Luca
I turn the TV louder, working to drown out the taunting echo of the shower running. I stare harder at the screen, trying to concentrate on whatever the fuck is happening in the show playing and not the fact that the bane of my existence is only five, maybe six steps away. Naked and wet. Light toffee’d skin would be covered in water droplets, her hands rubbing along her bare skin in a soapy lather.
“Fuck,” I grit out, switching off the TV and throwing the remote across the couch in irritation.
This has to change. I can’t do this for much longer. Living in such close proximity. Seeing her. Smelling her. Wanting her. I’m a hot-blooded male for fuck’s sake. Of course I want her. She’s smoking fucking hot. But she’s crazy. Totally. Who the hell moves in with a complete stranger with little regard for their personal safety? A crazy person. Specifically, Francesca Walker. My resident mental patient.
Standing, I crack my neck, trying in vain to loosen the tension coiling my muscles. Pacing the small apartment, her stuff taunts me; suffocating every available space in tidy disarray.
The dress she’s picked for the wedding is laying neatly on the bed, tempting me with images of her body fitted within the sleek material. Moving toward the offensive green fabric, I brush a hand along its softness. Of course she had to pick a color that would offset her perfect complexion. Couldn’t have chosen a color that would let my cock relax for ten minutes, like, I don’t know, mustard. No one looks good in mustard. Except she would. I groan loudly, pushing at the dress in irritation. The material flicks up, gifting me a view of the green lace panties buried beneath it. Matching. Of course she’d wear matching panties.
Fuck.
They’re lace and the tiniest fucking things I’ve ever seen. My hand stretches to touch them before I retract them into a fist on a maddened growl. She probably put them here on purpose. To taunt me. Forcing me to imagine her wearing them and only them.
Double fuck.
I pick them up before I can give it another thought, scrunching them into my fist just as the bathroom door opens. It’s official, she’s taunting me. Ninja fucking skills to catch me stealing her panties like a deadest fuckin’ creep.
Jesus.
I need to get a grip.
“All yours, Thor.”
I step away from the bed awkwardly, clearing my throat unnecessarily as her greedy eyes scan my naked chest. “Come again?” My hand aches with the intensity of my forced fist, her panties feeling like a dirty secret in my palm.
“The shower,” she clarifies, her body dressed in a loose robe, the silk clinging to her still wet skin.
I nod once, stuffing her underwear into the pocket of my sweats as I brush past her without another glance.
Her body wash infiltrates my senses and I scowl heavily at the damp air. The whole world is out to get me. Testing every last resolve against the unwelcome obsession my cock seems to have with my new roommate.
My cock and I used to be friends. We understood each other. Not anymore. Now he’s working his hardest to become my worst enemy. Standing to goddamn fucking attention whenever she chooses to goad me with her tight little body, her perfect face, her sing-song laugh.
Dropping my sweats, he bounces out, strained and at the ready and I scowl at my reflection in the mirror.
“Not fucking happening, pal. We don’t do complicated.”
I stand under the freezing cold spray of water to discourage my overeager friend. Hard, when all he can think about is the scrap of green lace hiding in my discarded sweats.
I spend way too fucking long in the shower. In the end, ignoring my asshole erection is futile, so with disgust and anger in my veins, I give in and stroke it to the sweet relief of a satisfying as fuck climax.
Wrapping a towel tightly around my waist, I grab my discarded pants, ripping open the bathroom door, dripping with regret and unease, hoping like hell she’s oblivious to the things I just did to her in my mind.
Hair blown out and waved to perfection in loose curls, she’s bent over the bed, moving the material of her dress, then ducking to check under the bed.
Ain’t gonna find ‘em there, sweetheart.
Clearing my throat, she stands quickly, her gaze licking up my wet, naked chest in eagerness. Yeah, sweetheart, two can play that game. Offering me a tense smile, working to hide the hunger storming in her eyes, she saunters past me, leaving me standing in nothing but a towel, her panties still in my possession and my self-respect a little broken.
Pulling on my boxers and pants as fast as I can manage, I stuff her underwear in my pant pocket, confused, a little torn as to what the fuck I’m doing.
Shrugging my shoulders into my white shirt, the bathroom door opens again and lifting my head my eyes drill into the face before me.
