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Nine thirty PM and it’s Frankie’s last delivery for the night. Through the insulation of the black bag, the heat from the pizza still radiates, and the aroma of grease, of cheese and pepperoni, fills his car. His head falls back, cushioned by the head rest, and he sighs. He takes a deep breath with his eyes closed and scratches at the side of his beard, dragging his nails against the coarse scruff. When he opens his eyes, he looks at the brick covered one-story house in front of him, somewhat shaded by trees following a winding pattern around the property and the stone footpath leading to the front door.
He takes off his hat, runs his hand through his hair, and feels the heat of his roots, then the coolness of the ends that need a cut. He fits the hat back on, with one hand on the back and the other on the bill, pushing it down while he slightly shakes his head. It hasn’t been a particularly long day, but the card reader has been glitching and it just feels like the Fridayest Friday ever, like the week itself is yearning to be over, to close out and drift away into obscurity.
“Alright,” he groans to himself, reaches over to unzip the bag, lifts out the grease-stained box, and opens the door to his left, grabbing the card terminal on his way. His name tag is somewhere in the glove compartment — nobody really gives a shit one way or another what his name is as long as he has their dinner and it’s reasonably warm. Stepping out of the vehicle reminds him of how humid it always stays despite the temperatures cooling towards the end of the night. It’s still a warm, dewy evening, even with the darkness starting to creep into the yards of the neighborhood, stretching out from the shade of the trees.
It’s an easy job, just something to do while he figures out what to do next.
There are small lights lining the path. It feels like it gets darker out for every step he takes. Soon enough, he’s at the front door, ringing the bell, and it takes what feels like a very long time before a figure appears behind the frosted glass and the lock flips. He’s looking down at the box when the door opens, and only looks up when the customer is standing in front of him, in a lilac, satin robe, with wet hair, and the flushed glow of someone who just got out of the shower (and, if he listens to the devil on his shoulder and the voice at the back of his head, what looks like a gorgeous set of tits above a waist framed by a strip of that silky fabric, tied at the front). There are wet marks over her shoulders, down her chest, from her hair dripping at the ends.
“Got a pizza for you here,” he says, holding it in front of him.
“Oh, shit,” she goes, looking sort of dumbfounded at the red box, “hey, yeah—” and waves toward herself. “Please come in, I just have to find my wallet, sorry. I’m a bit frazzled.”
That much is obvious. She moves to the side and holds the door open for Frankie, who steps inside, reaches back, and shuts the door behind him. It’s warmly lit inside the house, but cool from the air conditioning.
“I thought you'd take longer,” she says, then disappears out of sight, though he can still hear her. “It usually takes, like, forty minutes for anything to be delivered here and I just got out of the…” She trails off and there’s some zipping sounds. “—shower, anyway, sorry, just—”
There’s a suitcase on the floor, he notices, open and full of stuff sprawling out. Definitely just got back from a trip, judging by the empty pet carrier sitting next to it.
“All good,” he says, standing in her hallway, right as she reappears.
“I’m so sorry, just—” She looks around, hands empty. “Come sit down. I left my wallet in my bag, I just can’t seem to remember which bag and it’s gonna take me a second to figure it out and I hate leaving you standing there.”
“It’s alright,” says Frankie, and steps into the living room after her as she gestures towards a purple, velour-covered couch. There’s a glowing, pink lava lamp on the side table, humid air from a diffuser curls in above the kitchen island, and there’s an episode of Sex & The City playing on the flat screen with low volume. So low that he can hear the whirring tumble of the dryer from somewhere, and the sound of a washer starting a new load. He looks straight ahead as he takes a seat, sets the box down on the table, and wipes his hands down the front of his thighs.
“Found it!”
As she approaches, Frankie takes the card terminal out of his pocket. She sits down next to him with a little dip in the couch, holding a large wallet in one hand and popping it open with the other. There’s a gap in her robe when she’s not holding it.
“Sorry about all this,” she says, while slipping her card out with a finger decorated by a long, French-tipped nail. “Seriously.”
