7. Frankie

7 /

frankie

I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me the way Noah is in this photo.

I’ve been staring at it the entire trip to what we hope is Conner’s house. In the moment this photo was captured, I felt something. But I was so swept up in my own swirl of emotions— should I forgive him, did that first kiss mean anything at all , and am I simply overcome with the feel of his body under mine?

None of that is in this photo, though. All I see is a girl who has been in love with her brother’s best friend for years, and a man who might just see her as a woman for the first time.

“Can you tell if that sign says thirty-first?”

I clear my throat and shuffle the photo from my lap, setting it on the envelope on the Bronco’s dash before leaning forward and squinting through the frosted windshield. I rub the sleeve of my sweatshirt against the glass to clear the view.

“This is it,” I say. Noah makes the turn, then crawls to a stop at the second house on the right.

“You know newer cars come with this function called defrost ,” I tease.

Noah chuckles as he kills the engine, then taps on the switch for defrost just below the driver’s side blower.

“They made those in the eighties too. Just not with enough power for Decembers in Illinois.” His windows have nearly fogged back up completely in the five seconds we’ve sat here.

“How’s that beard feel?” I unbuckle and shift so I can give it a gentle tug. Noah winces, but the beard stays in place, the glue from earlier still tacky enough.

“I may never grow a real one again if you keep doing that. But I think this one will last for five minutes.”

His crooked smile is paired with a wink, and the cuteness of it all pins me to my seat for a moment. I think Noah Drake is the only man I can honestly say looks as good with a beard as he does freshly shaven. And if this costume is any indication, he’s going to be one hell of a silver fox.

We both get out of the Bronco. I snag a Sharpie from my backpack before shutting the door, and meet Noah by the rear door as he pulls out the stick. I pull the cap from the marker and hold it out for him to take.

“Here. You need to sign it.”

His brow angles.

“As Santa?”

My head tilts, and I pull my mouth in, narrowing my eyes.

“As Noah Drake, dumbass.”

His skeptical expression only hardens, so I shake my head and shift the stick in his hand to the flat area near the blade.

“Trust me, Noah Drake means something to that kid. Sign it.”

His face relaxes, his mouth hinting at a smile. His hand grazes mine as he takes the pen, and my lips tingle from the memory of our kiss from minutes ago. I brace the stick for him as he forms the prominent N and D of his signature. I almost want to tell him how I practiced signing my name with Drake when I was a freshman in high school.

I dash the urge quickly, though, when the wind picks up. The sun is long gone, and my body quakes from the cold. Noah takes the pen cap from my hand and pushes it back in place, then swings his arm around me, holding me against his warm side as he rubs his palm up and down my shoulder.

“Thanks,” I chatter out. As cold as I am, I’m also now on fire from his touch.

He keeps his arm around me as we navigate our way up the bricked walkway. A few of the pavers shift under our weight, and dead grass is matted between many of them. Most of the yard is unkempt. Not junky, but definitely not tended to in months. What was probably overgrown grass and weeds in the late summer and fall is now tangles of straw, and dirt flower beds seem dug up in several spots, possibly from a dog.

“Maybe Santa needs to start a lawn service,” Noah says, scanning the yard on either side as we get closer to the door.

“Santa, or a certain high school hockey team,” I say, mostly teasing. Noah, however, reacts with a pensive expression, his lips puckered and brow low in thought.

Before I can question it, we reach the front door. There’s a large paper wreath hung around the peephole, cotton balls colored red with some kind of paint stuck haphazardly around the green paper leaves to look like berries. Conner’s name is scribbled on one of the leaves. Noah knocks just below it.

His chest expands with a deep breath as his arm slips from my body. Both of his hands clutch the stick as we hover a few feet from the doorway, waiting for someone to answer. Muted chatter grows louder until the deadbolt clicks unlocked, and the door creaks open.

“Oh!” the man says. Noah rests on his heels, as do I. I think we’re both relieved we got the right house.

“Mr. Graham?” Noah asks.

“Uh, hi. Santa?” Mr. Graham chuckles, and I cover my mouth with my fist, hiding my own laugh. This is a silly scene, no doubt.

“Babe, who is it?” A slender woman with short brown hair snakes under Mr. Graham’s arm. She jolts a touch when she takes in the two of us standing at her door.

“It’s Santa, hon,” Mr. Graham laughs softly.

“I see that,” she says, through a wide smile.

Noah leans in, lifting his beard a little as if either of them really thinks it’s Santa. It’s sweet.

