Six - Fran
One week later
“Kris,” she called, swinging her purse from her shoulder and plunking it on the kitchen cabinet, making a mental note to gather it along with her shoes and take them to her room later. “You home?”
“Yeah.” She heard his muffled response and figured he was in the master bedroom. His room.
She flipped through the mail lying on the counter, sorting and putting hers beside her purse. Grabbing a glass from the dish strainer next to the sink, she held it against the ice lever embedded in the refrigerator door, then swapped levers, watching water stream over the cubes. She took a deep drink, flicking on the oven light and seeing a cooking bag. Holding out one hand, she felt the heat radiating from the appliance. She noted the timer was on, with about an hour remaining. Enough time for a shower and glass of wine, she thought.
“What’s for dinner?” She yelled her question, heard an unintelligible response and grinned. It didn’t matter what it was, it would be good. First, because it wasn’t her night to cook, so she didn’t have to make it. Kris had been adamant that things be evenly sorted out between them regarding chores, and she liked that he didn’t take anything for granted, like expecting her to cook because she was living there and female. If anything, it felt like he spoiled her. Secondly, it would just be good because Kris was an amazing cook. In her opinion, his meals were far better than anything she could concoct. He had a gift in the kitchen, one he said had been absorbed via osmosis from another Rebel member, Kevin Hartley.
She shivered. Kevin, also called Road Runner, was a chef, so it was likely Kris was right about learning from him, but Kevin gave off the same kind of dangerous vibe Kris did. Not dangerous scary, but dangerous shivery, which is what she did again, just thinking about seeing the two men standing next to each other last week at the club party Kris insisted she attend.
Unlike when she had gone the few times with Pete, going with Kris was an immersion into the atmosphere and culture of the club. He scarcely left her side, keeping a hand on her all the time, making it clear to everyone there that she was with him. Not that you’re with him like that, she thought, blowing her bangs up with a puff of air, feeling the sudden sweat that had broken out on her brow. In the six weeks she had lived with Kris, he had been a perfect gentleman. Always. Treats me like I’m glass, she thought with annoyance, flipping the oven light off and turning to place her empty glass back in the strainer. He’d been generous with his time and attention, making his home hers in so many ways. He’d also made her feel safe with him. She sighed, If only he weren’t such a nice guy.
Gathering her mail, purse, and shoes, she padded up the hallway towards her room, her mind still turning over the first time she had seen Pete after driving away from his nude form outside his garage. He had not been at the house when Kris took her to get her things, already boxed and ready to be loaded into one of the Rebel member’s pickup trucks.
Jase, the man who owned the pickup, had helped them load up, cracking jokes and making what could have been a difficult moment much easier. She and Kris had dinner that night at Jase’s house, and had been welcomed to a table filled to overflowing with kids that she quickly learned were a mix of adopted, fostered, friend’s children, and grandchildren. He and his wife, DeeDee, had taken in a motley crew of kids, proving to her for once and forever that love only multiplied if given the opportunity.
The first time she saw Pete was about a week ago, at one of the Rebel parties. He had shown up with a blonde wrapped around him, not the one she had seen in his bed, either, but a new one. He didn’t approach, didn’t glare or make angry noises about her being there, just watched her, his eyes sad. Kris had ducked his head down so his mouth was near her ear when he asked her if she wanted to leave. Low and sweet, his voice was soft, the one he gave her most often. With that to bolster her, she’d shaken her head, turning so her side was to Pete.
Kris had curled his arm around her shoulder, then dropped his hand to her waist, tugging her into him so they were pressed together. “You need to leave, you tell me, Fran.” She had nodded, knowing he wouldn’t begrudge her if she wanted to go, would leave his friends for her. That also propped her up, so when she heard Pete talking to someone nearby, she could listen without pain, eavesdropping.
“Best thing to ever happen to me, and I let it get away.” Kris squeezed her, arm tight around her and she knew he’d heard Pete, too. He’d squeezed her again, edging his fingers into the front pocket of her jeans, holding her hip, anchoring her. Pete said, “Shoulda had a care, like Goose told me. Fucked up.”
