Driven By Fate(19)

“I’ll be back the same time tomorrow,” she murmured. “You can pay me then.”

Had her mouth trembled? “What about dinner?”

He could hear her heavy swallow. “I need to be on my own. What we did…I need time to process it, okay? The dinner thing was just an excuse.”

Porter loosened his grip on her elbows. “Complete honesty from now on, Francesca.”

“I’m really going to try. That’ll have to be good enough.” She looked away a moment. “Okay, I thought of something honest. Want it?”

“Absolutely.”

She tugged out of his hold, rubbing palms down her leggings. “You said…like, you try and limit it to one kiss. A-and then I didn’t mark it off on the sheet as a limit. So, like, what’s that noise about? Did you run out of coupons?”

A smile pushed against his lips. If someone had handed him a winning lottery ticket, he would turn it down just to hear her say it all again. She wanted to be kissed. Why the hell hadn’t he kissed her yet, anyway? Perhaps because a voice had been whispering from the furthest recesses of his mind that he should proceed with caution. Until now he’d tried to heed it, but denying a chance with her mouth would be criminal “Come here.”

“No way. I can’t believe you made me bring it up in the first place.” She crossed her arms. “It’s your turn to make the move, my lord.”

He stepped into her space, tilting her chin up with a finger. “This is highly irregular, Francesca.”

“Monocle.”

The kiss started as a sampling. He sipped at her bottom lip, tugging it with his mouth. But when her taste and texture fully registered, he began to devour. No choice. Had no choice. His hands shot to her head, holding it still as his senses overloaded. Berries. The smell of crushed berries gripped him. Head falling back, she allowed her tongue to be coaxed into a frenzy by his, allowed him to consume her greedily. It was permission, submission, and—f*ck it—wonder. Not just from her. From him. Air became a necessity, but neither was willing to stop. They were both moaning. Her fingers tugged on his hair, her body lifted and fit to his, grazing his pulsing cock and settling over it. Good. Too f*cking good.

Porter had no idea who severed the contact, but it didn’t feel like breaking away because at some point during the kiss, he’d enveloped her in an unbreakable hug. She was crushed to his chest, sucking in harsh breaths. Or was that him?

He shook his head. “Don’t leave.”

She studied him, looking more than a little shell-shocked. “After that, I really have to go.”

Letting her leave his arms felt wrong. Horribly wrong. But he had no choice. She’d said she needed time to process what they’d done. After that kiss, she probably needed the time twice as much. Hell, he had some things to process as well. Watching her walk out the door would be hard, but he consoled himself with the fact that he could find her if necessary. “Come back tomorrow, Francesca.”

“Yes, Porter.”

After she left, he found himself flipping through television stations in search of James Bond.





Chapter Eight


Dammit, she hated being indecisive.

Frankie paced back and forth on the sidewalk in front of her cab. Her classes had just ended and it was eleven fifteen. Fifteen minutes until she was scheduled to arrive at Porter’s office. Apartment. Den of dirty deeds. She wanted to be there. A Fourth of July sparkler flared in her belly, giving off a glow that spread to every corner of her body. How he’d felt inside of her. How he’d moved. What he’d said. Hot, sweaty memories she’d been drowning in since last night. She’d left his presence to get some perspective, but the overriding need to be with him again hadn’t allowed for much critical thought.

Hope had gotten her through the morning—the hope that once she saw Porter today her common sense would kick in. She would spend five minutes talking to him and remember that he was a pompous dick and that this affair was a temporary exploration, a way to understand these needs she’d always had. Once they were face to face, she’d laugh about the connection she thought she’d felt last night. After all, she’d been coming down off a sexual high. Was still coming down. Her brain had taken on the consistency of scrambled eggs. So, yeah. She’d been banking on seeing Porter again and putting these icky feelings to rest.

Then Uncle Joe had called during her Marketing Management class. He’d woken up with the flu and needed her to cover his shift behind the wheel. She’d started to tell him the internship wasn’t over, but caught herself, horrified. This was a man to whom she owed everything. There would be an ice sculpture contest in Hell before she let him down. Simply to be with a man she’d just met, a man who would someday only be a blip in her rearview. Family was forever. And she owed Uncle Joe. Repaying that debt was an ongoing process, one that might never end.

So why was she still pacing as if she hadn’t already made the decision?

Make the call.

Frankie slipped behind the wheel of her cab and started the engine to let it warm up. With a bracing breath, she dialed Porter’s number.

He answered on the second ring. “Porter Evans.”

A bluster of sexual excitement circled through her stomach. Christ, that accent. “Hey, it’s me.” She winced over the familiarity in her tone. How many women must call this sex god on a weekly basis? “I mean, it’s Frankie De Luca.”