“Your husband?—”

“I’m John, and this is Sarah,” the man says, holding out a hand. Noah shakes it, and then I do the same.

“Nice to meet you, John . . . Sarah. I’m . . .”

“Santa, I know who you are,” John says with a wink.

We all laugh softly.

“Yes, well. As I was saying, John brought Conner to visit me yesterday, and your son mentioned he’d really like the new Bauer goalie stick.”

Sarah’s shoulders drop as she looks up at her husband with a grimace.

“He’s been talking about it for months,” she says.

“ Mmm , yeah. It’s a pretty cool stick,” Noah says. He shifts the one he’s been holding, planting the handle on the stoop and spinning it a little to show the scuffs in the light, along with his fresh signature.

“This one is a little different, though. He may need to grow into it, but it’s been used in a lot of games, and I’ve heard that this Noah Drake guy?” He taps on the signature, and I watch for John’s expression when he realizes exactly what this stick is. “He’s a pretty decent player.”

“You’re kidding me,” John says, cupping his mouth. “This stick is a lot more expensive than the one he wants.”

“I am not kidding. Merry Christmas,” Noah says, handing the stick to Sarah. She touches it tenderly, her gaze dancing between the rest of us as her husband claps softly. Their youngest is probably inside asleep. Conner may be as well.

“You have no idea what a fan Conner is,” John says, shaking Noah’s hand again.

My forever crush’s cheeks burn a cherry red. I doubt the Grahams can see it. They don’t know where to look. As arrogant as Noah deserves to be, he’s never been good at receiving actual compliments for his gameplay. The fandom from girls and the hype at Tiff is different. John Graham and his son, and I’m guessing his wife very soon, are real fans. Admirers, more appropriately. Hockey lovers who appreciate what makes Noah special.

“Three hundred forty-seven saves last year at Tiff,” I brag.

I feel the snap of attention from Noah’s gaze as soon as I rattle off his stats. His arm nudges mine, and I glance up at him and shrug.

“I pay attention.”

“Noah, seriously. I can’t believe this. Are you sure? This is . . .” John weighs the stick in his palms. “It’s a lot.”

“I’m absolutely positive. It’s ready for the next great Miller Brook goalie. In fact, if you have time to take him to the arena by the park tomorrow around eleven, I’ll introduce him to the guy running the kids’ camp. I bet he can make room for one more.”

My face aches from my grin as I make mental notes to make sure my brother follows through on what Noah’s about to ask of him.

“Could we get a picture? I mean, with Santa. Maybe with Noah tomorrow,” John laughs out.

“Sure,” Noah says, shifting closer to me to make room for John to slide in next to him.

“Oh, wait. I’m not much of a North Pole resident in a Bears sweatshirt,” I say, slipping my arms out and pulling the sweater over my head. I toss it to the side and shiver as the wind cuts through me.

“Okay, ready?” Sarah holds her phone out and snaps a few shots of the three of us, and then I step out of the frame so she can get a few of Noah and John together.

“I’ll print a few of these and put them in a box for Conner to open on Christmas. I’ll add a clue for where the hockey stick will be hidden.” She’s suddenly giddy, and the small injection of joy warms my insides.

My outsides, however? Freezing.

“It was really nice to meet you,” I say, rubbing my hands together and snagging my sweatshirt before skipping to the Bronco.

Noah gives Sarah a hug, then shakes John’s hand once more before jogging to catch up to me. He opens my door first, holding my hand to hoist me inside, then rushes around to his side to crank the engine and blast the heat.

“That was . . .” I stare with wonder at the fogged-up glass, my mouth open in a permanent smile.

“Amazing,” Noah finally finishes.

He leans over the wheel and rubs the windshield with the fur on his sleeve.

“Here,” I say, handing him my sweatshirt so he can clear the frost more easily.

When he’s able to see the roadway, he shifts into drive and carefully navigates us back to the main highway and over the bridge to the other side of town. He reaches the four-way stop by the small playground before the turn into our neighborhood, but instead of making it, he pulls close to the curb and shifts the Bronco into park, killing the lights before leaning back in his seat.

His hands grip the top of the steering wheel as he sucks in his bottom lip, eyes blinking methodically as he stares straight ahead.

“What is it?” I wonder if he’s having second thoughts about giving away a piece of his story. That stick was important to him, and I know he really wanted to give it to Conner. I’d understand if it stung a little, though.

“You know my saves number from last year?” His head rolls to the side, and our eyes meet.

My tongue peeks out, wetting my bottom lip.

“I do,” I say, my voice nearly a whisper.

