The Promise(58)

“Because, Frankie, baby, you didn’t put out.”

It was then I felt my blood start to get hot.

“Was that the only prerequisite for a girl to get a date?”

“Pretty much. Outside of her needin’ to be hot. But you had that.”

“That’s disgusting,” I hissed.

“Frankie,” he said, and my name rumbled with the laughter that was shaking his body against mine. “That was eighteen years ago, in a time when I thought with my dick.”

My brows shot up. “You don’t anymore?”

“Okay, it was in a time when I thought with my dick ninety-nine percent of the time, rather than now, when I think with my dick only fifty percent of the time, or anytime I’m around you.”

“That’s disgusting too.”

“It was meant to be a compliment.”

“It failed.”

“Babe,” he said, his arms giving me a squeeze. “You are not shitting me that you don’t like the idea of me bein’ all about my dick and where I wanna put it when I’m with you.”

I was looking forward to a time when I could throw something at him without tearing open my wound when he pissed me off.

Like when he was right and he went about being right in a crude way that I found annoyingly arousing.

“I think I need a nap,” I declared.

His arms got super tight when he burst out laughing.

I watched, up close and personal, and hated myself for enjoying every second.

His laughter died down to chuckles, his hand at my side moved to stroke me there, and he again focused on me to ask, “Right. Now, are you done freakin’ out?”

I stopped being pissed. I stopped being anything.

But one thing.

And I shared with Benny what that was.

“This scares me, Ben.”

He dipped his head so his face was an inch from mine and replied, “I get that, honey.”

“I don’t know how to get over that,” I admitted.

“You wanna get over it?” he asked.

That was a loaded question I was not going to answer out loud so I kept my mouth shut.

“Okay, I’ll give you that play, cara,” Benny said when I did. “But, just sayin’, you makin’ your previous statement already gives me my answer.”

And, again, he was right.

“So,” he continued, “how ’bout this? Stick with me.”

I shook my head. “I’m moving to Indianapolis.”

At that, he shook his head. “Day to day, babe, not future. Not anything but the next day, fuck, the next minute, each minute into the next. Stick with me while we work it out. If it goes wrong, it does. If I can’t guide you through, I’ll eat that. But, I’ll warn you, I’ll be breakin’ my back to make sure neither of those happen.”

God, more goodness coming from Benny.

“There are a lot of obstacles,” I pointed out.

“Francesca, no one ever got a gold medal for sittin’ on their ass and doin’ nothin’. You work at somethin’, you work at it hard, you believe in it, you want it, you go after it, you get it—that’s when you get your prize.”

Now wisdom coming from Benny.

I couldn’t take it so I dropped my chin to rest my forehead against his chest.

The hand he was using to stroke my side curled around and his other hand slid up to wrap around the back of my neck as he asked into my hair, “You really need a nap?”

“Were you really gonna take me to Lincoln’s?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I don’t need a nap.”

His hand at the back of my neck gave me a squeeze so I lifted my head.

When I did, Benny, who I was learning did not waste opportunities, dipped his and took my mouth. He got tongue action. It was more than a sweep this time. It was a deep drink.

I loved it. Every second. And I ended it with my arms wrapped around him.

“Stick with me?” he whispered, his lips still against mine.

“Yeah.”

I felt his mouth smile.

I closed my eyes.

Then I felt his mouth touch my forehead.

After that, he let me go, grabbed my hand, pulled me toward the door, and said, “Let’s go get subs.”





Chapter Seven


Minute by Minute



At six forty that night, I stood in Benny’s bathroom, staring at myself in the mirror.

My hair was bigger than its normal big, by a lot.

My makeup was deeper, smokier, hotter.

My dress was black with a silver shimmer. In the front, it covered me from throat to mid-thigh, including long sleeves.

But it was skintight. Everywhere.

And there was no back. None. From the small to my shoulder blades, all bare.

It was a dress that demanded a woman not wear underwear. A bra was an impossibility, but I’d bested the challenge of the panties, finding a sheer black thong that was only noticeable if the dress shifted in a particular way. So under the dress, I had on nothing but that thong.