Goose. His club name, something she only called him in her mind, because she instinctively understood he had to want her to use it; she couldn’t just claim it, even if he had claimed her.
Head down, watching her stocking feet move across the carpet, she was startled out of her memories by a noise from the door to the master bedroom, and, seeing that door was ajar, she looked up and in. What she saw then caused her feet to stutter to a stop, eyes locked, drinking in the sight in front of her.
Goose.
Beautiful Goose.
Goose naked, sitting on the edge of the mattress in his room, one elbow to the soft surface behind him, half reclined. His other hand was wrapped around his cock, fingers tightly clenched at the root causing his erection to stand up and away from his body. Head thrown back, his eyes were closed, neck muscles tense and strained. She watched his cock jerk and he shifted his legs, widening his stance. The muscles in his stomach tightened and he groaned softly, deep in his chest, so quiet she knew he was trying to keep this from her, attempting to protect her from this…want.
Heat sprang to life in her stomach, moving through her in a rush and she shivered as she clenched down on nothing, that emptiness mocking the arousal flooding her. She must have made a noise because his head came up, lifting off his shoulders and he looked at her, straight at her, eyes locking instantly with hers. She saw the bulge of muscles in his arm a moment before he moved, and when he did, it was to slowly slide that hand holding his cock up to the crown. Slowly, so slowly, and she could only imagine what it would be like to have him slide into her that slowly. The thought drove her to clench down on that empty again, feeling a loss that confused her, because she had never had Goose.
Wanted, yes.
Had, no.
He had drawn that line the second week she lived with him. It was the only time she had attempted to tie one on, and she had thrown out an offer only half joking. He’d shut her down, told her he wanted a woman who would be all his, one who would want him as much as he wanted her. He wasn’t willing to go half measures on something as important as love.
In her tipsy haze, she had stared at him, waiting for the laughter to tell her he was joking, but instead he had turned and walked out of the room, leaving her sitting on the couch alone. She called herself all kinds of stupid, having thought his “claiming” of her had meant something it hadn’t. So, from that night forward, she had tucked away any feelings that could have been growing, making certain she didn’t put herself out there like that again.
They went to parties. They shared the apartment. They rode on his bike, everywhere it seemed like. He wanted her with him all the time, and she had thought that meant something, too. Until she learned it didn’t. But, he still wanted her with him, had shown her how to ride, borrowing a bike from one of the other Rebels to teach her. They had even ridden together like that, traveling to Indianapolis more than once to meet with men he called brother there. Meetings where he introduced her as his. Claimed, but not.
“Francine.” She felt her shoulders curve down, suddenly embarrassed at being caught watching him masturbate, knowing how mortified she would be if he walked in on her using the please-God silent vibrator that lived in her underwear drawer, his name in her mouth. Eyes on the carpet, she turned to flee to her room across the hall when he called her name again. “Fran, honey.” Her gaze cut back to him because he had never called her anything other than her name, ever, and it pissed her off that he would use this moment to introduce a throwaway endearment to their…nonrelationship.
He was still sitting, but had released his grip and was now holding out his hand, reaching for her as he had done so often over the past weeks. Every time she was around, he reached for her, fingers wrapping around her hand, her shoulder, her hip. His hand, or hands, or arms, draped around her. His possession of her a statement to everyone except her, she still loved how it felt to be held by him like that. Even if his rough hands threading fingers through hers always woke the desire she tried to tamp down.
“Come here, Francine.” His firm use of her full name did it, jarring her from stillness. Without letting herself question, she stooped, squatting with knees together in the skirt she wore to work today and she set the items in her hands on the floor. She pushed up from the floor and stood, wiping her suddenly sweaty palms on her skirt, pressing shaking fingers into quaking thighs before she leaned forward and took the first step.
“That’s it, come to me, Francine.” His voice was low and commanding, with sweet mixed in, but it was as far from soft as she had ever heard it, this tone drawing a delicious shiver from her.
