The Worst Best Man

by Lucy Score

  “Let’s see how the evening goes,” she said.

  “I think we should get married,” Aiden joked.

  Frankie laughed into the pillow. “Aide, seriously if you don’t stick a body part inside me right now, I’m throwing you out and going for gelato by myself.”

  “We can’t have that, now can we?” He took those magic fingers and brought them between her legs.

  “God, yes.” Frankie’s groan was muffled when he dragged her underwear down her thighs. And then she was soundless with shock and pleasure when he finally drove two fingers into her tight, wet core. Finally, she wasn’t empty anymore.

  She pushed her hips back against him, begging for more. Aiden’s hand left her hair and slid down her shoulder and around to cup her breast where it hung.

  Kneading her with one hand and fucking her with the other, he slowly escalated the torment. And Frankie chanted her words into the pillow.

  “You are such a beautiful girl, Franchesca,” Aiden whispered, raining kisses down her back.

  God, she loved the feel of him curling over her. Of him pumping his fingers into her and tugging on her nipples. She needed more.

  And he was willing to give it to her.

  Frankie felt his thumb probing between her ass cheeks and tensed at the touch.

  “Trust me?”

  The question was strained.

  She didn’t trust Aiden to not bend the rules until he got what he wanted or even possibly abduct someone like his brother had. But she did trust him to give her body pleasure like she’d never known before.

  “Yep. Okay. Yeah,” she said, her voice husky.

  He didn’t need reassurance. In moments, she was back to begging as he fingered her in ways she’d never experienced. That thumb. Those magic fingers. The feel of his thick shaft probing her through the material of the briefs he’d yet to remove. His heavy breath that she could not only hear but also feel against her bare skin.

  There was only so much build up a girl could take before she exploded.

  Frankie cried out into the pillow on a particularly masterful crook of his fingers. She was going to explode and take the entire apartment building down.

  Aiden groaned, low and guttural. “I feel you getting ready to come.” He leaned down and bit her on the shoulder.

  That quick slice of pain was all it took to snap her like a guitar string. She let go and hurtled into the orgasm. This? This was otherworldly, and Aiden was her new universe.

  Chanting praise, he continued to pump his fingers and thumb into her and she shuddered and trembled through her release.

  Aiden played her body like a maestro.

  She felt his weight shift behind her, sobbed out a plea when he pulled out of her. And then she heard the foil wrapper.

  He stroked himself against her, priming his cock, and Frankie spread her knees just a little wider, inviting him in. It took nothing more.

  Aiden notched the crown of his dick against her, gripped her hips, and drove into her.

  Decadently full, Frankie welcomed the invasion. The noise he made at the back of his throat drove her wild. Frankie reared up, arching her back.

  He closed his fist around her hair and used it to hold her still while he began torturously slow, measured strokes. She was so glad she hadn’t insisted on gelato.

  His other hand was never still, stroking and squeezing her flesh as if he wanted to explore every inch of her body. Aiden’s grip on her hair disappeared, and when he gripped her by the hips, she tossed her hair over her shoulder and looked back at him.

  He looked like a god lost in the throes of passion. His jaw was clenched. The cords of his neck stood out against the strain. His eyes were hooded.

  “I love when you look at me like that,” he gritted out the words.

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m the center of your universe.”

  That connection, gaze to gaze, held them prisoner. His pace quickened imperceptibly at first before speeding up, faster and faster. His thrusts were so powerful they were forcing her forward until finally she was flat on her stomach accepting his full weight on her back.

  “Aiden!” she called out his name. The climax building again inside her was terrifying.

  He grunted softly into her ear, lost to the wild rhythm. Take, his body told hers. And Frankie was only too happy to obey. He was crushing her to the mattress, giving her no room to move. All she could do was take the pleasure he was delivering.

  Aiden slid his hand between her legs, cupping her exactly where she needed his touch. “I’m coming, and I need you with me,” he told her.

  He slammed into her—once then twice—and, on the third thrust, held as he shouted victoriously. She met him there, her walls closing around him as her body fell into spectacular freefall. “Fuck, Franchesca. Baby,” he groaned against her ear.

  It only made her come harder. His cock pulsing inside her, his labored breathing against her neck, the weight of him on top of her. Her fingers were white knuckled on the sheets even as the waves began to mellow.