He punches the total into the machine and smiles at her softly. “Don’t worry about it. Happens all the time.”
When he holds it to her, and she smiles back sort of sheepishly while tapping the credit card, an error message pops up on the screen. She jolts back a little, and the terminal prompts her to insert the card instead.
“Sometimes the tap just doesn't work right,” he says.
But inserting it and typing her code fails as well.
“I’ll just swipe it.”
“Can try that.”
“I never swipe it anymore,” she laughs somewhat nervously. “Feels kinda early two-thousands.”
“I know, right?”
ERROR it says again.
She sighs. “Shit, sorry.”
He stays calm. “Don’t worry, it’s been acting up all day.”
“At least I'm not the only one having a rough go at it,” says the girl.
“Guess not.”
“How’s your night been?” she asks.
He lets out a breath. Her couch is nice and comfortable, so he leans back a little bit while he gestures for her card and tries to tap and swipe it himself with no luck. “Good, yeah. Off now, after this, so—”
“You have any plans?”
“Not really, no.” He gives back the card. “Picking up my kid for the week tomorrow.”
She seems surprised. “Oh! That’s nice,” she says, lifting her wallet and looking into it, slipping the card back into place and opening the pockets to examine their contents. “How old is he or she?”
“She’s two.”
“Cool,” girl says, and refocuses on the wallet after looking at him for a long moment. “Sorry, I’ll— I’ll try another card. Maybe it just hates the AmEx fees.”
Frankie chuckles, but the error message shows up again.
“Fuck,” she mutters.
“This piece of shit,” he says under his breath. “Let me just—” He whacks it hard with the palm of his hand first, then restarts the whole thing, asking rhetorically, “It is just not cooperating, is it?”
“Sorry.”
He looks up at her. “Nothing to apologize for,” he says, then thinks for a second. “You got cash maybe, or?”
She glances over her shoulder and then begins scanning the room with her brows knitted, fully focused.
“Don't worry about tipping or anything, it’s my bad. I should've picked up a different machine after this one crashed out for the seventh time.”
“Let me go check,” she says, getting up with a hand around the opening of her robe, ditching her wallet on the coffee table. “I just got back from a trip so things are a bit all over the place here.” And then she disappears again, to somewhere behind him, making muffled, shuffling sounds, opening drawers and doors.
Something moves in Frankie’s peripheral vision. He looks around a little, at the stack of books next to the TV, the titles in her bookshelves. The movement happens again and it’s not from the little crystals hanging in the window, meant to catch the sunlight that’s been absent for hours already. When he scans the room, everything is still.
Until a black bunny rabbit suddenly appears on the floor, seemingly out of nowhere.
From wherever she is, he hears her talking to herself, or to him, he’s not entirely sure. “Why didn't I just pay on the website? Fuck’s sake…”
The animal stands up slightly on its hind legs, front paws in the air, and looks at him. Its little nose twitches.
Frankie snickers, looking at it. “It’s okay. I have time.”
The rabbit sneaks away, then reappears a moment later, popping out from the recliner next to the one it snuck under. He watches it hopping along the floor, first in one direction and then the other, not seeming to have any real plan. There’s more shuffling while he waits, drawers that open, bags and things thrown on the floor while he looks at the fluffy rug beneath the low glass table in front of him. Everything has a sort of warm color scheme, ranging from burnt orange to dark purple. The glowing, pink goop inside the lava lamp morphs from one big blob to several small ones that shift past each other and slide between the top and bottom of their container. He yawns into the inside of his elbow, unaware until now of how tired he’s been all day.
Then the bunny comes back and approaches him, stopping between his feet and looking up. Frankie reaches down, letting his hand hover until the rabbit sniffs his fingers. And just like a dog or a cat, it seems to place its trust into his hands after he passes the test, letting him pet it.
“What’s the rabbit's name?” he asks, projecting his voice and turning his head, but keeping his eyes on it.
“Black one?”