Fuck, she might be crazy, but she’s also crazy beautiful.
Hair and makeup done, she’s a fucking goddess. Even still dressed in a robe. Hell am I supposed to do when she puts the fuckin’ dress on?! At least it’s long. Floor length. I can imagine her body, but I won’t be able to see the flawless skin.
Frozen in a stare, my eyes devour her in the same way she does me. Ravenously. Indecently.
This. Right fucking here, is why she needs to move out. Nothing healthy can come from this torture.
I feel like I’m being ripped in two. I know how she feels in my hands. Around my cock. I have intimate knowledge of how fucking good her mouth tastes. But getting involved is off limits. For my sanity. For the good of our friendships. Sex once, maybe twice, can still remain detached. A mutual agreement between two people to get off. More than that, feelings interfere. They tangle themselves up in what should be nothing more than a little fun and they complicate.
Breaking our trance, she moves to the bed, picking up her dress without a single word. Her eyes scan the bed once again, searching for the tiny scrap of lace she ain’t ever gonna find. She eyeballs me, and I work my hardest to keep my face stoic, unaffected as she fights the battle inside her pretty little head. She’s not convinced I’ve taken them, but she’s considering the possibility, and as my nerves force my heart into my throat, I stare at her, challenging her to ask with an arch of my brow.
Lifting her chin, she storms off with fire in her eyes, slamming the bathroom door a little irritated and a whole lot turned on. She’s back in the room within seconds and I could crawl into a ball and die.
Jesus. Fucking. Christ.
The green material sticks to her like a second skin. And that floor length that I was counting on to keep my traitorous cock in check, is split all the way to thigh high; her delicious toffee skin teasing me with every movement.
She smiles triumphantly at whatever she sees on my face and my nostrils flare in a potent mix of fervid anger and longing. Because, she wins. Hands fucking down. Not only does she know I was creepy enough to steal her panties, I have now entered the sweet torture of knowing she’s completely bare under her dress.
“We’re late,” is all I manage and she shrugs casually.
“I’m ready, Viking. Just waiting on you,” she tips her chin to my naked chest and I frown, rushing to fix my buttons.
“Where’s the dog?”
Picking up her shoes and bag, she moves closer to the door. “With Stevie and Clarah.”
I nod, fixing my belt into place before dropping my ass to the bed and sliding my socks on.
“Remind me again why you didn’t ride in with Bennett and Darci?”
She looks taken aback by my brash comment but schools the hurt in her eyes before I can retract my words.
“Why would I? We live together, we’re heading to the same place. You could use the company, nomad.”
I scoff out an amused laugh. “Could’a ridden my bike.”
She sighs loudly. “Calm down, Goldilocks, you can feel the wind in your hair another day. Put your shoes on, let’s go.”
The tension in the cab of my truck is thick. Circling around us like a wicked form of foreplay. A roundabout of minute movements and evaded glances.
She shifts and my eyes fall to the expanse of silky skin exposing itself to my lust clouded vision.
I move, and I feel her midnight gaze cut into my profile. My hips thrust imperceptibly, an involuntary reaction to seeing the smooth, naked line of her leg, knowing she’s not wearing underwear and her eyes shoot to my swelling crotch. Her panties burning a hole in my pocket the entire time.
Her gaze moves fast when I give into the need to look at her, away from my groin and up to my eyes before we both turn away.
I clear my throat. She sighs.
Like I said, the tension is thick. Kinda like the cock stuffed inside of my pants.
“Should we talk about—”
“Noooo,” she cuts me off, eyes widening in distress.
“Sweet. Good.” I nod my head in awkward agreement and it’s now her turn to clear her throat uncomfortably.
“Singin’ tonight?” I change the subject, and she sighs in relief.
Bizarre, we’ve been living together for a month or so and I know little to nothing about her. She was being truthful when she said she’s never around. Her work commitments are one of the few things I do know about her. Between the bar, Stevie’s auto shop and helping her sister at The Coffee House; she’s working herself into numbness. I ain’t judging, I get her tactic. Making certain her days are busy enough that she doesn’t have to think about life, about the thoughts that haunt her.