  He fucked her until she was done and vibrating beneath him, and then he collapsed on top of her.

  “I know I’m crushing you,” he said, “but moving is not an option right now.”

  “It’s fine. I’ve accomplished all I’ve set out to do sexually. Dying like this is totally acceptable,” Frankie said into the pillow. “My mom will be so proud.”

  “Speaking of your mother—”

  “Aiden, you’re still inside me. I don’t like where this is going.”

  He laughed softly against her neck. “Am I still invited to Sunday lunch?”

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Frankie hadn’t exactly meant to let him spend the night. But lounging in her bed with naked Aiden Adonis wrapped around her was too decadent to put a stop to. Plus, the heat that his ridiculously perfect body pumped off was more than enough to keep her warm in her Arctic breeze apartment. The windows were drafty, and the building’s furnace had been on its last legs for years. But the rent was affordable, and it was close to her parents.

  So she dressed in layers and piled blankets on her bed. The bed that Aiden had dominated last night with his large frame. The bed that he’d been too polite to complain about with its lumpy mattress and sagging box springs. It was on her list of things to replace when she was finally done paying for grad school. Sure. She’d have some student loans, but for the most part, she’d shouldered the burden up front, paying as much of her tuition as she could out of pocket.

  Frankie poked her head out of the bathroom and eyed the damage a vigorous night of lovemaking caused while she brushed her teeth. Her blankets were in a pile on the floor, and at one point, someone’s foot or arm had swept the nightstand clean. It looked as though she was going to need a new lamp.

  Worth it.

  Aiden had pressed a kiss to her forehead on his way out at the ungodly hour of five.

  He had early meetings and needed to get home to shower and change.

  She, on the other hand, had lounged about in her bed on sheets that smelled like him until her alarm sounded two hours later.

  She’d showered, leisurely, and then decided to treat herself to a coffee—the expensive kind—at the hipster café on her way to work.

  “Good morning,” Frankie said as she breezed through the glass door of the office. Brenda, the receptionist and part-owner of the Brooklyn Heights Small Business Development Center, shivered at the draft of winter air that followed Frankie inside and huddled closer to the space heater under her desk.

  It was a cheery if not chic space. Just last year Frankie had come in on a Sunday to help Brenda and her husband Raul paint the industrial gray walls a nice, clean white. They’d decorated with art by local Brooklynites. Paintings of storefronts, sketches of the skyline and streets. Brenda had added a veritable garden of plants for pops of green and “air filtering.”

  “Girl, you are going t
o freeze to death walking to work,” Brenda tut-tutted.

  Frankie laughed and unwound the wool scarf from her neck, looping it over the coat rack. After last night, she felt she had heat to spare for the six-block walk having taken so much of Aiden’s.

  “I like walking to work. Because the walk allows me to do this.” She handed over the small green tea she’d picked up for Brenda.

  The woman wiggled her fingers and reached for the cup. “Gimmie! Forget what I said. Walk all you want. Who cares about frostbite when you bring me green tea?”

  “How did Daisy Scouts go last night?” Frankie asked, shrugging out of her coat and carrying her bag over to her desk.

  Brenda had been called to babysit her granddaughter’s Daisy troop when the scout leader—Brenda’s daughter—came down with a case of front row seats to see Bon Jovi.

  “I drank half a bottle of wine after they left. Thirteen seven-year-olds.” Brenda shook her head and then patted her hair to make sure it was still in place. She wore her dark hair in dozens of tiny braids coiled in a bun at the base of her neck. “My dining table looks like a glitter bomb went off.”

  “I warned you not to do sparkly or sticky crafts!”

  “Lesson learned,” Brenda sighed. “What about you? How was your mysterious dinner date?”

  Frankie had been cagey about her evening plans, which had raised Brenda’s red flag immediately.

  “It was uh… good.”

  “Mmm-hmm,” Brenda said.

  Frankie felt the color on her cheeks rising. She’d donned a turtleneck today to cover the bruise between her neck and shoulder where Aiden had gotten just a little overzealous with his mouth. She’d have to lay down the law before next time: No visible hickeys.

  The thought that there would be a next time? Now her cheeks were flaming.