“Yeah.”
“Jack,” the girl replies.
“Huh.” Jack has very soft fur, and stretches out between Frankie’s slides, laying flat on the rug with his hind legs extended behind him.
“Ennis is somewhere,” he hears from some other part of the house. “I don't know. He has kinda beige fur. You’ll probably see him but he’s not as big a fan of strangers.”
Frankie perks up, continuing to run the backs of his fingers down the bunny’s head and spine. “Jack and Ennis? Like... from Brokeback Mountain?”
“Yeah, it’s my favorite. Have you seen it?”
“Of course. It’s a good movie.”
“Tell you what,” she quotes the movie from the other room, “we could’a had a good life together, a fuckin’ real good life, but you wouldn't do it, Ennis, so what we got now—” She goes from speaking to shouting, fully animated, mimicking the accent and the tone of Jake Gyllenhaal’s performance; “is Brokeback Mountain!”
Frankie laughs and, sure enough, a fluffy, beige thing sticks halfway out from that same recliner as earlier, and the girls’ footsteps grow closer as Ennis the rabbit watches Frankie petting Jack. What a bizarre end to his night.
“Oh!” she exclaims, and quickly steps over to the TV stand, in front of which a blue handbag has been thrown to the floor. She glances at him. “Jack is taking a real liking to you, isn’t he?”
“Guess so.” Frankie watches her absentmindedly as she makes her way over, not thinking much of it until she bends forward to rummage through it and the robe lifts and suddenly he can see everything. He sees that she isn’t wearing any panties, not just missing a bra, and that she must be freshly waxed, because the shine of her inner labia peeks out past the smooth lips.
Christ.
He averts his eyes before he gets a real look at her asshole, and feels his phone vibrating in his pocket. He’s already getting hard, just from the sight and how it burns itself into his memory. The couch feels deeper all of a sudden. The light from the kitchen and from the small lamps around the living room glow all warm, and the diffuser shifts colors from yellow to orange to red to pink to purple to blue to green to yellow. She’s still in front of him, having crouched down now, so that her hair drips down her back instead. The dryer whirrs and the clothes inside tumble around, knocking against the sides with a soft thump. On silent, the call from his supervisor is just an intermittent buzz and a lit-up screen with a name on it. It’s always some stupid shit the guy needs to be able to figure out himself.
He rejects the call.
“God, I’m so sorry, I cannot, for the life of me, find cash.” She sighs, and stands up, dropping her shoulders in surrender to the circumstances. “I can Venmo you if that’s okay?”
“Just take it,” Frankie says, gesturing towards the pizza box on the table and setting his hands on his knees, making to stand up. “It’s all good. You have enough to think about.”
But just when he’s about to rise up from the couch, the girl comes up in front of him with her hand on her chest and her other arm crossed over her stomach. “No, seriously,” she says, insistent. “I feel really bad. You drove out here and everything, and waited while I flipped this whole place upside down.”
“It’s not that far,” he reassures, sliding his hands to the tops of his thighs, looking up at her. “And I got to pet a bunny rabbit, which will surely make my daughter very envious.”
She looks down at Jack, smiling and shaking her head. “I need to give you a tip at least,” she says. “Just… Something, I don't know. I really feel awful, I hate wasting people’s time and owing money and—”
He catches her eyes, and when he looks into them, he feels the strangest flutter in his stomach. She’s very, very pretty. So pretty that the sight of her equally beautiful pussy sort of takes a backseat in his mind, like he can’t even comprehend it somehow, or acknowledge that it’s also her, and something he has seen, and that he knows just a bit of what’s under the robe. “I promise,” he says, solemnly, “It’s fine.”
It’s quiet between them while they look at each other, but she breaks away with a slightly flustered, shy laugh.
“What’s funny?” he asks.
Her eyes meet his again, and she waits until his amusement fades before she takes one step forward. Jack hops away and Frankie, on instinct, leans back.