Placing her hand in his, the heat from his palm surrounded her and swept away the nervousness threatening to swamp her senses. He tugged and she bent over as he straightened, bringing his other hand up to cup the back of her neck, guiding her down. Wordlessly, he looked at her for a moment and she dropped her gaze to his mouth, then to his neck, which seemed suddenly so much safer to look at.
“Honey,” he murmured, then she felt his hand tighten. “Look at me.”
Her eyes flicked back to meet his gaze, then transferred to his mouth again. She saw his lips curl up at the corners, watched, spellbound as his tongue slipped out, tapping on his top lip. “Honey,” he called again, and she knew this wasn’t a throwaway word for him. It meant something when he called her that, which meant she might mean something to him. Encouraged, she lifted her gaze to find his had heated. His focus on her so intense that she thought the world could end around them and he would not only not notice, but wouldn’t care even if he did.
A tug on her hand had her bending over farther, then the heat intensified and she realized he had wrapped their joined fingers around his erection. Sleek and silken, the skin underneath her touch slipped over the hardness underneath. Then she felt the rigid rim of the crown bumping her circled finger and thumb. Without thought, she swept her thumb across the head, firmly pressing and dragging against the weeping slit She watched as the look on his face darkened, his mouth hardened, but his eyes were so warm, oh so warm as they looked at her and she knew he saw her, was seeing everything she wanted, everything she had to give. He saw it all, and she watched him nod slowly before her eyes closed because he had pulled on her neck, bringing her closer, confidently pressing his lips to hers.
He held that connection, her mouth open slightly, their panted breaths mingling as they drew in the next, and the next. Their hands still joined on his cock, moving faster, up and down, stroking. The heel of her hand feeling the coarse texture of the hair at the root on each downstroke, then up and across the crown with her thumb again, before their fingers bumped over the rim on their way back down. “Touch me, Francine.” He spoke these words softly, lips moving against her mouth, tipping his neck to press his forehead against hers. “Touch me, honey.”
Reaching out with her other hand, she trailed fingertips across his jaw, feeling the rough stubble along that angled surface. Then, back to his ear, she swept her fingers around the shell, gently pressing the earlobe between finger and thumb. Palm to his neck, the pounding pulse transferred to her, bringing her already racing heart to a faster beat, knowing deep in her bones that he liked this, that he wanted this. Maybe wanted her.
Stroking down the center of his chest, Francine’s fingertips ventured sideways across his defined muscles to find the flat disk of his nipple. Dragging a gentle fingernail across the nub, rolling and stroking, she felt the rush of air across her lips when he gasped. Tightening her fingers with his on his cock, she took them faster as she played with his chest. He gasped again, then groaned and slowed them back to the original pace of up, down, up, swirl, down, grind. “Honey, you do that, I won’t last to be inside you.”
She clenched again, knowing the rush of air this time was from her sucking in a breath at the brutal disappointment of that empty. His words underscored it in such a way she was weak at the knees with wanting him to fill it, fill her, take away the empty and fill her up. Wished he would fill her right up to the top, keep calling her honey, stay the man who always remembered her name.
She knew of a way he could fill her right now, seated as he was with her between his thighs. Without another thought, she folded her legs, dropping to her knees, liking that she never lost his hand at the back of her neck. He pressed under her jaw with his thumb, tipping her head up. His eyes were so warm, still seeing her, and she got the feeling he would always see the her she was deep inside. Seeing what she wanted, wanted for him, from him, for her. He nodded, fingers stroking her cheek, tucking her hair behind her ear. His hand shifted, sliding down, curling around, and the pad of his thumb pressed into her neck. Not hurting, just holding, and she realized he had settled over her hard-thudding pulse. Taking stock, assessing, she knew he was ensuring this was what she wanted.
Eyes locked on his, she used their hands on his cock to tip him, levering his length down to point to her mouth, making it clear what the target was. The tip brushed her lips and she opened immediately, wrapping her tongue around the head of his cock eagerly, teasing the slit as she had with her thumb and dragging a hard, harsh groan from him.
