Page 53 of Stitched Up in You
“What is it? I can’t keep up with all of your imaginary demands.”
She pouts. “I want to go to the fair.”
I glance at where I know the small village to be, a good walk from the mansion. That would potentially be hours in her presence, and the longer I’m close to her the more I’ll want her. It’s inevitable.
“No, it’s not set up yet.”
She gives a growl that’s actually kind of cute and raises a finger at me. “I’ve spent the last two months stuck in a house, Frank. I’m going outside, one way or the other,” she says, and pokes me hard in my ribs.
“We’re not going to the village.”
“Fine, can we take Brom for a ride?”
The thought of her bouncing up and down on my cock as we ride all while she teases me again with her light touches and laughter has lust rearing its head. Add all of that with the new knowledge that she’s my mate, and my cock stiffens in my pants. “Fuck, no.”
Chapter 20
BERNADETTE CRENSHAW
“Ihate that he’s right,” I mutter under my breath, taking in the small-town sights of the village. The fair isn’t ready and won’t be until tomorrow from the looks of it.
The place is a little quaint and is like a small town, complete with cute stores, rows of townhouses, and roads dappled with maple trees. There’s not much to see yet; I don’t mind. I just don’t want to be cooped up in the house anymore. After months of isolation with Gran, I am taking full advantage of the sunshine.
“What was that?” he asks, slowing down his stride to walk next to me along the busy townhouse-lined street.
For every four of my steps along the well-kept sidewalk, he takes one, but he somehow keeps his gait in line with mine so he doesn’t overcrowd me even though we’re walking so close.
“I said New York is so pretty this time of year,” I answer, and pick at the collar of my pink sweater, grateful that the brutes managed to get some of my wardrobe choices right when they finally brought my clothes.
“Hmmph,” he responds, as if a sentence would kill him to say.
I shove my hands into the pockets of my stretchy leggings and smile. It looks like a tiny village and is very picturesque. There are quite a few stalls being set up in front of the town square that’s been blocked off with barricades. Some storefronts are completely erected while others are in disarray, but one thing’s for certain: it’s going to be a huge set up once it’s all done.
Theres more than a few dozen people milling about, and I use the termpeoplelightly. They all look like they’re one moment from being whisked away in their very own Abercrombie advertisement, but I don’t dare ask Frank what they are, especially with how they all seem to stare at me before noticing him with me.
I glance up and look at the scowl on Frank’s face and grin to myself. He doesn’t even try to pretend to be a nice guy, and I guess when you’re Frank Stein, you don’t have to be. Who’s going to tell him no?
It makes me think about what it must be like to be him. I can’t imagine what it would be like to be unable to leave your home without someone taking your picture, constantly trying to catch you in some act.
“Oh my gosh, there it is!” I point a finger at the large circus tent covering part of the street, and the whole reason I wanted to come here to begin with. “My Grandaddy used to take me to the circus every chance he’d get. Do you know what it’s for?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“I visit a few days each week, but don’t tend to stay long. Most of my energy and focus is required in the city,” he replies.
I glance up at his tall frame, realizing that the last few minutes are probably the most human I’ve seen of him with the way he seems uncomfortable at times.
“So, what do you like to do when you’re not being the richest man in the world Frank?” I ask flippantly.
He seems startled by the question. “Is revolutionizing the healthcare and medicinal industries not enough for you?”
“That’s not really what you do for enjoyment is it? What are your hobbies?” I ask.
He looks at me like I’ve grown another head or three and narrowly misses running into a lamppost.
“Do you like to write poems, maybe hiking, or?” I ask him, trying and failing to put an image of Frank Stein bent over a pen and paper professing to love to anything. More like bent over a map like a conqueror wanting power and domination.
