Page 6 of Tempting Frankie
“Excellent,” I growl, already hard at the thought of seeing her again. “I appreciate your discretion, John. An extra donation will be in your account by morning.”
Hanging up, I fire off a text to my assistant.
Get me an invite for tonight's charity gala at the Rosewood. Now. I don't give a fuck who you have to threaten. Make it happen.
My cock throbs as I picture Francesca in that tight uniform, those goddamn curves on display as she moves between tables. It's been a week since I last saw her, and the hunger is driving me mad.
I loosen my tie, imagining how it would look wrapped around her wrists. How those big brown eyes would widen as I pushed her against the wall of some dark corner, hitching up her shirt and sliding my other hand between her thighs.
Feeling how warm and wet she would be, how fat and juicy her cunt would feel.
Fuck, I adjust myself before I cum in my slacks. I need a cold shower before this event. Or a hot one where I can stroke myself raw to thoughts of bending her over and burying myself in her and pump her full of my cum just fucking hoping one takes so I can tie her to me forever.
My phone chimes, taking me out of my illicit thoughts.
Done. You're attending as a last-minute donor. Car will be ready at 7:30, sir.
Grinning, a predatory excitement courses through me, imagining Francesca's wide-eyed surprise when she sees me again. Will she tremble? Blush a delicious shade of pink? Snark at me, trying to act annoyed? Cameron may have been too much of an idiot to appreciate what he had, but I intend to worship every goddamn inch of her until she's trembling and begging for more.
Until she calls me Daddy.
Making my way to the bathroom to get ready, thoughts of gagging her with my cock overtaking my head.
Splashing cold water on my face, I stare at my reflection.
A wolfish grin appears because tonight I’m going to make sure I get what I want.
Just like I do with everything else in life.
Miss DeLuca will bend and fold underneath me because if I can’t have her then no one else can either.
Walking into the ballroom, my eyes scan the sea of glittering gowns and crisp tuxedos. The air is thick with perfume and bullshit small talk, but I couldn't give less of a fuck about any of these vapid socialites. There's only one person I'm here to see.
I look across the crowd for at least five minutes before I finally spot the object of my desire and my obsession.
Francesca fucking DeLuca.
My cock twitches as I drink her in. That uniform hugging every curve, her breasts straining against the buttons again as she gracefully moves between tables. Her dark curls are piled high, exposing the delicate curve of her neck. I imagine sinking my teeth into that soft flesh, marking her as mine.
She's balancing a tray of flutes, her movements fluid and practiced.
I adjust myself discreetly, already half-hard just from looking at her. Christ, the things I want to do to her, and I’d do them all right here and now if I could. Let these fucking cretins watch, knowing they’ll never have her.
She hasn't noticed me yet. I hang back, content to watch her for a moment. She plasters on a polite smile as some drunken asshole tries to grab her ass, deftly twisting away without spilling a drop. That's my fucking girl.
I clench my fists, resisting the urge to march over there and break that fucker's fingers even though she’s capable of handling herself. No one touches what's mine.
Francesca finally turns, and suddenly those doe eyes lock onto mine. I see the moment of recognition, the way her lips part in surprise. A delicious blush spreads across her cheeks, and the tray trembles ever so slightly in her hands.
Smirking, I raise my glass in a toast, letting my gaze roam blatantly over her body. Her eyes narrow, her attitude flaring to life.
She spins on her heel, that perfect round ass swaying as she disappears into the back. The little minx knows exactly what she's doing to me.
I down another scotch, my blood boiling with lust and possessive rage. That idiot who grabbed her ass is still hovering near the bar, leering at the servers. I suppose I can teach this motherfucker a lesson. It will certainly make me feel better.
Sauntering over, I size him up. Balding, paunchy, reeking of desperation and cheap cologne. What a pathetic excuse for a man. How the fuck did he even get an invitation to this, anyway?
“Enjoying the party?” I ask, keeping my tone deceptively light.
