Page 51 of Tempting Frankie
Francesca's eyes narrow. “You're the one who called me up here, Mr. Steele.”
It’s the way she says my name. Like it's a challenge and a caress all at once. I want to grab her, throw her on my desk, and show her exactly what that tone of voice does to me.
“And now I'm telling you to go,” I say, my voice rough. “Unless you want me to bend you over right now.”
Her cheeks flush, a delicious pink that spreads down her neck. For a moment, I think she might call my bluff. Part of me hopes she does. But then she turns on her heel, that perfect peach ass swaying as she walks out the door.
The sun's dipping low behind the mountain as we round the final bend, my Bentley purring beneath us. Francesca's been quiet for the last hour, her forehead pressed against the window, watching the world blur by. I've stolen glances at her the whole drive, drinking in the sight of her relaxed in my passenger seat.
My hand finds its way to her thigh. The heat of her skin seeps through the thin fabric as my fingers splay possessively across the soft curve. I nestle them between her thighs, just at that delicious junction where I can feel her warmth radiating against my fingertips. She doesn't pull away. She parts her legs slightly, an invitation I'm all too willing to accept.
As we pull onto the gravel driveway, the trees part to reveal the lake, a mirror of gold and crimson in the fading light. My cabin, more of a modern lake house, if I'm being honest, sits nestled among towering pines, with its floor-to-ceiling windows.
I kill the engine and turn to Francesca, ready with some smartass comment about her silence. But the words die in my throat when I see her face.
Her eyes are wide, lips parted in awe. And there, gathering at the corners of those big brown eyes, are tears.
“Francesca?” I say softly, reaching for her hand. “What's wrong, sweetheart?”
She blinks rapidly, a single tear escaping down her cheek. “Nothing's wrong,” she whispers, her voice thick. “It's just…I've never seen a lake before. Not in person.”
Something in my chest clenches painfully. I want to rage at the unfairness of it all, at the world that's denied her so much. Instead, I squeeze her leg.
“Come on,” I say gruffly, covering the catch in my voice. “Let's get a closer look.”
We climb out of the car, and I guide her down the path to the private dock. The boards creak beneath our feet as we walk to the end. Francesca's trembling slightly, and I wrap an arm around her waist, pulling her close.
“It's so quiet,” she murmurs, leaning into me. “So still.”
I nod, breathing in the scent of pine and clear water. “Wait till morning,” I tell her. “You'll hear the loons calling across the water. It's something else.”
She turns to look up at me, those doe eyes shining in the fading light. “Thank you,” she says softly. “For bringing me here.”
The urge to kiss her is overwhelming. But I hold back, not wanting to break this fragile moment. Instead, I brush a lock of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger on her cheek.
“Let's get inside,” I murmur against her hair. “I'll build a fire, open some wine. We can watch the stars come out over the lake.”
I grab our bags from the trunk, hefting Francesca's over my shoulder. She reaches for it, but I shoot her a look that says, 'don't even try it.' She rolls her eyes but doesn't argue.
The cabin key slides home, and I push the door open, letting Francesca step inside first. Her gasp of delight sends a thrill through me.
“Holy shit,” she breathes, spinning in a slow circle. “This place is insane.”
I chuckle, dropping the bags by the stairs. “Wait till you see the rest of it.”
I lead her through the open concept living area, gleaming hardwood and plush rugs everywhere. The kitchen's top of the line—not that I ever use half the shit in here. But the real showstopper is the wall of windows facing the lake, framing the view like a living painting.
“Bedrooms are upstairs,” I tell her, watching her trail her fingers over the smooth granite countertop. “Our room has its own balcony overlooking the water.”
We head upstairs, and I show her the guest rooms before opening the double doors to the suite. It's all done in earth tones and rich textures, but Francesca's drawn to the balcony doors, throwing them open to step outside.
“Oh my god,” she whispers, leaning on the railing. “I could get used to this view.”
I come up behind her, close enough to feel her body heat. “That's the idea.”
She turns, and for a moment, we're chest to chest. I can see every freckle dusted across her nose, smell the faint traces of her shampoo.
We head downstairs, and I make a beeline for the fireplace. It's a huge stone monstrosity, dominating one wall of the livingroom. I crouch down, rolling up the sleeves of my sweater as I start arranging kindling and logs.