“You pay attention.” His gaze is stuck on mine, and everything feels slow. His nostrils flex with each inhale and exhale. His lips move with what I think are nerves.

“I’ve always paid attention to you, Noah.” The weight of those words isn’t lost on me. It sits so heavy in my chest that I shudder with a single sob, but I quickly pull it together.

“I didn’t know what to say. This summer, before you left,” he continues.

My chest quakes.

“So you didn’t say anything?” My voice vibrates. I’m not sure whether I want to leap on him or slap him right now. Maybe both.

He peels the beard away from his face, scratching away the glue remnants as his gaze drops to my mouth.

“Anthony would kill me. I’m not boyfriend material,” he utters.

His gaze flits back up to mine. I unbuckle my seat belt and twist to face him. He does the same.

“Anthony doesn’t make decisions for me. And he shouldn’t make them for you.” My lips buzz with desire. The pendulum has swung in favor of lunging at him.

Noah laughs softly, his gaze dropping to the console between us as his mouth curves up higher on one side.

“Funny, you sound like my mom.”

My eyes flash wide, only briefly.

“You talked to your mom . . . about . . .” I swallow.

He looks up at me as he rubs his palm on the side of his face.

“She saw us kiss that night in the street.”

My cheeks grow warm. Of course she did. I scrunch my eyes shut, then peel one open as I wince.

“She did, huh?”

Noah nods, his gaze dropping to my mouth, then back to my eyes again.

“Your brother thinks I cheat,” Noah says.

My brow lowers, and my stomach turns. It’s something I’ve thought about and often overlooked when it comes to my affection for this man. He’s had a lot of girlfriends.

I lift my shoulder, shrugging it off, but my movement is tepid. I think Noah senses my trepidation, and he shakes his head.

“I’ve never cheated on anything, Frankie. Not a test. Not a sport. And never on a girl.”

My lungs expand a little, but the knot in my stomach still twists.

“Okay,” I say, and honestly, I believe him. There’s so much sincerity in his expression, but more than that, he’s being vulnerable. Noah Drake doesn’t speak like this. Not to anyone. I would know because I have always been listening.

“I’ve never actually had a girlfriend. I’ve dated girls. Gone out. And stuff.” He pulls his lips in tight as his shoulder raises. He’s a hot college guy. A hockey stud. Kind of a local celebrity. I assume the “and stuff” part.

I’ve had some “and stuff.” But I’ve never had Noah. And Noah has never had me.

“Okay,” I say, twisting in my seat a little more, squaring my shoulders as I scan the space in this front seat and mentally calculate exactly how I can get from here to there.

“You know, I’ve paid attention to you, too,” he says, drawing my gaze back to his.

I bite my bottom lip to quell the shaking. I feel as if my entire body is humming.

“Yeah?”

Noah’s gaze trails to my mouth, then lower, pausing at my chest. I drop my chin to see the low cut of my green skating dress, the cut of my cleavage, and then the hard peaks of my breasts poking through the tight fabric. I look back up to catch Noah licking his lips.

“It’s cold,” I say, moving my hand to my right breast and running my fingers lightly over the hard tip.

“Ha, yeah. Uh, oh-kay.” I draw out the syllables as Noah shifts in his seat.

All the times I’ve studied him, I’ve never seen him off his game. This feels kind of powerful. I like it.

“It’s not just the cold, though,” I say, bringing my left hand up too and running my fingertips over both my breasts. I pinch my nipples through my dress and the sensation fires throughout my body, pooling between my legs.

Noah lets out a deep, muffled groan behind his fist. His teeth bite at his knuckles.

“Frankie, do not play if you don’t want things to go further.”

His eyes sear into mine as he inches closer. I shift to my knees and flatten my palms on the console, encroaching on his space. His stare drops to my chest and my tits swell under his stare.

“You wanna hop in that back seat?” I suggest, nodding toward the roomier space.

Noah blinks twice, then flies out the driver’s side and into the back seat, sliding to the middle before pulling me through the space between the front seats and onto his lap. I straddle him, sinking down to cover his hard cock and rocking my hips to feel his length under me.

“Holy fucking hell,” he moans, dropping his mouth to my throat as my head falls back. His hands glide up my sides and along my ribs, until his palms cover my breasts. He wastes no time taking over what I started, pinching my nipples through my dress and rolling them into tight pebbles. Shocks run through my core and tempt me to come.

“Is there a zipper on this thing?” He feels along my back, finding it quickly and pulling it down my spine until the shoulders of my dress are loose enough to slip out of easily.