“Uhh.” She puts her hands on his knees, and leans slightly forward. “I know something I could do,” she purrs, “to, um— thank you, for your time and patience.”
Frankie’s eyebrows push together. It’s a state of bewilderment and lust and wondering how the hell he ended up here, though he’s not entirely sure what she means. “Oh?” is all he gets out.
She slides her hands up a little, and moves her thumbs side to side, a slight tickle, just breaching the threshold to the inside of his thighs.
Oh.
Oh.
And when she crouches between his knees, he understands.
“Maybe a little bit, um—” She laughs again. He’d start to wonder if she was into it had it not been for her nipples hardening, poking through the satin robe, and the way she looks at him, the way she looks at his body. “You know—”
“Like a nineties porn?” he guesses, and throws his arm over the back of the couch. He doesn’t mean to spread his legs further, but his knees fall slightly out, and her hands move up.
“Yeah, that.”
And when her fingers are almost at the crease between his hips and thighs, she pauses. “You don't want me to?” she asks, sounding a little bit worried.
Frankie takes a breath and tries to measure his reaction, almost wanting to laugh at the prospect of saying no to whatever it is she wants to offer. He didn’t even look at the name on the receipt. She’s a full, complete stranger, but she’s so fucking sexy and he knows he’ll regret it for the rest of his life if he walks out of this place without seeing where this might end up.
“I’d be lying if I said I didn't,” he assures. “But you don't have to, by any means. I can just—”
Her fingers sneak up under his shirt and into his waistband. Permission is granted when he lifts his hips and she tugs at his boxers and pants, lifting them over his erection before pulling them down to his knees.
“Oh, shit,” she says, looking at his cock as it springs up.
He looks down at himself, at the untrimmed state of the thick, curly dark hair that covers his pubic bone, spreading out to both sides in a coarse cover. “I’m sorry I haven’t—”
“No,” she interrupts, “I’m glad you didn't… Very, very glad you didn’t.”
She touches it, pushes her hand through it with those long nails, sliding around but not touching his cock, just barely brushing the base of it. “You have such a nice dick too,” she says, and that hand slips under it, lifts it up. She sniffs along the length of it while Frankie sits back a little bit shocked, a little red with embarrassment and shyness, feeling warm and sweaty, wanting desperately for her to put it in her mouth but not daring to say a single word.
“Thanks, I guess,” he whispers, holding his breath.
She kisses the base of it while she nods, holding it up with a manicured hand with long nails, shiny ones, white tips laying against the hard length of him. She slides it up a little, and begins to jerk him off, letting his anatomy do the work with her hand as a guide, while her kisses get wetter, barely halfway up his shaft. It almost hurts to be this turned on.
His black t-shirt is pushed up over his stomach with her free hand. She looks at him, seeking confirmation it seems, and he slumps a little, leans deeper into the couch and spreads his legs wider. She comes closer then, shuffling on her knees. Her robe is slightly more open than it was before.
Frankie’s breathing gets all shallow when he looks at his own dick up against her face and how she slowly makes her way to the tip. It’s almost like she’s trying to tease him, trying to see how much she can rile him up while she gives him little licks and kisses and smiles through them. He’s paralyzed. He opens his mouth, and nothing comes out. His lips just part and he swallows and the diffuser runs, the lava keeps glowing, the figures on the TV shift around in a blur, and the girl between his legs sticks her tongue out when she gets to the top, and pushes the tip of it under his foreskin. He exhales heavily at the subtle contact between his cockhead and her wet tongue.
She smiles and lets out a breath, and though her body shows confidence, there’s apprehension in the way she locks eyes with him. “Is it okay?” she asks, brows raising, her hand still moving to jack him off slowly.
“Very okay,” Frankie says, with an exhale that comes out much more shaky than he anticipated. He takes off his hat, discards it on the velvety cushion next to him, and runs his hand through his hair, feeling that the dampness at his roots has turned to fully wet, hot perspiration.
Then she’s sucking his dick before he can even fully realize it himself.
