie’s hand is still in mine. She doesn’t let go, not even when we pass a couple of tipsy wedding guests, not even when I slow at the end of the corridor to read the room numbers.
Her suite is at the very end. Figures. The walk is a slow burn, every step another chance to reach for her, but I hold off. Just barely. The hall is lit with wall sconces that paint us in long, warm shadows. At her door, she pauses, keycard in hand, and turns toward me. Waiting.
I pin her there, one hand braced on the door above her head. She looks up at me, lips parted, eyes glassy from the wine. “Is this your move?” she asks, but her voice is all invitation and zero fight.
“I don’t have moves,” I say, but my thumb is already grazing her jaw, angling her face up to mine. “Just instincts.”
She shivers. Just once, a pulse in her throat. “Show me.”
I do. I kiss her, deep and shameless, pushing her back so the door frame holds us steady. She melts against me, her hands on my chest, clutching the fabric of my shirt with enough force to anchor herself. I taste her—wine, rosemary, and something that’s all Frankie—and it goes straight to my head. I kiss her like I’m trying to devour her whole.
I want to take my time, but I can’t. She makes a hungry, impatient sound in the back of her throat, and my cock hardens painfully. My hands run down her waist, finding the soft curve of her hip. I palm her there, greedy, and she rocks against me like she’s with me all the way.
I pull back, just enough to catch my breath. Her lips are swollen and flushed, eyes bright. “Are you sure about this?” I ask, my voice rough as gravel.
She blinks up at me, like the question is a punchline. “I’ve never been surer.”
A low groan escapes my lips as I capture her mouth in another searing kiss, our bodies pressed tightly against each other. The hunger between us ignites, burning brighter with each passing second.
Breaking away for a moment, I whisper against her lips, “Tell me what you want.”
She looks up at me with a hunger that matches my own, her eyes dark like uncut emeralds and filled with longing. “I want you,” she breathes out.
I’m shaking. I never fucking shake. I stare at her for a full second, making damn sure she’s not going to change her mind. She stares right back, not a hint of hesitation. Just hunger.
I take the key card from her, sliding it into the lock so slowly it’s almost torture. The green light clicks, and I push the door open, but I don’t move. Not yet.
“One more chance,” I say, my forehead pressed to hers. “If I walk in, I’m staying. All fucking night.”
She looks up at me, blue eyes steady. “I’m tired of playing it safe.”
It’s all I need. I shove the door wide and drag her inside, the door slamming shut behind us so hard it rattles the art on the wall.
This is what it feels like to win the goddamn lottery.
The room is bigger than I expected—soft light, king bed turned down with surgical precision, a little fruit plate on the table. Frankie moves halfway across the carpet before I even get the door locked. She quickly works at the little buttons running down the front of her light blue dress.
I watch her, hungry, memorizing the way she moves. The way her hips roll when she steps out of the last shoe. The way her hair falls when she bends over, exposing the line of her neck, begging to be kissed or bitten or both.
I toss my wallet and keys onto the mahogany dresser with a clatter, strip off my stainless-steel watch that feels suddenly too heavy, and close the blackout curtains with one hard yank that sends dust motes dancing in a sliver of streetlight. The world shrinks to just us, the faint mechanical hum of the AC rattling through the vents, the slow thunderous tick of my pulse getting louder and meaner with each breath.
Frankie faces me, wearing just a frilly white lace bra with tiny pink bows at each strap and matching high-cut panties that hug the curve of her hips. She braces her hands behind her on the edge of the bed, fingers pressing into the crisp white duvet. My eyes meet hers—aqua irises nearly swallowed by dilated pupils—and she raises one perfectly arched eyebrow, her bottom lip caught between her teeth, like she's daring me to touch her.
So, I do. I cross the room and set my palms on her thighs, pushing them open just enough to step between. She’s warm and tense, her skin already prickling under my hands. I trace a finger around her collarbone, slow as hell, not because I’m patient but because I want to see her fall apart a piece at a time.
