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My breaths turned shallow and hitched in my throat, the muscles in my abdomen so tight I could barely breathe.
Ecstasy crackled through my veins, electric where it singed my nerves, bowing my back off the bed.
Stars burst behind my eyes, my fingers fisted in the sheets around me, Frankie’s mouth coaxing more and more and more-
“Frankie, oh my God,” I cried, my voice broken, rough with the force of my orgasm, my body loose and taut all at once.
She softened her grip on my body, her hold turning to caresses, the overwhelming thrust of her fingers now a comforting push and pull, drawing the last shudders from my trembling body.
But her mouth continued its assault on me, on the swollen bud of my clit, my spit-slick folds, and quivering thighs.
I lifted a shaky hand and threaded disoriented fingers through her curls.
“Please, Frankie,” I whined, so far into overstimulation that my body fought to wriggle out of her hold. “Enough, enough.”
She released me with a ‘pop’, kissing her way up to my lips.
“You’re delicious,” she purred, her voice low and gravelly. Her hands rubbed slow, comforting caresses into my skin, along my ribs, over my breasts, and down my stomach. “You look so sleepy now.”
“Whatever you just wrung out of me was the very last of my energy,” I gasped, my chest heaving. Indeed, my eyelids grew heavier with each blink.
“Then sleep,” she said, pressing her lips to mine, licking into my mouth lazily. It was heady, the taste of me heavy on her tongue. “I’ll still be here tomorrow.”
“You’d better be,” I mumbled, unconsciousness fighting to claim me. “But I wanna-”
“No,” she said, wrapping a hand around my outstretched wrist. “Sleep. Tomorrow is another day.”
None too pleased but too tired to argue, I relented, wrapping myself around her and letting sleep take me.
“Why are you ordering breakfast?”
I threw Frankie a confused look, holding my phone up as if in answer. “You said you were hungry,” I said as if it was the simplest thing. Because it was.
But Frankie pointedly looked around my kitchen before turning that same pointed gaze at me. “I’m sure you have food in the massive kitchen, yes?”
I chewed on the tip of my tongue, a little ashamed. “Of course I do,” I hedged. “I just… don’t usually cook.”
Frankie cocked her head, her curls like wildfire falling over her shoulder.
Dressed in one of my oversized T-shirts.
My stomach tightened.
“Do you not enjoy cooking?”
I frowned because there was no judgment in her tone. No ‘of course, rich people don’t cook their own food’.
Just curiosity.
And because it was Frankie, because it was so terrifyingly easy to be honest with her, I told her the truth. “I’ve never been that great at cooking.”
She snorted, the smile that formed on her lips freezing when she realized I wasn’t kidding.
“Wait, seriously?” She giggled. “You own, like, most of the restaurants in the city. You can immediately tell the difference in Michelin stars but you… can’t cook?”
The irony wasn’t lost on me.
“Imagine how upset I was when I learned that, despite my refined palate, I couldn’t even cook a basic dish.”