“Oh shit, that feels good,” comes out equally shaky, while she strokes his shaft and sucks on his tip and licks it at the same time. The girl just nods, with one hand under his shirt still, feeling him up a little.
He puts his hand on the back of her neck and shifts further into the couch, letting her follow, sitting up straighter so he can touch her hair and watch his dick disappear past her lips. He doesn’t move his hand after, instead he follows her movements, watches her, and groans when a little drop of spit slides down the part of his root that her fingers can’t wrap around. His head tips back and he looks at the ceiling. She’s very soft and gentle in the way she sucks him, not forcing him in until she chokes. It looks like she enjoys it with how she closes her eyes, and her dark lashes fan over the tops of her cheeks. They’re so long.
It feels like his orgasm is starting to simmer already, tugging at him, threatening to pull him under. He tenses his free hand, in and out of a fist on the top of the couch cushion, breathing through his mouth, trying not to get lost in the feeling of the best head he’s gotten in as long as he can remember. He moans, unable to hold it in, and leans further back, collapsing into the couch with the feel of her hair slipping over the back of his hand when she moves up and down. She giggles.
He has to clench his teeth. He’s getting too close and needs a breather.
“You want to get on top?” he asks carefully. His eyes shift a little, like he’s suddenly aware of himself in the middle of the room and the open space around him, before he looks back at her and catches the moment his cock slips out of her mouth and she kisses it.
“Yeah,” she whispers. His cock lays throbbing while she stands up and pulls at the silky ties, letting the robe fall open. Jesus Christ, he thinks, looking at the tits that are somehow even more gorgeous than he’d expected, at the way her body curves around itself, perfectly formed.
“That felt really good,” he says to her, in a pause, a moment of stillness between them where she’s entirely exposed, and the light behind her glows along the lines of her figure. “Too good,” he laughs.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad.” She smiles. Spit still shines on her bottom lip. “It made me really horny.”
He reaches back and pulls off his shirt to distract himself, pushes down his pants and throws them to the side while she takes off her only cover and then holds her forearm over her chest, surprisingly shy despite what she just did.
Then he reaches forward, towards her, with both hands, and holds her waist while she climbs into his lap, hands on his shoulders. She’s warm to the touch, and so soft. He’s the one who kisses her first, unsure what he’s really supposed to do in this situation. He is the one who keeps her weight suspended in the air with nothing but his grip, hovering above his body, with her knees on either side of his thighs but not yet touching his dick. She’s the one who sits down slowly, with her hand in his hair, the other feeling up the muscle in his arm. They kiss while he holds up his cock, but pause when he starts to slide in, both gasping when she sinks down and he can’t remember the last time he had sex without a condom, forgetting how much better it feels. She lifts her hips and his head rolls back. Frankie knows he should be the one doing the work but it feels too good to touch her hips and feel how she grinds on him, how she lifts up and takes his whole dick on the way down, riding him with her tits in his face, riding him to her liking. She smells like body lotion, like something sweet and warm, and her damp hair smells good too.
She buries her face in the side of his neck and sounds begin to spill out of her, little whimpering moans, hiccuping ones. He runs his fingertips up and down her spine, sitting still, lifting his hips slightly just to push a little bit further into her.
“You like that?” he whispers, into her hair and into her ear, feeling so disarmed for some reason, not like the stranger he is in another stranger’s home, a man she’s never met but somehow trusts won’t hurt her.
“Yeah,” she whimpers, panting. She leans back, pushing against his hand that holds her steady. Her eyes are closed.
That hand slips around to grab her breast, to brush his thumb over her nipple until it stiffens, and she leans forward just enough for him to catch the other in his mouth and begin to lick it.
“Fuck,” she moans then, and tightens up around him. Her body shakes lightly, every time she gets him deep inside. “You—” she pants and swallows, “you can go harder.”
He shifts a little, slides a few inches off the couch to gain leverage, holds onto her ass and fucks up into her. Hard.