She felt his cock jerk, and the first spurt of salty heat hit her tongue. With a smile, she wrapped her lips around him, locking them into place just past the rigid edge of the head and she sucked, hollowing her cheeks so he could feel her all around him, flesh pressing to flesh. Pushing forward an inch, then pulling backwards, she set a fast pace, stroking him in and out of her mouth, her tongue continuing to work the head, feeling it swell inside her mouth. Filling her.
“Fuck, Francine.” Even with this, he didn’t forget who she was. “God, honey, just like that. So good. You are so beautiful, looking up at me, my cock in your mouth.” He let her play, and she knew he was letting her because his hold on her neck gentled. Then his other hand fell away from their joint grip on his cock.
So she played, sucking him like a lollipop one moment, then taking as much of him as she could, licking and wetting him all over so he was slick and slippery, sliding past her lips and tongue into her throat. His gaze never left hers. His eyes locked on her, heating, darkening, and she watched the flare of his nostrils as he sucked in desperate, uneven breaths, his hand still curled loosely around her neck. Not controlling her, just keeping that connection, keeping his thumb on her pulse as she kept the connection in another way.
Fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, she bobbed her head quickly, up and down, tonguing and swirling on the downstroke, firming her lips on the upstroke, hand working in counterpoint. She placed her other hand on his knee, curling her fingers over the top of his thigh, digging her thumb into the hard muscle along the inside. His voice sounded again, “Yes, touch me, Francine.”
Sliding it slowly, she eased her way up his leg until she could frame the root of his cock with her thumb and forefinger, digging the tips into his skin firmly, dragging another groan out of him. Moving her hand again, slowly, so slowly, until she cupped his balls in her palm, feeling the pebbled and coarse skin moving loosely over the hard knots of flesh inside. With her fingertips, she rolled them in her hand, feeling the skin of his sac tighten and draw up, feeling his cock jerk in her other hand, the rim of the crown dragging across the roof of her mouth when his hips surged forward. “Fuck, Francine.”
She never lost his eyes, he kept that connection, which now felt as physical and necessary as his hand on her neck, as his other hand on her head, moving her hair from her face where it had fallen with her movements. Hot, hungry eyes were ready to devour her and she was willing to be eaten up.
“Beautiful,” he whispered, fingers stroking across her cheek again. “Honey, I’m going to finish in you.”
Yes, she thought, clenching down on that anguished empty again. She was wet, her panties soaked through, the insides of her thighs slick under the stockings. Seeing him like this, taking him into her in this way had made the heat in her stomach flame into a fire, raging through her veins alongside the blood that gave her life. Each pulse felt by him, under his thumb like a telegraph. The beat carried her desire along with it, bleeding from her skin into his, then back into her with the other connection they had.
His hand tightened in her hair, tugging her away from him and she shook her head minutely, silently fighting the movement, dragging her lips and tongue across him again and again. He pulled out and the suction broke with a popping sound. Frantic to keep the connection, she lunged forward, kissing and licking along the length of his cock, hands working the root and his balls, gentle but firm.
“Francine.” His voice came, low and heated, ragged along the edges, and she knew that was his control fraying, becoming threadbare with her mouth on him. She tipped her chin, dipping her head down on her neck, mouth on his balls now, sucking them into her mouth one at a time, eyes still locked on his, watching as his pupils flared, then contracted and he groaned.
“Francine, stop.” Low and commanding again, he had tightened the hold on his control and she couldn’t disobey him, could not bear to make him angry. She never wanted to hear the tone directed at her that she had heard him use with others. So she pulled back slowly, letting him fall from her mouth back into her palm, gently rolling with her fingers one last time before she sat back on her heels.
He moved a hand, cupping her chin in his palm, using his thumb to wipe her face. Between them, his cock jerked, the steady flow of liquid from the tip mixing with the wet she had left behind from her mouth. She couldn’t help herself, reaching out to cup her hand around the rigid shaft, stroking up and down one time before his voice came again.
“Francine, I said stop.” His tone was low and amused, not angry, so she took in a breath and then dropped her hand to her lap. Waiting.
