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Frank took a long sip of his beer, the bitter edge of it grounding him as he sat in that familiar dark corner of the pub, the worn leather booth creaking beneath his weight. The lighting was low, the air heavy with the smell of wood polish and stale laughter. Around him sat four other men—old army friends, greying and stiff in the knees, all a little heavier, a little more jaded, all divorced like Frank. Only one or two still clung to marriage, and even they spoke of it like a ceasefire more than a love story.
The talk was the same as always—quiet at first, grumbling about pensions and politics, slipping eventually into stories half-true, half booze-fogged. And, as inevitably happens when men of a certain age drink enough to feel twenty again, the conversation shifted to women.
“Redheads, always had a thing for redheads,” muttered Jameson, who’d been married three times and still hadn’t learned a damn thing.
“I like ‘em tall,” grunted Wallace, “long legs, model types. You know, the kind that look like they’d break you if they sat on your lap, but in a good way.”
“Blondes,” Murtaugh chimed in, swirling his whiskey. “You know where you stand with a blonde.”
“Brunettes are less drama,” came the reply from the one still married, though he said it like a man who'd just discovered an unexploded landmine in his garden.
Frank stayed quiet, nursing his beer. He wasn’t there to fantasize—he was there because it was Friday, and because silence in a crowd didn’t feel as lonely as silence at home.
Then came the question.
“What about you, Frank?” Murtaugh leaned forward, one brow raised. “C’mon, you’ve got to have a type. Redheads? Blondes? What gets your blood pumping these days, old man?”
Frank didn’t even look up at first. Just gave a soft grunt, baritone curling lazily in his chest. “Alive,” he said dryly. “As long as she’s alive, I can handle it.”
The men laughed. A few smacked the table, some shaking their heads with grins.
“Even a chubby one?” Jameson joked, elbowing Frank’s side like they were still twenty and invincible.
Frank didn’t laugh. Not this time.
Instead, he smiled to himself—just a ghost of a smirk, private and knowing—and answered simply, “Chubby women have their charm. Plenty of flesh to hold onto. Feels real. Feels good.”
That quieted them for a beat. The kind of beat that always comes after a man speaks the truth in a room full of noise.
Then Wallace, ever the bastard, cocked his head and nodded toward the bar. “Well then, Benson,” he said, grinning, “guess she’s your type.”
They all turned to look.
There she was. Sitting alone at the bar, her back straight but her shoulders slightly hunched, like the weight of the day had settled too heavily on her. Chubby—soft arms, plush hips, thighs that touched. Her dark dress clung in the right places, but not by design. She stirred her drink slowly, staring down into the glass like it had insulted her. Sad eyes. Pretty mouth. Not wearing the kind of makeup meant to lure, but the kind meant to cover fatigue.
Frank didn’t respond immediately. He just watched her. Not in the leering way his friends did—but with curiosity. Recognition, even. There was something about her—the solitude, the quietness. Like maybe she’d come here hoping not to be noticed, but wanting someone to notice her anyway.
He set his beer down, slow and deliberate, his hooked nose catching the edge of the low light.
Then, after a long moment, he said, “She’s got sad eyes.”
“Yeah,” Wallace said with a chuckle. “That your thing too?”
Frank didn’t answer. He just kept looking. Hazel eyes narrowed slightly. His fingers tapped the side of his glass.
Because what his friends didn’t know—what he’d never say aloud—was that there was a different kind of beauty in sadness. A softness. A depth. A woman who knew sorrow knew how to be gentle. Knew how to be fierce when needed. And maybe she was like him—tired of pretending, tired of waiting, just needing someone who could keep pace with the weight they both carried.
He pushed back from the table, stood slowly. The chair let out a quiet scrape, and his friends fell silent again.
“Where the hell are you going?” Murtaugh asked, half-laughing.
Frank reached for his coat. “To buy her a drink.”
And just like that, the jokes stopped.
Because they all knew Frank Benson. He wasn’t the kind of man who made moves lightly; when he moved, it meant something.
And tonight, it meant her.
He approached you with a kind of deliberate casualness, like a man who had nothing to prove but chose to prove it anyway. Slow steps. Measured. Calm. His white hair caught the dim pub light like frost, and when he reached the bar, he didn’t look at you right away—just flagged down the bartender with a nod and said, voice smooth and low, “Bring her another one of whatever she’s drinking. On me.”