I sit up straight and stare at his eyes as they rush with heat. He slides the bodice of my dress over the curve of my shoulders then down my arms, but takes his time to pull it off completely. It’s almost as if he’s making a show of my tits, torturing himself with the full sight of me bare. Torturing me .

When he finally slides the fabric over the hard tips and rolls it down to my waist, my nipples are puckered so tightly I feel as though they might explode. Noah brings his mouth to my right one, pausing with his tongue not quite on my skin. He flits his gaze to me and smirks through the temptation.

“I want to hear you.”

I finally let out the gasp I’ve been holding, and his tongue presses against the hard tip.

“Oh, fuck,” I moan, sinking into him and rocking my hips again.

Noah sucks my nipple in as he pushes his pelvis up, grinding into me. His other hand slides along my hip and around my ass, his fingers digging in. I curse these stupid tights. I don’t care how cold it is. Why did I wear them?

His fingers scratch at the nylon, the tips teasing at my wet center. I want him to sink inside of me, and my need grows stronger with every touch. His teeth tease my nipple, and he soothes it with a press of his tongue before tilting his head back to look me in the eyes.

“Rip them,” I say as my mouth crashes down on his. He meets my needy kiss with roughness of his own, biting my lower lip as his hands claw at the tights over my ass. The material tears for him easily, and his finger pushes inside my soaking wet pussy in seconds.

“Oh, shit,” I moan, rolling my hips against his hand. He adds a second finger, pushing in and out at a steady rhythm until I feel myself swollen against his touch.

I scoot back enough to expose the waistband of his pants, and giggle as my hands work the drawstring.

“That’s not quite the reaction I was hoping for,” Noah says, his breath ragged but tone a little amused.

“It’s just . . . I’m about to fuck Santa. That’s all.” I jerk both the Santa costume and compression pants down his hips as he lifts for me. His cock stands tall and ready, and I wrap my hand around it to feel his warmth and width to ready myself for his size.

His hand touches my chin, coaxing my gaze to his as I stroke him slowly, and when our eyes meet, I know without a doubt he wants me as much as I have ever wanted him.

“You aren’t fucking Santa, Frankie. You’re fucking Noah Drake.”

His eyes smolder as his lips tick up in a devilish grin. His hand covers mine, and he works his shaft with me before holding it up as his other hand guides my body above him.

“I don’t have any protection, but I haven’t been with anyone since . . .” His ragged voice trails off as our eyes meet. I cup his face in my hands.

Since he kissed me. He’s been waiting . . . for me.

“I’m protected. And I trust you,” I say, lowering myself as he tugs my panties to the side, exposing me to his dick. I sink onto his cock slowly, stretching to fit him, and we both moan into the curve of each other’s necks.

“Oh fuck, Frankie. You feel so good,” he says, pushing up as I sink down.

Our rhythm is slow and steady at first, my hands braced on his shoulders as he grabs my ass and guides me up and down his length. The windows of his Bronco frosted completely, shielding us from anyone who may drive by. The heat is unnecessary now that our bodies are making their own.

Noah’s mouth covers mine and I let my hands roam along his arms, appreciating every curve of muscle and familiar scar from the ice. His hips start to lift faster, and my legs widen to take more of him inside me. My knees are so far apart that I’m nearly in the splits as I rock back and forth, chasing the growing need to come.

“Frankie, I’m close,” he grunts out. I grab his right hand and guide it to my clit, leaning back enough to let him tease me as his cock slides in and out.

Our gazes lock as we hold our breath, and when he swells inside me, my orgasm ignites, sending waves down my inner thighs and up my belly. Noah pumps into me, filling me with his cum as his thumb rubs wet circles against my clit, drawing my climax out and finishing me with another.

I circle his wrist with both of my hands and bring his hand to my mouth, tasting our sex on his thumb before letting my forehead fall against his. We pant until our breathing slows, and I sit straddling him, his cock still inside, for several minutes as I mentally replay everything that just happened. I can’t hide the smile on my face. And I don’t want to.

Just when the quiet starts to close in, Noah’s palm slaps at my bare ass, and I yelp and laugh. My palms flatten on his chest as I stare into his eyes.

“And what would you like for Christmas, Frankie Bardot?” The flash in his eyes makes me curious, so I rock my hips.

“Again,” I say, holding his gaze and holding my breath.

And then his hips rock, and his cock flexes inside of me.

“Such a good girl. I owe you a lot of Christmas gifts.”

My eyes roll back at his dominant dirty talk. This good girl really wants to be ruined by this bad boy.