ρυρρу

The music at the warehouse-turned-loft party was too loud, the lights too dim, and the crowd too packed with people pretending they weren't carrying. You'd lost sight of Frank twenty minutes ago—probably making the rounds, scanning exits, doing that whole broody guardian thing he did even when he was supposed to be relaxing.

You leaned against the exposed brick wall, nursing a beer that had gone warm, while your friend waved her hands around about some guy she'd matched with on Tinder.

"He's got this nose," your friend was saying, wrinkling her own. "Like, prominent. Roman statue vibes."

You snorted. "I don't know, big noses are kinda hot."

She paused. Turned to you. "Really?"

"Really." You shrugged, feeling the pleasant buzz of your drink. "When you ride their face, you know? It feels good. Better angle or something. More to hold onto."

Maya's eyes went wide, then she dissolved into giggles, swatting your arm. "Oh my god, you're ridiculous."

"I'm serious!" You laughed, but you were already feeling the heat creep up your neck. "Don't knock it till you try it."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say—"

You didn't notice the shadow that lingered a beat too long near the hallway behind you. You didn't see the way Frank's jaw tightened, his eyes tracking the line of your throat before he slipped back into the crowd.

The ride back to your place was silent in that heavy, charged way. Frank drove his truck with both hands on the wheel, knuckles white, eyes fixed on the road like it had personally offended him. You'd tried making conversation twice. Gotten grunts in response.

"Everything okay?" you asked finally, reaching for the radio.

Frank caught your wrist before you touched the dial. His thumb pressed against your pulse point, deliberate, and your breath caught.

"I heard you," he said. His voice was gravel over glass.

"Heard me what?"

"At the party." He glanced at you then, and there was something dark and focused in his eyes that made your stomach flip. "Talking to your friend. About what you like."

Your brain stuttered. Rewound. Oh. Oh.

"Frank—"

"Big noses," he said, almost casual, but his grip on your wrist tightened. "Said they feel good. When you—" He stopped. His jaw worked. "Show me."

Your mouth went dry. "What?"

"You said it feels good." He turned onto your street, the truck's engine rumbling low and hungry. "I want you to show me."

Your apartment door barely clicked shut before he had you pressed against it, his hands framing your face, his thumbs dragging across your cheekbones. You could feel the calluses, the violence he carried in his skin, but his touch was careful. Reverent.

"You sure?" you breathed, even as your fingers found the hem of his shirt.

"Yeah." He kissed you then, rough and claiming, and you felt it in your knees. "Want your thighs around my ears, sweetheart. Want you to tell me how good it feels."

You laughed, breathless, and he swallowed the sound.

The bedroom was dark, just the streetlight filtering through the blinds. Frank sat on the edge of your mattress like he was waiting for orders, and you climbed over him, your dress riding up, your hands shaking only a little. He helped you, big rough palms sliding up your legs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin of your inner thighs.

"Come here," he murmured, and you went.

The first roll of your hips made him groan, the vibration of it sparking up your spine. He wasn't gentle—he didn't know how to be—but he was there, present and desperate and yours, his hands gripping your hips to guide the rhythm, his nose pressing exactly where you needed it, the angle perfect in a way that made your vision blur.

"Frank—" You gasped, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling. "There, right there—"

He made a sound against you, encouraging, hungry, and you felt it building fast and sharp, coiling tight in your belly. You rode him like that, shameless and loud, the wet sound of it obscene and perfect, until you were shaking, until your thighs were trembling and your head fell back and you came apart with his name breaking across your lips.

He didn't stop. Kept you there, oversensitive and writhing, until you were pushing at his shoulders, laughing and gasping and begging.

"Okay," you managed. "Okay, you proved your point—"

Frank finally pulled back, his mouth glistening, his eyes blown wide and dark. He looked wrecked. He looked proud.

"Good?" he asked, rough and smug.

You slapped his chest, weak and giggling. "Shut up. You know it was."

He caught your hand, pressed a kiss to your palm, and the tenderness of it after the filth of before made your chest ache. He helped you down, eased you onto the mattress beside him, and pulled you into the circle of his arms.

"For the record," he mumbled into your hair, his heartbeat thudding slow and steady against your back, "you can talk about me like that anytime you want. I'll be listening."

You huffed a quiet laugh against his chest. "Seriously?"

Frank let out a low breath and covered your hand with his. "Yes." His voice was rough, softening at the edges with exhaustion and something warmer. "You looked at me from across that room and I was done. Three seconds. That's all it took."

You turned your head to press a kiss to his jaw, feeling the smile there. "Hopeless."

"For you?" His arm tightened around you, anchoring you close. "Yeah. Always."

You drifted off like that, tangled in him, the party and the world and everything else fading to nothing. Just you. Just him. Just the quiet after.