Page 33 of Tempting Frankie
I give him a salute, still singing. “Hell yea I am, Matt.”
As I move, my foot catches the edge of the rug. I stumble, nearly face-planting into Alexander's priceless art collection. Thomas lunges forward, steadying me with a strong grip on my arm.
“Careful there,” he says, concern etched on his weathered face. “Mr. Steele wouldn't want you getting hurt.”
The genuine worry in his eyes makes my chest ache. These people—Roberta, Thomas, the rest of the staff—they're good people. They probably think Alexander and I are in love or some shit. That this is more than a transaction with a ticking clock.
“Thanks,” I mumble, suddenly self-conscious. I turn the music down a notch, forcing a bright smile. “Just working out some energy before tonight.”
Thomas nods, but there's understanding in his gaze that makes me want to crawl out of my skin. I move out of the room, heading for the kitchen. Maybe if I stuff my face with some of that fancy imported chocolate, I can drown out the voice in my head reminding me that in two months, this all disappears.
The fridge enters my eyesight, the gleaming stainless steel promising decadent delights. I yank it open, the rush of cold air hitting my flushed skin.
“Ah-ha!” I crow triumphantly, spotting the bar of Amedei Porcelana. Seventy bucks an ounce, but who's counting? Not me, not tonight.
I unwrap it reverently, breaking off a chunk and popping it into my mouth. The chocolate melts on my tongue, a sensory orgasm that makes my toes curl. For a moment, I forget about everything else.
But reality's a bitch that doesn't stay quiet for long.
My eyes land on the leather-bound journal peeking out from my bag on the counter. Guilt gnaws at my insides; worse than that time I ate gas station sushi on a dare.
Groaning, I grab the offending item.
I flip it open to my hand-drawn calendar, a mess of doodles and crossed-out days. Fifty-nine boxes left, each one a ticking time bomb. I'd tried to make it cute, with little champagne bottles and dollar signs, but it just looks pathetic now.
The pen hovers over today's date. Another day closer to reality. Another day of playing dress-up in a life that isn't mine.
I make a bold 'X' through the box, my hand shaking slightly. The finality of it hits me like a sucker punch to the gut.
What the hell am I doing?
I stare at the dwindling boxes.
The chocolate turns to ash in my mouth. I grab a bottle of sparkling water from the fridge, chugging it down like its cheap tequila and I'm back in my college days.
The carbonation burns my throat, but it's a welcome distraction. I burp loudly; the sound echoing in the cavernous kitchen. It's so at odds with the polished marble and gleaming appliances that I can't help but laugh.
It starts as a giggle, but soon I'm doubled over, tears streaming down my face. I laugh until my sides ache, until I'm gasping for air.
Because what else can I do? Soon, I'll be back to regular life with no more Alexander.
I slump against the kitchen island, my laughter fading to hiccups. The cold seeps through my thin tank top, grounding me. Forcing me to admit that it’s not about the luxury and opulence. It’s about him.
Enough of this whiny shit. I slap my hands against the marble; the sting jolting me back to reality. So what if there's an expiration date? I'm not some wilting flower, I'm Francesca fucking DeLuca, and I'm going to squeeze every last drop of pleasure out of this arrangement.
I push myself up, wiping the last traces of tears from my face. My reflection in the stainless-steel fridge door shows mascara smudges and wild hair. I look like I've been thoroughly debauched, and the night hasn't even started.
Walking into the bedroom, I strip off my sweaty clothes as soon as I cross the doorframe. Roberta will probably tsk at me later, but right now, I couldn't care less. I turn on the shower, steam billowing around me as I step under the spray.
The water pressure is divine, pummeling my skin in all the right ways. I use Alexander's obscenely expensive body wash instead of my own, inhaling deeply. The scent of mahogany and teakwood fills my nose, making my toes curl against the tiles.
“Fucking hell,” I groan, letting my head fall back. Images of Alexander's hands on me flash through my mind—strong, possessive, knowing exactly how to touch me. The way he talks so filthy to me, saying he’s going to breed me and fill me with babies. Things that won’t happen. Thank you, birth control.
I finish washing up, wrapping myself in one of those impossibly fluffy towels. The walk-in closet is a sea of designer labels, each item perfectly tailored to my curves. I run my fingers over the dress Alexander ‘requested’, the silk cool against my skin.
I smirk, slipping into a matching set of lacy lingerie. The bra pushes my tits up to truly impressive heights, and the thong leaves little to the imagination. Not that Alexander's imagination needs much help when it comes to my body.
I shimmy into the dress; the fabric clinging to every curve like a second skin. The neckline plunges dangerously low, and there's a slit up the side that makes walking a delicate art. I feel powerful, desirable, like I could bring a man to his knees with a single look.