You didn’t even glance his way. Just let out a soft, irritated sigh, still staring into your half-empty glass.
“I’m really not in the mood to be made fun of today,” you muttered, not cruel, but tired. “I had a bad day, okay?”
That might’ve been enough to send off most men. But not Frank.
He leaned a forearm casually against the edge of the bar and arched a brow, hazel eyes fixed on your profile. “Bad day?” he repeated, a soft tease in his baritone. “What happened? Break up with your boyfriend?”
Your head snapped toward him, full of annoyance—and then, unexpectedly, confusion.
You stared.
He was older. White-haired. Strong-looking, yes, but definitely your dad’s age. Maybe older. Broad, with a hooked nose and the kind of lined, authoritative face that came with decades of life lived hard and full. Not exactly the kind of man you expected to be hit on by—not here, not now.
For a moment, your eyes narrowed with suspicion.
Would you even be made fun of by an old man tonight?
But he was watching you calmly, not leering. Not amused. Just… watching. And then, as if he knew exactly what you were thinking, he held up one hand and said, “Alright. Bad start. I’ll take the hit.” A small pause. “I just wanted to buy a drink for a beautiful woman. Sorry if I was an idiot about it.”
You blinked. Caught off guard.
“Beautiful?” you echoed, as if you’d never heard the word before in that tone—low, quiet, without agenda.
He didn’t backpedal. Just gave a small, crooked smile and nodded. “Yes.”
You looked away, suddenly more aware of yourself—your hair not as styled as it should’ve been, your dress clinging in places you hated. You were flushed and exhausted, and still he said it like he meant it.
“I’m Frank,” he offered after a moment, extending a hand. “Frank Benson.”
You looked at his hand, then took it—your name leaving your lips a little softer than you meant it to. He shook once, warm and firm, then let go.
“So,” he said, sliding onto the barstool beside yours, not crowding but near enough to matter, “what’s got someone like you looking like the world kicked her down a flight of stairs?”
You opened your mouth to deflect—habit, armor—but something about him made you stop. Maybe it was his calm. Maybe it was the way he said “someone like you” without irony, like it was obvious you deserved better than whatever this night had given you.
You looked into your drink again.
“The guy I’ve been texting for weeks,” you said, voice small and bitter. “He was supposed to meet me for dinner. We’ve been talking every day. He was sweet. Funny. Said he liked my pictures.” You took a deep breath. “And then tonight—he saw me. In person. Didn’t even say hi. Just walked out.”
Frank said nothing at first. Just let that hang in the air.
Your throat tightened, and you let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I guess I wasn’t what he expected.”
Frank’s fingers curled slowly around his beer glass. “You ever consider,” he said after a beat, “that maybe he just wasn’t man enough to deserve what he saw?”
You turned your head.
He was watching you. Not pitying. Not performing. Just… watching.
“I mean it,” he added, quieter now. “A man who walks away from a woman like you without a word?” He took a slow sip of his beer, then set it down with care. “That’s not a man. That’s a coward.”
Your chest ached a little—tight in a way that wasn’t sadness. More like recognition. Someone had just told you the thing you needed to hear, without you having to beg for it.
The bartender slid the fresh drink toward you without a word—just a quiet nod, the kind you gave people who looked like they needed a little mercy. You wrapped your fingers around the cool glass and gave a soft, sardonic scoff.
“Well,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, “I’ve officially reached the pinnacle of adult life. Getting consoled by a stranger in a bar.” You took a sip. “An old man, no less. Wow. Stop the world—I want to get off.”
Frank didn’t flinch. If the words stung, he didn’t show it. He just leaned back slightly on the barstool, one arm draped along the counter, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his glass. His white hair caught the dim glow of the overhead pendant, silver like smoke, and when he finally spoke, it was with that same steady, rumbling baritone that could settle nerves and stir things far deeper.
“I’m not consoling you,” he said simply. “Not out of pity. And not because I think you need it.”
You glanced at him, one brow raised.
“I’m here,” he added, taking a slow sip, “because I saw you sitting here looking like the last good thing in a bad world.” A pause, measured and warm. “And I liked you.”
That caught you off guard.
You turned toward him slowly now, more fully, eyes scanning his face, then his chest—then lower, to the hands wrapped around his beer glass. You weren’t even being subtle about it. You were looking for a ring.
Frank noticed.
He smirked, lazy and sharp, the kind that came from confidence earned over decades. He didn’t move his hand—just turned it a little, letting the dim light flash over his bare fingers.