“Oh my god,” she moans, shuddering, getting wetter and taking his cock like she’s made for it.
Frankie growls. “You can take it, can’t you?” He slaps her ass and she tightens a little. He thrusts harder, quicker. “Huh?”
She just giggles, and he feels the weight of her ass slapping against the tops of his thighs, hearing the smack, the skin-on-skin. Another slap, a quicker one, while his lower abs work to keep his thrusts even.
“Yeah, you can take it,” breathy and into her ear, holding onto the back of her neck.
She gets louder and louder, keening while he holds her close and fucks into her. His hands move to her ass, squeezing, feeling her up, getting to touch and grab every part of her body as she starts to shake. Frankie groans. Every breath out is low and growling.
“I’m gonna come,” she squeals, and clenches up, her pussy fluttering around him, getting even wetter though he thinks it’s not possible. He can barely believe what he hears and sees and feels. She grabs onto the back of his neck, his hair, and pulls at him while she arches her back and comes, so beautifully.
When she comes down, she hugs him tightly. He pauses, wrapping his arms around her waist, kissing between her neck and shoulder. He can hear her heart then, thumping away. They’ve never met before, he doesn’t know her name, but he knows what makes her come.
She shows off when she leans back, hands on his knees and her tits presented to him, when she breathes heavily, swallows, and starts to wind her hips, tightening around his dick and letting the length of it slip out as she lifts herself, then takes all of it, starting slow and then going faster, getting the tip of him to rub into the deepest, softest spot inside. She moans when she does that too, and he wonders if he’s had it in him all along or if she’s just magic somehow.
He knows to fuck her when she leans into him again, when her face is in his neck. She slumps, softens, lets him do whatever he wants. For a moment, he slows down and barely moves. It’s quiet all around them. She’s warm and he’s sweaty. She smells good. "Take a deep breath," he says.
And she does.
Then he does, and she pulls back to look at him and kiss him.
Another kiss. One more kiss. He looks into her eyes.
“What’s your favorite?” she asks.
“This,” he says earnestly. “What’s yours?”
“On my back.”
He scoops her up to set her down on her back on the cushion beside them, with her legs spread. He looks at her body for a long moment, and slides his hand up the back of her thigh. There’s so much he wants to say. “Are you good?” he asks instead. Fucking clunky as hell, like a total loser.
She reaches her hand out and touches his dick, feels it up, runs her knuckles down the underside of it. “So good,” she whispers, dazed. She starts jerking him off again and he grunts softly, just wanting to be inside. Aching to be inside.
His hand meets hers when he circles it around the thickest part of himself and they both lower his cock down to her spread opening. His head slides in easily, pulled in by her body, and they moan at the same time.
He holds her legs apart, one thigh in each hand, forcing his dick as deeply as it can go, into her soft heat, her wet, dripping pussy, with no rubber between them. Her tits are so perfect, crashing up and down almost in slow-motion, under her hands grabbing at them and playing with them, making it much, much harder for Frankie to hold back.
“Fuck,” he chokes out, “I only have a few strokes left, I think.” He can hear the wetness of his own cock on every thrust, every slippery, sticky pull out and then her moans on the push in. “You’re so tight and wet, baby, I can’t last like this. You feel so fucking good on my dick.”
He looks down at himself and watches his sweat running down his chest, trying to focus on anything but how much his shaft glistens when he retracts and how her tits shake and she clenches tight around him and rocks her hips to match his thrusts and—
He’s gonna lose it.
He’s gonna fucking lose it.
“Sit up,” he grunts, “Shit.” He wants to say sorry too for some reason, surprised it’s over so quickly when he jerked off in the morning.