“Jesus, honey.” This murmur happened while he was on the move, bending forward and lifting her with his hands on her elbows, bringing her upright still between his knees. With a tug on one hand, he brought her to the edge of the mattress and bent her over his leg, then gave her ass a sharp smack, telling her, “Climb in, Fran. Let me get a condom.”
Turning her head as she crawled up the mattress, she immediately offered, “I’m on the pill.” Still moving, she didn’t know why an expression of sadness rolled across his face, swiftly replaced with a return of his desire, but the sorrow had been there.
She knew why a moment later when he asked her, “You go bare with Pete?” Pete, the man-whore, the man he had blocked from trying to win her back into his bed. Pleased to surprise him, she shook her head. His gaze darkened again and he asked, “You sure, honey?”
She nodded, then said, “Use a condom. Better safe than sorry. I wouldn’t trust it either. I just never thought about it.”
He stared at her, then, voice low and soft, said, “I’ll do a blood draw in the morning. We’ll make sure for your sake, honey.” She nodded immediately, turning on the bed to face him before rocking back on her heels once more, kneeling in front of him.
Waiting. She found herself happy to wait for him, wanting that tone from him again, so low and commanding it settled delicately inside her.
“On your back, Fran.” She gasped as she breathed deeply, getting exactly what she wanted. “Skirt around your waist, honey.”
Positioned as he demanded, she lay there, thighs pressed tightly together. Waiting.
“Unbutton your shirt.” She hurried to comply, her eyes fixed on him, having lost sight of him only once, when he smacked her behind, startling her into closing them momentarily. He was standing beside the bed now, stroking himself slowly. Pleased, she saw the hand working his cock was still moving slickly through the wet she left behind. “Are you ready for me, Francine?”
Fingers fumbling her buttons through their holes, she nodded, whispering, “Yes.” The last button released and she let her hands drift to her sides, the shirt resting on her skin. He reached to the nightstand, pulling out a packet which he opened, his gaze now sweeping up and down her body. She watched avidly as he rolled the condom down his cock, covering himself. So ready, she thought.
Waiting. I trust him.
He stretched out his hand, trailing one finger along her breast and lifted up to traverse the skirt bunched around her waist, then returned to connect with her skin. Tracing his fingers across her belly, he shifted and pressed his palm against her core when he reached there. She shivered at the heat of his hand sinking deep even through the two layers of fabric separating them. Then his fingers moved again, and she heard a ripping sound, feeling coolness between her legs. With a soft touch and the shifting of her panties to the side, she realized he had torn her pantyhose to get at her, and felt another flood of wet at that impatient, unvoiced demand.
He pushed a finger in deep, twisting, plunging and grinding hard, knuckles to the lips of her sex. “Very wet, honey. So ready.” Low and soft, his voice ringing with something she didn’t recognize, she watched his pupils flare again, then contract as he slipped his finger out, then said, “Two,” as he pushed in again, filling her more. He stroked in and out several times, and she heard the unmistakable sound of her arousal, wet and easing the way for this penetration. The expression on his face, proud and satisfied, made her clench down on what was no longer empty, but wasn’t what she wanted.
Needed.
Not empty, but not full, either. If I wait, he’ll give me what I need. His command of her since she’d stopped in the hallway had been easy, natural, and the sense of being complete made waiting easier.
“Three,” he said softly, and she felt more, but this burned, painfully stretching her. He must have seen her wince because he shifted and nodded, the burn went away, and the not-empty but not-full feeling came back. “Two,” he repeated from before and nodded again.
His gaze traveled down her body, then back up, stilling on her face again. “Kris,” she said softly, hearing the need in her voice and not caring. She knew he could see it on her face; it didn’t bother her if he heard, too. His head tipped to one side in a silent question, and he waited, fingers moving inside her, his thumb lifting occasionally to graze across her clit.
Patient, he’s so patient with me. This entire time, he’d not just been giving her somewhere to land after Pete, but giving her time to figure out what she needed. With surprise, she realized somewhere along the way it had gone from a want, to a need. I need him.