“No one waiting at home,” he said, voice calm and sure. “No wife. No girlfriend. No dog, even.” Then, with the barest flicker of amusement in his eye, “You’re welcome to confirm that for yourself, if you want.”
You stared at him.
And for a moment, you weren’t the woman abandoned at a bar. You weren’t the punchline to someone else’s cowardice.
You were the woman being flirted with by a man who meant every word.
Frank watched your reaction closely—the way your lips parted slightly, the way your gaze flicked to his mouth, back to his eyes. He didn’t lean in, didn’t press—but he gave you just enough.
And then, as if to seal the deal, he winked.
Slow. Smooth. Unapologetically cheeky.
Your cheeks flushed instantly, the heat crawling up your neck, catching you completely off guard. You looked away with a quick laugh, but Frank didn’t push.
He just chuckled low in his throat, pleased.
“Careful,” he murmured, tilting his glass toward yours. “You keep blushing like that, and I’ll start thinking I still have a shot.”
You shook your head, biting your lip to hide the smile now creeping in.
And Frank?
He just watched you glow.
You went home with him, of course.
How could you not?
It had been months since you’d been touched like that—looked at like that. Months since anyone spoke to you without a filter of condescension or pity, months since anyone had seen you, really seen you, and not just your weight or the curve of your hip in a dress that didn’t fit the way it used to. And Frank… Frank Benson didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate.
He didn’t act like your softness was something to be overlooked, or endured, or politely ignored.
No, Frank kissed you like he wanted to taste every inch of it.
By the time the cab pulled up in front of his townhouse—a modest place tucked in a quiet, tree-lined street—you were already kissing again, his large hand spread low on your back, pulling you closer in the backseat. His other hand cupped your jaw, steady and warm, while you clutched the front of his coat like you were afraid he might vanish if you let go.
Inside, it was quiet. Dimly lit. A lamp in the hall cast golden shadows across the framed photos and the books stacked in the corners. Military plaques on the wall, a neat coat rack by the door. It smelled faintly of cedar, old paper, and something warm and clean—soap, maybe. Him.
Frank kissed you in the entryway, slow and deliberate, like a man who had time to savor. His hand slid down to your hip and didn’t pause when he felt the plush give beneath your dress. If anything, he squeezed tighter, like he liked it. Like it was something he’d been hoping for.
And then, later—after your shoes were kicked off, after his jacket hit the floor, after he whispered something filthy in your ear that made you laugh and shove at his chest—he tried to lift you.
Tried being the operative word.
Frank wrapped his arms around your waist with a grunt of effort, his breath already catching in a mix of laughter and exertion as he straightened with a muttered, “Alright, here we go—”
You yelped in surprise, your arms flinging around his shoulders, but your feet barely left the ground before he wobbled dangerously and immediately set you back down with a soft curse and a wheezing chuckle.
You both burst out laughing.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, rubbing his back. “That’s what I get for thinking I’m twenty again.”
You doubled over, giggling like a teenager. “You okay, old man?”
“Shut up,” Frank said, still laughing, brushing a kiss to your temple. “You try hauling a grown woman after two decades of joint pain and beer.”
“Maybe don’t try to be a hero next time,” you teased.
But the look he gave you then—amused, warm, eyes full of hunger and something else, something steady—made your breath hitch.
“Wasn’t trying to be a hero,” he said. “Just wanted to hold you.”
That shut you up.
You kissed him then. Kissed him like your chest was about to burst, like something inside you had cracked open, like maybe it was possible someone wanted you not despite everything, but because of it.
Now, you were straddling him in his bed.
Naked except for the necklace you hadn’t taken off and the flush creeping down your chest. The room was dark save for the soft bedside lamp, and Frank was laid back against the pillows, propped up, arms behind his head, watching you with eyes that gleamed like amber in the low light.
His chest rose and fell slowly, a layer of soft hair dusting his sternum. He was thicker than you expected—sturdy, chubby, solid in the way of men who had long since stopped chasing anyone’s approval. His belly curved gently under your thighs, and when you shifted in his lap, he groaned softly, his eyes fluttering half shut.
“You alright?” you asked, breathless, hand braced on his shoulder.
His hands came to your hips and squeezed. Firm. Possessive.
“I said I wanted to feel your weight on me,” he murmured. “Didn’t I?”
