Page 78 of Wanted

I need candles. It’s not the storm I’m afraid of but the lack of power. If I don’t light one candle for each member of my family, they might not be safe, and it’ll be my fault.

Five.

Six.

Seven.

My shoulders heave as I stand frozen in the middle of the hallway, grateful Frankie can’t see me breaking down.

Eight.

I always light seven candles, but maybe I should find eight so Frankie has one too?

Nine. Ten.

I squeeze my eyes shut, fighting against the compulsions. My lungs burn as I forget to breathe, and my stomach cramps with nausea.

Frankie crashes into me. Her hands find the sides of my head, yanking me down until her lips find mine in the dark.

My mind goes blank.

Suddenly, it’s nothing but the feel of her. The feel of her breath on my face, her tongue licking into my mouth. I groan at the taste of her I’ve only revisited every night in my dreams.

I haul her tight against me until only her toes remain on the floor. She wraps her casted arm around my back. I lift and push her back into the bathroom until we crash through the half-open door. The wood bangs against the wall, and one of the dogs downstairs barks.

Dainty, eager fingertips find the hem of my rain-soaked tee shirt. She curls it over my head and drops the sodden material to the floor. I stiffen, knowing what hides beneath, but she can’t see me in the dark.

At the same time, I shove the heavy jacket over her shoulders, where gravity does the rest of the work and drags the material to her wrists. She works on pulling it off while I return to tear her tee shirt over her head.

Our mouths separate for only the half a second needed to rip her shirt over her wet hair before we’re on one another again like we can’t get enough.

And I fucking can’t get enough.

She tastes like the first breath of fresh air after a panic attack subsides. When the numbers fade into the background and I can concentrate on reality. If I could bottle that feeling, it’d be exactly what I feel at this moment with her right now.

Frankie is my peaceful place personified.

My fingers find the clasps of her bra, and a second later, we’re both bare together for the first time.

“Touch me,” Frankie pleads against my mouth. “Please, Jude,” she begs.

A groan rumbles in my chest as I wrap my hand around her firm breast. The hard nipple juts against my palm. I rotate my wrist in a circle, stimulating the tip while feeling the weight of her in my hand. I bury my face in her neck and taste the delicate skin as her hands find the button on my jeans. She unsnaps and unzips the denim, her fingers brushing against my hard cock as she loosens the material. With a shove, they pool around my ankles, where I step out of the restrictive fabric.

“Your turn.” My voice is hoarse as I speak against her dewy neck. I let go of her breast to flick open her jeans. I’m much more controlled in releasing the zipper, dragging out each click of the teeth until she’s writhing and panting in my hold. Curling my fingers around the edges of her jeans, I slowly tug the soaked material over the curves of her hips and ass, dropping to my knees at her feet as I pull the sticky denim down.

One after the other, I free her feet and repeat the motion with her scrap of underwear.

She gasps as the cold air hits her cunt. The sound revealing the sight I can’t see. I imagine her head tipped back, eyes slitted in pleasure in the dark as her mouth drops open on a pant. I slide my hands up her legs, tracing her thighs until my thumbs meet the edge of her triangle, and the silky patch of skin there.

“Fuck, I need to taste you.”

One hand snakes around to the top of her ass, holding her still. I lean forward and press a kiss right above her clit. Frankie pants. Searching fingers slide into my hair, and she grips the soaked strands.

I palm her ass cheek, sliding my pinkie along her crack. My tongue flicks out against her clit, pressed flat against the little bud. I stroke her gently, gathering the first taste of her pussy on my tastebuds and lap at her like it’s the first ice cream cone of the summer I’m eager to savor. Slow, broad strokes.

Sliding lower, she gasps and whines above me. “Open for me, Frankie.” I nudge her thigh with my shoulder. As she spreads farther, I slip my fingers between her legs and touch her soaked slit.

“You’re dripping, baby. Is this all for me?”

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