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This is the way you play the game. And I should know. I invented the freakin’ game.
Last night, after dropping Francesca off on her doorstep and teasing her with a forehead kiss, I spent too many hours watching her.
My head hit the pillow to thoughts of her, and when I wake up the morning after, she’s the first thing on my mind. For the first time in too damn long, my thoughts aren’t about Olivia or the work I’m doing to help her.
I’m not thinking about revenge or the next name on my list. It’s just Francesca, and the image I carry with me is the desire that swam in her eyes last night as she looked up at me, hoping I would kiss her.
I really fucking wanted to.
But the time isn’t right. Not yet. For me to have what I want—exactly how I want it—I need to do everything the right way. And that means waiting.
And watching.
But can I wait? That is the question now.
I grow hard watching Francesca go about her weekend tasks, completely oblivious to the fact that I’m watching her. She wakes up and goes down to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee, still wearing the checkered boxer shorts and plain white tank top she sleeps in.
Her sleepwear shows off long, well-muscled thighs and calves, sculpted arms and narrow waist that speaks of a woman who takes care of herself. My mouth waters to get up close and personal with the pretty detective.
Her nipples poke at the cotton of her tank top, and I can’t stop staring at them. I can’t stop thinking about all the ways I’ll make her moan and scratch her nails down my back. Her nipples are always so fucking hard, tempting and teasing like they’re begging me to pull them into my mouth and suck as hard as she can stand it.
Even as she scrambles eggs in a bowl while the coffee brews, her tits are jiggling behind the tank top. “I’ll bet they’re sweet like ripe summer cherries. I bet those nipples are as sweet as the rest of you, aren’t they kitten?” I imagine she tastes like hot salty honey with a hint of caramel.
All morning, I’m rock-hard watching Francesca…err…Frankie putter around the house. She eats breakfast before she gets up to clean the kitchen and then the living room. Her home is spotless, so really, she’s just straightening and dusting. As I watch her engaging in mundane tasks, I vow to get her a housekeeper of her own.
A woman like Frankie is too good, too beautiful, and entirely too fucking smart to waste precious hours cleaning. She should be chasing down criminals like me, keeping the good citizens of Los Angeles safe, not dusting.
I switch screens when she heads upstairs to the shower but a quick call from Jess distracts me from watching Frankie in the shower. Dammit. I listen to my assistant with half an ear, my eyes scanning through screens until I find Frankie again. This time, she’s wearing nothing but a towel as she steps into her bedroom.
I can’t look away from her, her gorgeous tits or the way she lets the towel drop to her feet, almost as if she knows I’m watching. The thought of her putting on a show, thinking she’s alone, has me rock hard.
I wish I could hear her thoughts in this moment—is she thinking about me? Does she know how much I want her? After she moisturizes her body, she pulls the purple negligee from her dresser drawer and slides it on, the silky fabric clinging to her curves.
Frankie steps in front of her full-length mirror, adjusting the straps and smoothing the material over her hips. She twirls slowly, admiring her reflection, a faint smile playing on her lips. She looks like a goddess, every inch perfection. My hand tightens around my cock, aching for relief.
She pauses, looking herself up and down. Her eyes linger on the way the negligee hugs her body before she reaches into the drawer again, this time pulling out the stockings. She looks at them one at a time like she’s wondering something. I wish I could read her mind and know what she’s thinking right now.
Frankie sits on the edge of the bed, sliding them over her long legs, each motion deliberate and sensual.
Oh, kitten. What a beautiful surprise.
On her feet again, she glances in the mirror one more time, adjusting the stockings until they’re just right. The sight of her in that purple lingerie, looking so confident and sexy, makes my cock throb in my hand.
Apparently satisfied with her look, she turns away from the mirror. Her hands skim over her hips, smoothing the silky fabric one last time before she moves to the bed. She leans back, propping herself up on her elbows. Her legs stretch out, long and inviting.
Her eyes close briefly, and she takes a deep breath. When her eyes open again, they’re filled with a hunger that matches my own. Her hand starts at her collarbone, tracing a slow path down her body. Her fingers linger on her breasts, circling her nipples through the fabric.
I can almost feel the heat of her touch, the softness of her skin. My grip on my cock tightens, my strokes becoming more urgent. I’m aching for her, desperate to be the one touching her, tasting her.
But for now, I just watch.
Her hand continues its descent, sliding over her stomach, her hips, until it reaches the hem of her negligee. She teases the edge, her fingers dipping beneath the fabric briefly before retreating. She’s drawing this out, making herself wait, unknowingly driving me wild.
Finally, Frankie’s hand slips between her thighs. Her back arches slightly, her lips parting on a soft gasp. I watch her fingers sliding through her folds, circling her clit.
I stroke my cock in time with her movements, my body tense with anticipation. “Oh fuck.” A jolt of pleasure surges through me as she gasps the words, arching her back, chasing her release. “Fuck,” she repeats, but there’s a hint of frustration in her voice. She needs more.
She needs me.