You flushed deeper. “You really meant that, huh?”
Frank cracked one eye open. “You think I say shit I don’t mean?”
You didn’t answer right away.
Instead, you looked down at yourself—soft thighs spread over his lap, belly pressing gently against his, the swell of your breasts rising with each shallow breath—and then back at him. His hands were still on you, warm and steady, like you belonged there. Like he liked every inch of what he saw.
You hesitated.
“…Do you have a thing for chubby girls or something?” you blurted, trying to make it sound like a joke. It came out too sharp, too light. Like a bottle dropped just before it shatters.
Frank blinked.
Then frowned, just slightly.
“What?” he asked, confused. “What does that mean?”
You opened your mouth, then shook your head. “Nothing. Just messing with you.”
He narrowed his eyes a little, but didn’t press. Just let his thumbs stroke slow circles against your hips. His voice, when it came, was low and steady.
“I like you,” he said. “Not a type. Not a preference. You.”
That silenced the last of your nerves.
You leaned down and kissed him again, and this time, when he rolled his hips up to meet you—when he groaned into your mouth and pressed you down harder, whispering how good you felt wrapped around him—it finally sank in.
He wasn’t pretending.
He wasn’t settling.
Frank Benson wanted you.
And God, did he prove it.
You rode him slowly, taking your time, your hands splayed over the curve of his chest as your thighs bracketed his hips. Frank was thick—thicker than you were used to—and you could feel every inch of him stretch you, fill you, claim you. The stretch was just shy of too much, your breath catching as you sank a little deeper, your nails digging softly into the sparse chest hair scattered across his sternum.
He groaned beneath you, that baritone voice rumbling out in a low, broken sound that was more grunt than moan—guttural, restrained, the kind of sound a man made when he was trying not to lose control too fast.
“Christ,” he muttered, his head tipping back against the pillows, white hair catching the lamplight in soft silver waves. His hands tightened around your hips, not guiding you—just grounding himself. “You feel… fucking perfect.”
Your body quivered at the praise, and you bit your lip, slowly rolling your hips forward, feeling him shift deeper inside you. The way he filled you—it was overwhelming. Not just physically, but emotionally. Intimately. His cock stretched you in a way that felt like possession, and still he watched you like you were something to be worshipped, not used.
Frank’s hazel eyes were glazed with heat now, narrowed slightly, the corner of his hooked nose twitching as he looked down to where your bodies were joined. His gaze lingered on the slick glide of you taking him inch by inch, your thighs trembling with effort, your body trying to adjust to the sheer size of him. But God, you loved it. Loved the way he stretched you open, made you feel full and aching and alive.
“That’s it,” he rasped, voice thick with gravel. “Take your time, sweetheart. Let me feel every inch.”
You braced your hands against his belly—soft, warm, real—and began to rock your hips in slow circles. The pace was gentle, torturously so, your cunt clenching around him with each drag and press. Frank let out another groan, this one longer, teeth clenched behind it. His fingers gripped your thighs, then slid up slowly to your waist, then higher—until both his hands were cradling your breasts.
He cupped them reverently at first, letting the weight of them fill his palms, his thumbs sweeping slowly over your nipples.
“Beautiful,” he breathed, almost to himself. “Fucking beautiful.”
You gasped when his thumbs found your nipples again, rougher now, coaxing them into hard peaks. He pinched gently, rolled them between calloused fingers, watching the way your body arched in response.
“You like that?” he murmured, one brow arching, lips twitching in satisfaction when you moaned in reply.
“Yes,” you panted, your voice trembling as your hips stuttered, slowing your rhythm. “God, Frank—feels so good—”
He grunted in approval, his thumbs dragging one more lazy circle around your nipples before his hands dropped back to your waist. “Then keep riding, sweetheart. Don’t stop. I want to feel you come just like this—grinding on my cock, making yourself fall apart for me.”
You whimpered, your hands fisting in the sheets beside his shoulders, and started moving again—this time with more purpose. You rocked your hips harder now, faster, your cunt gripping him tighter with every stroke. Frank groaned beneath you, that rich, wrecked sound vibrating into your core.
“Fuck, that’s it,” he growled, eyes hooded, nostrils flaring. “That greedy little pussy just—Christ—sucking me in. You’re gonna make me lose my goddamn mind.”
You laughed shakily, gasping through it, but you didn’t slow. Couldn’t. Not with the way he felt—thick, hot, pulsing inside you like a heartbeat.