With a hand around the base of his dick, he pulls out of her and lets out a hoarse exhale, seeing how red his tip is, how swelled and hard the whole thing is after fucking this girl he just met. He holds around it tight, needing to stop his come from flowing out of him before he can aim at her tits, but when she sits up, she squeezes her chest together and opens her mouth instead. When she sticks her tongue out, his control slips away through his fingers — he leans closer, starts to jerk his cockhead, and he holds his breath when he begins to ejaculate, hot and fast in spurts covering her tongue and lips. He groans, deep and long, eyes closing while his hand moves over the sensitive tip, unloading and feeling the buzz of it all the way into his thighs. The most intense orgasm he can remember, pulsing and throbbing like it’ll never end, until a final, ragged groan leaves him and his hand slows. He squeezes lightly around his base, rubs the very, very tip into her lips, and watches the sticky semen spread and drip.
Then he lets go of his cock, and after another heavy exhale, he laughs softly. She laughs too, licking her chin.
“Fuck,” he whispers, panting it out, and wipes his forehead with his forearm, noticing the wet layer of sweat built up on his skin. His heart pounds and his breaths heave. “Holy shit.”
The girl giggles, leaning back onto her pillow and breathing heavily, mouth halfway open while her chest heaves too. There’s sweat on her, but he can’t tell who it’s from.
They look at each other, and both burst into soft laughter one more time.
“Help you up?”
She raises her arms, and Frankie slips his hands around her ribcage, pulling her gently towards himself before grabbing her robe and handing it to her. His dick hangs half-hard and half-swollen between his legs, still heavy with blood, still shiny with spit and arousal. It’s still visible when he slips his boxers back on, and he feels an odd heat in his face from it. Sort of embarrassing in a way, or vulnerable, revealing, even after all that.
His pants next, while she ties her robe closed and stands up, bending over a second later to pet the beige rabbit by her feet. Then his t-shirt. He pats his pockets and looks at the card terminal, unsure of what to say or do.
“Uh, thank you for that,” he says, standing up in front of her, looking towards the door. “Could I get your number, maybe? I’d love to take you out sometime, if you’re, you know, down for that.”
“Yeah,” she says, “of course,” then takes a few steps away and grabs her phone from the kitchen island while he grabs his hat he almost forgot on the couch, and fits it back on, still hot in his cheeks and still semi-erect.
Her nipples are still hard and her face is still flushed, hair mostly dry. “Send yourself a text,” she says, and holds up her phone with a blank message on the screen.
He takes it from her with a careful smile and a look at how she covers herself with her arms. He looks down at the empty text.
“You know—” he begins, tapping the phone against his other hand and clearing his throat. His heart races again suddenly. “I actually feel kinda weird just leaving after all that.”
“Oh, thank god,” she says with a heavy exhale. “I feel so weird about it too.”
“Right?”
“I didn’t wanna ask you to stay if you weren’t— or, I didn’t wanna be clingy, I guess.” She lifts her hand and points her thumb in the direction of the box on the coffee table. “You want to share the pizza?” she asks. “I got it for free.”
He smiles. “Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah,” she laughs. “I really charmed the delivery guy.”
“I believe it,” Frankie chuckles, and then he does type his number into the little box at the top of the screen, finds the pizza emoji, and sends a text to himself. His phone buzzes just a second later. He gives her back her phone.
“Come here,” he says, and opens his arms. She steps right up and enters comfortably into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his waist. She fits nicely into his arms too, he thinks, and kisses the top of her head. “That was so good,” he whispers. He hopes she can’t feel his heart rate kicking up a little.
“That was… the best sex I’ve ever had, I think,” she murmurs in response, into his chest, then breathes deeply.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
“Cool,” Frankie says, but feels unbelievably proud of himself.
“You’re so good,” she says.
“So are you.”
A soft, very soft laugh into his shirt, and then she pulls away. “I’ll get plates for us. There’s soda and stuff in the fridge if you’re interested.”
His hands run down the outsides of her shoulders and then her arms. “Absolutely.”
He follows behind her and one of the rabbits, then both of them, as she makes her way to the kitchen and points towards her fridge.
“Is this your full-time gig?” she asks, while opening the cupboard and taking out two lilac colored plates.
“Sort of,” he says, with his hand on the side of the fridge, about to open it. “I was in the army for a number of years.”