Page 83 of Christmas in Coconut Creek

His eyes dropped slowly, and a long sharp breath pulled through his teeth. I didn’t need his words then, telling me something I already knew the answer to. I just needed his mouth.

“Come here,” I whispered.

Frankie’s grip on me tightened as we crashed together frantically. A day's worth of tension coming to life through the hungry motion of our lips sparring one another. He dragged his tongue across mine, tasting every unexpressed moan of desperation as I let them go freely. My fingers latched onto the wind-swept locks of his hair, and he knocked his hat off my head to the floor and dragged me even closer to him.

Everything that wasn’t Frankie and I disappeared into the background of our kiss. Roaming hands and soft sighs fueled that feeling of complete intoxication the longer we remained attached.

He pulled at my lips with his teeth, our mingling breaths igniting pleasure down my body. My skin hummed for touch, and the tighter his fingers dug into my hair, the more ravenous my need became.

I reached out and palmed his shorts and he groaned into my open mouth before throwing his head back against the seat.

“I want this,” I breathed.

“God, you’re fucking hot when you’re desperate.” Frankie’s hips shifted and more of him pressed into my hold.

His mouth claimed me again, both his hands wandering to my ribs, and then my chest, circling my breasts and kneading them. The car was stifling, fog starting to cloud the windows, enclosing us into a perfect storm.

Frankie wrapped his arms around my back and pulled me, intent to bring me completely onto his lap. And I would have gone—if a wild head of black hair, attached to an amused, entirely too excited face hadn’t materialized just outside the driver’s side window.

“Time’s up, horndogs!” Nat knocked on the pane behind Frankie and he jolted, instinctively shielding me in his shadow.

“Jesus Christ,” I mumbled, straightening my shirt and slinking back to the passenger seat.

Frankie exhaled shakily, composing himself before entertaining my short spritely best friend hoisting herself up on the running boards to peer inside at us.

“Tally.” He rolled down the window reluctantly. “You’re killing me, babe.”

“You’ve had her all morning. I won’t let you steal any more of my precious quality time.”

“Ten minutes wouldn’t make a difference.”

“Ten minutes is amateur work, Francesco.” She scrunched her nose. “What are you gonna do in ten minutes?”

“I’m sure O would have filled you in,” he said pointedly.

“You think Gino wants to come outside to water his hydrangeas and see you humping in the driveway?”

I snorted, shouldering my bag and letting myself out of the car. Natalia circled to join me, her hazel eyes flaring with excitement and more than a little bit of mischief as she tried to comb through my hair with her fingers. The evidence of the last five minutes was clear as day on my complexion, and secretly left me lukewarm and sticky between my legs.

Frankie joined us slowly, with his hat on his head again and a defeated expression.

“If Santa doesn’t put coal in your stocking, Tally, I fucking will.”

“Tell Ms. Casado I said hello tomorrow.” She patted him on the shoulder and turned to me. “Ready?”

“Mm-hmm,” I hummed, walking slowly backward down the driveway toward the car. Frankie’s eyes pierced me longingly, holding a layer of emotion I wasn’t neutral enough to pick apart, but made me hesitate with the need to kiss him goodbye. “Text me,” I settled on.

“Sext her!” Nat shouted from the driver’s side.

That beat of amusement cut the tethered line of tension stretching like a rubber band between us. I shrugged suggestively, and Frankie stuck his hands in the pockets of his shorts and followed me to the passenger door.

“Good luck with the garden.”

He nodded, pausing for a moment before he said, “I’ll see you Friday,” and then shut me safely inside.

24

ThehouseIgrewup in was a modest, one-level, single-family home on a corner lot in Coral Grove. The siding was steel blue, the shutters were eggshell white, and the oversized bay window off the front-facing living room never had any curtains; my mother loved the natural, brandishing sunlight and apparently hated privacy.

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