Your rhythm grew erratic, driven by the pressure coiling low in your belly. You leaned forward slightly, hands sliding up to brace on his chest, and Frank’s hands immediately found your ass, squeezing the plush flesh there like he couldn’t get enough.
“You gonna come for me?” he asked, voice dark and steady, despite the way his own breath was stuttering now. “Gonna let me feel you clench around me while I’m buried inside you?”
You nodded, breathless, your eyes locked on his. “So close…”
“Good girl,” he growled, thrusting up just once, hard and deep, the motion jolting a cry from your lips. “Then come on, sweetheart. Let go. Let me feel it.”
You shattered with a sob, your body locking tight as pleasure tore through you. Your cunt fluttered around him, spasming hard, soaking him as you rode out your orgasm with stuttering, trembling hips. Frank groaned beneath you, his hands gripping your waist tight as he held you down, letting you grind against him until you whimpered from the intensity.
He didn’t move—didn’t thrust, didn’t break the moment. Just watched you come apart, watched you fall forward and collapse against his chest, panting, shaking, your cheek pressed to his shoulder.
“Jesus,” you whispered, still trembling. “You—God, Frank…”
His hand stroked your back slowly, calming you, grounding you. “That’s it,” he murmured, lips brushing your hairline. “You did so good for me, sweetheart.”
You laughed weakly, still breathless. “I don’t think I can move.”
Frank chuckled low, wrapping both arms around you now, his voice warm and wicked against your ear. “Then don’t. Stay right there. I’ll take care of the rest.”
And he did.
He got on top of you now—slow, deliberate, his body blanketing yours, heavy with heat and something deeper. His cock, still hard and slick from the way you’d ridden him, slid back into you in one smooth, unforgiving thrust, and you gasped, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.
“Frank—” you breathed, but whatever else you meant to say was lost in a cry as he began to move.
Faster now.
No more teasing, no more slow rhythm. Just the raw, relentless drag of him inside you, fucking you into the mattress like a man claiming what was his. His hips snapped against yours, the soft weight of his belly pressing against your stomach as his arms caged you in, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
“You feel that?” he growled into your skin, baritone breaking with each thrust. “How tight you are? How wet?”
You couldn’t answer. Could barely breathe. Your fingers clutched at the solid stretch of his back, feeling the thick cords of muscle under skin that had carried decades of burden. His white hair brushed your temple, and all you could do was hold on.
He fucked you hard—rhythmic, unrelenting—and you felt another orgasm coil low in your belly, hot and inevitable. Frank felt it too. You knew by the way his pace shifted—by the way his breath caught against your collarbone.
“Come for me again,” he rasped, voice ragged. “One more. Give it to me, sweetheart.”
And you did.
With a sob, you came again—tight and clenching, your thighs trembling around him, your cunt fluttering helplessly as he groaned against your skin.
“Fuck,” he snarled, teeth catching at your throat as he pulled out at the last second, wrapping one hand around the base of his cock. He stroked once, twice—and then he came with a deep, rough sound, spilling hot against your stomach and the rumpled sheets, his breath catching in his throat as he collapsed on top of you, panting, his body heavy and trembling.
For a long moment, the room was nothing but the sound of your breathing. His sweat-slicked skin pressed to yours, his chest rising and falling against your breasts, his mouth pressed to the curve of your neck.
“Perfect,” he mumbled into your skin, his voice thick, hoarse, full of something raw. “You’re fucking perfect.”
You held him.
Held the weight of him, the warmth, the smell of sweat and skin and something deeply human. You let your fingers drift down the line of his back—solid and strong, but softened by age, marked by time. A body built for war, now trembling from pleasure.
You stayed like that, silent.
And then—quietly—you hesitated.
“…Do you want me to go?”
Your voice was barely a whisper, but it sliced through the stillness like glass. It wasn’t the first time you’d asked that question. Wasn’t the first time someone had made you feel good, only to make you feel small again an hour later.
Frank stilled.
Then, slowly, he pushed up onto one elbow, his hazel eyes searching yours. His white hair clung to his forehead, and the lines in his face looked deeper now—softer, too.
“The guys before me,” he said after a long beat, “sound like complete assholes.”
You let out a bitter laugh. “Some of them were polite about it.”
He grunted. “Still assholes.”
Then he shifted, rolling onto his side, one thick arm reaching out and wrapping around your waist. He pulled you close, your back pressing to his chest now, his belly warm against your spine.