One of the other things I know about Francesca Walker, she’s running from the hurt, the heartbreak that infiltrates her every thought. She’s trying to escape the pain of her broken heart. If I knew her better, if we were friends, I’d tell her that’s impossible, that eventually, she’ll have to let it hit her head on and fuckin’ grieve.
“They’ve hired a band, but Will asked if Jake and I would sing a track or two.”
I nod, liking that I get to hear her sing again. I’ve heard her hum the few times we’ve managed to be at home the same time, but I’ve only heard her properly sing once at The Shallow.
Her voice is hauntingly beautiful. Soft, in the same way it’s coarse. A light burr thickening her sound. It’s pretty. Real fuckin’ pretty.
“You play an instrument?”
She turns in her seat, leaning her back against the door, opening herself up to the conversation. I like that. We’re in an awkward as fuck situation, but she’s reaching out for the olive branch I’m extending without drama.
“Guitar. I can also play piano, kinda.” She smirks with an embarrassed shrug of her shoulders.
“So, what’s your story, Crazy Girl? Leave home destined for bigger things, eh?”
She sits quietly for a moment, her face turned toward the road as she contemplates her words. “Somethin’ like that.”
I wait for more. Further details, a little more of anything, but she doesn’t give it, her focus back on the road as I drive.
“Fair enough.”
“What about you?” She turns her head slowly, eyes skating across my profile. I offer her my eyes for a split second, understanding her reason for shutting down. I don’t wanna give her any more details on my life than she wanted to give me on hers. We’re virtually strangers, yeah, we fucked, but what does that really count for? Not much.
Avoiding the intricacies of life, we fall into easy conversation instead. We laugh about having to listen to Jake and Aubrey fuck way to fuckin’ often. She talks incessantly about her niece, the love lightening her voice as she gushes about Ben and Darci’s baby girl. We talk about the bar. She asks about Arizona. Before we know it, we’ve pulled into the hotel and we’re walking into the venue in quiet despondence that our conversation has come to an end.
Eyes follow her as she moves through the room; men fantasizing about fucking her, women wanting to be her. I don’t blame them. I wanna kill the fuckers imagining her naked, but still, I don’t blame them. Only word I can think to describe her is arresting; once she’s captured you with her beauty, good fucking luck trying to escape that prison.
“Well, well, well, the Viking has arrived. Pretty woman in tow. Francesca,” Toby greets on a waggle of his eyebrows, leaning in to kiss her cheek. “Smokin’, as always.”
“Toby. Babe. You don’t look so bad yourself,” she flirts, an inconvenient twang of jealousy spiking through me.
“Archer, hey.” Her entire face lights up as he approaches and I feel murderous, fire running through my veins. Resentful that the joy in her smile is wasted on him.
“Frank. Babe.” His lips touch her cheek, his palm touching the side of her hip and to save connecting my fist to his face for touching her, I stuff it inside my pocket, rubbing the soft lace of her panties between my fingers to calm the unwanted envy coursing through me.
Jesus. Fuck is wrong with me. I fucked her once. Once. Yeah, it was good. Better than. She shouldn’t be playing with my head this much.
She falls into easy conversation with Toby and Archer and I watch how comfortable, how relaxed she is around them. She’s always on edge with me. Jittery. That pisses me off too. I know her better than all these assholes, she should be most chill with me.
Sliding my palm along her back possessively, questioning my sanity the entire fucking time, she jolts at my touch, eyes round with shock.
I feign indifference. “We need to help Jake,” I test.
Watching me for a prolonged beat, she nods, glancing back to Toby and Archer to wave her goodbye.
Archer’s eyes settle on my hand, still pressed into her lower back, a wide smile creeping on his face. Fuckface. He’s reading into it more than he needs to, like I give a shit. I’ll remember to dance with his wife tonight, wipe the stupid grin from his arrogant face.
“Enjoy, lovers,” Toby sings, turning back to Archer.
I pull my hand away as soon as we turn the corner, shaking it out like touching her has scorched my skin. Touching Frankie is a hard limit. One I can’t let myself cross. Not again.
Carnation is now my home. Jake and his family are quickly becoming the same for me, and that includes Frankie. We both need this. The connection, the friendship this group offers us. We need it. I won’t ruin it for her by letting a bit of sexual tension consume us. Truth be told, I won’t let her ruin it for me in the same way.