“Make love to me?” Raw and real, her voice was stronger than she expected, no quaver or hitch, just that need out there for him to act on if he would.
He didn’t leave her waiting, the smile curving his lips filled with pride. “My pleasure, honey,” he said gently, his voice low and sweet and soft all at once, and she believed his words because the edge of need was there, too. That was him letting her know this went both ways. He put a knee to the mattress, then slipped between her legs as she opened them. His hips rocking down to meet the cradle she made for him as if he had been here a thousand times before, as if he were coming home. As his cock had arrowed to her mouth before, unerringly he found her opening and pushed in, stroking in slowly, inches at a time. The stretch and burn was welcome this time, something she wanted to never stop. Something she needed.
Francine wrapped her arms around his shoulders, pulling him down, urging him without words to cover her. She held him close with her hands pressed flat against his back, face buried in his chest. “Francine,” he murmured in her ear. “Honey. God, so good.”
She moved with him, her hips rising to meet his downward thrusts, the reward of her initiative was his cock buried to the root and his hips circling, circling, grinding deep before pulling back. Each time he did this, he ground across her clit and she groaned, whining and calling out, trembling under him.
Slow. He made love to her slowly, keeping his pace steady, taking his time with each movement. Under her hands his skin heated, grew slick with sweat from his exertions. His body moved over her, and she moved with him. So steady. A choreographed play of muscles she could depend on.
His hips snapped forward, plunging in, grinding deep, bringing her closer each time. Kris pushed her faster, the pace relentless. Steady.
His words were steady, too, calling her name, calling her honey, telling her how it felt for him, telling her what he wanted for her, urging her to take what she needed from him. Low and sweet, or low and commanding by turns, each word stroked across her skin, urging her onwards with his need to know, his need to please, his need to take her with him. Each word from his mouth brought her further up the mountain they were climbing together. Each plunge tipping the scale farther as did each call of her name, Fran or Francine, each time he called her honey, and she knew it meant something.
Everything brought her deeper even as it lifted her up, then sucked her deep again before finally pushing her up and to the surface where she exploded, sensations pummeling her from all sides. Clenching down on everything she needed.
Filled. He had filled her right up, just like she knew he would. Filled me, gave me this with him, gave me everything. His words, the confident way he possessed her body, his demands that she take ownership of her needs opened a door in her mind, and she stepped up and over the threshold. He’d made her whole.
His pace quickened, becoming frenzied, his tone fractured somewhere between low and hard and she knew his teeth were clenched, trying to hold that control at the same time he forged forward in an effort to lose it entirely. Deep and grinding, he planted himself in her and groaned out her name. My name. Groaned in a tone that was by turns low and rumbling, rumbling and sweet, sweet and hard, hard and soft. Her name. “Francine, honey.” Giving her the knowledge that even in this moment he knew her, saw her, and wanted her.
Whole.
Heart pounding in her chest, she felt the echoing thudding of his through their connection. Heard him call her name again. It was soft, mixed with something she again didn’t recognize. “Francine.” Gentle and fractured, like she had broken something in him. Fear thrilled through her as she tipped her head to face him, seeing his eyes open and staring at her.
“Honey.” His voice was still gentle, but she saw the smile lines at the corner of his eyes crinkle, so she knew this wasn’t a bad thing. “Love you.” That quiet whisper was still fractured, but she knew what it was now. Whole.
“Love you, too, Goose,” she whispered back and saw his pupils flare again, his lips tipping up as he leaned in to trace across her cheek with the tip of his nose. He didn’t correct her and she smiled.
Her mind flew back across the weeks to him sitting next to her in the diner. His words to Pete echoing in her heart. I’m his. Maybe she’d been his all this time. Maybe he’d been waiting on her to catch up. I’m with him now. She sighed, heart pounding with the truths she accepted. Claimed.
“Yeah,” he said, settling his weight on her, pinning her in place in a way that she never wanted to be let go again. She wanted to stay there forever.
Definitely not settling this time, Francine, Grandma’s voice whispered, and Fran smiled happily, not afraid to show Goose what was in her heart because he already knew.
Love.