“You can go,” he said, voice quieter now, more thoughtful. “If you want. I won’t stop you.”
A pause.
“But if you stay,” he murmured, nuzzling into your hair, “I’ll give you another orgasm in the morning. One of the good ones. The kind that makes your knees shake.”
You snorted softly, your shoulders shaking with the beginnings of a smile.
“And I make great pancakes,” he added, lips brushing your ear.
You laughed then, really laughed, the sound breathless and disbelieving.
“You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
You turned your head slightly, your nose brushing his cheek. “You bribing me with sex and breakfast?”
Frank smiled—lazy, pleased, wicked. “I’m offering you a bed to sleep in, a body to curl up against, and something sweet in the morning.”
You hesitated one last time.
Then sighed.
“…Fine,” you whispered, snuggling back into him. “But those pancakes better be as good as you say.”
Frank’s arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer. “Oh, sweetheart,” he murmured, pressing a final kiss to your shoulder, “they’re even better.”
And that night, wrapped in the arms of a man who didn’t flinch at your softness—who praised it, claimed it, kissed it—you slept deeper than you had in years.
The pancakes were great. More than great, actually. They were golden at the edges, fluffy in the center, and stacked so high on the plate you’d teased him about trying to kill you with kindness—or syrup. He’d smirked and replied, “If this is how you go out, sweetheart, there are worse ways.”
And when he went back into the kitchen to make another batch—barefoot, hair a little wild, still wearing the same t-shirt from the night before, stretched over his chest in a way that made you think sinful thoughts even with maple syrup on your chin—you finally allowed yourself to look around his house.
You weren’t snooping. Not exactly. Just... observing. Taking in the man you’d just let inside you. Twice. (Three times, if you counted that sleepy, desperate fuck at four in the morning when you’d climbed back onto his lap without a word.)
His living room was tidy, but not curated. There were books—so many books—stacked in little towers beside the armchair, most of them nonfiction. Military history. Biographies. A few philosophy titles that surprised you. There were papers, too—neatly stacked on the coffee table. Notes scribbled in the margins in a looping, impatient hand. A pair of reading glasses tucked into a thick folder marked Confidential. You didn’t touch that one.
The couch was old leather, cracked at the edges, with an army-green throw folded with almost absurd precision across the back. You ran your fingers along the top of it absently, eyes drifting to the mantle.
And that’s when you saw it.
A fish.
A huge, monstrous fish, mounted on a polished wooden plaque like a hunting trophy, jaws open mid-snarl, glass eyes gleaming like it was still pissed about being yanked out of the water.
You blinked.
“Oh my God,” you muttered aloud, a laugh catching in your throat.
Frank’s voice drifted in from the kitchen, dry and suspicious. “What?”
You called back, “There’s a giant fish over your fireplace, Benson.”
There was a pause.
Then, deadpan: “Yes.”
You laughed again—sharper this time, leaning in with your hands on your hips as you stared at the beast. “That thing is terrifying. Why is it looking at me like it died mad?”
Frank finally emerged from the kitchen with two fresh plates, setting them down on the coffee table before giving you a slow, warning glance.
“That fish,” he said solemnly, “was forty-three inches long and fought me for an hour and seventeen minutes off the coast of Devon. It nearly took my arm off.”
You looked at him with exaggerated disbelief. “You mounted your mortal enemy?”
“I respected him,” Frank replied, utterly serious.
You crossed your arms, still grinning. “That is absolutely a single man’s choice. No woman in her right mind would let that thing stay up.”
Frank raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying you’re in your right mind?”
You blinked.
He smirked.
And before you could reply, he was beside you, his hand sliding slow and warm along your hip, tugging you gently against him. “I like my fish,” he murmured into your hair, “and I like my house the way it is. If you move in, we’ll renegotiate.”
You choked on a laugh, your cheeks heating instantly. “If?”
He chuckled against your neck. “Well, I figured you’d want to see the second fish in the hallway before making any life-altering decisions.”
You gasped. “There’s more?”
Frank’s grin widened, smug and dangerous. “There’s always more, sweetheart.”
And then, with a look that promised pancakes weren’t the only thing on the menu this morning, he led you back to the couch—plates in hand, fish glaring in silent judgment above the fireplace—and you realized something truly terrifying:
You could absolutely fall for this man.
Fish and all.