  “Girl, the shades of pink you’re turning are making me very curious.”

  “I had dinner with… the guy I’m… my boyfriend?” That’s technically what he was. Wasn’t it? It was too much of a mouthful to say the guy I’m seeing temporarily and enjoying naked.

  “Boyfriend?” Brenda perked up. She popped the lid off her green tea and blew on the steam. “Details, please.”

  “Don’t we have to get ready for the social media workshop?” Frankie asked hopefully. She pulled her laptop out of her bag and booted it up.

  “The one you have giver every month for the past year? I think we’ve got it down to a science. Spill.”

  What could she possibly say that wouldn’t sound like she’d lost her damn mind? My boyfriend and I are just having sex until he gets bored and moves on. But it’s cool because he’s promised me a ton of orgasms and anything I want. Nope. That wouldn’t do.

  “His name is Aiden, and we met at the wedding.”

  “He must be one of the hoity-toity crowd if he was at Pruitt’s wedding,” Brenda guessed.

  “I don’t really know what he does,” Frankie said evasively. It wasn’t exactly a lie. Just because Aiden had more money in his couch cushions than she did in her savings account didn’t mean that she exactly grasped what he did to earn those piles of cash.

  “That’s not like you. Usually you have a dossier of every dateable candidate before you even say yes to the first date,” Brenda pointed out.

  “I’ll have to get on that dossier,” Frankie promised.

  “What’s his last name?” Brenda asked.

  “Kilbourn. Aiden Kilbourn.” Shit was about to go down.

  Brenda shoved a finger in her ear above the neat rows of tiny gold hoops that she wore in her lobe. “I’m sorry. It sounded to these old ears like you said Aiden Kilbourn.”

  “You’ve heard of him?” Frankie asked innocently. Of course, she’d heard of him. Everyone in the five boroughs knew of the Kilbourns and their Manhattan domination.

  Brenda bustled back to her desk, her nails clicking on the keyboard. She was shaking her head and muttering. Frankie slunk into the tiny kitchenette and stored her lunch in the fridge. “Morning, Raul,” she called through his open door.

  Raul was a man of small stature and big heart. He also dressed to the nines in vibrant colored pullover sweaters and nerdy glasses. His hair was going silver. He always made time for anyone who graced his doorway and considered himself an aficionado on bottles of wine below twenty dollars.

  “Morning, Frankie. You ready for the workshop today?”

  “All set. We’ve got ten signed up, which probably means eight will show.” One of Frankie’s specialties was teaching social media marketing to local business owners or employees that were hired to take care of Facebook pages and Instagram accounts. She ran the Facebook account for her parents’ deli after her father had blatantly refused to learn how to turn on a computer. Her mother was quick on an iPad but had no desire to “blab about every damn thing” she did in her day.

  But it gave Frankie a special insight into the mind of a small business owner. It was just one of the areas she focused on at her job. But it was usually more fun than grant writing and accounting software tutorials. The people the business development center served couldn’t afford a pricey accountant, and if they could, they wouldn’t trust one. Small business was as different from the corporate level as, well, Frankie was to Aiden.

  She slipped back to her desk and found a stack of freshly printed papers.

  Brenda had started the dossier for her.

  She intended to ignore them, but a headline caught her eye. And then a picture of Aiden and another man at a charity auction. She skimmed the caption and promptly fell down the rabbit hole. Aiden was COO for Kilbourn Holdings, a mega corporation that specialized in mergers and acquisitions as well as corporate finance. Aiden on his own also dabbled in real estate. The man owned buildings. In Manhattan.

  And he still played polo but only for charity. Of course.

  She flipped to another picture, a group shot on the carpet of some gala. He looked like his mother, one of the women under Aiden’s father’s arm. The same thick, dark hair, the same patrician nose. Spectacular cheekbones. His father had the Irish auburn hair that was going silver. Cozy family, she thought. Aiden’s parents had divorced years ago. Yet they still socialized in the same circles.

  Aiden’s stepmother and Elliot the Fink were also in the picture. The women were dressed in stunning gowns, the men in tuxes they’d been born to wear.

  Frankie was suddenly beyond relieved that she’d laid down the law on dabbling in his life. No arm candy appearances. She’d done enough catering gigs to see how the whole trophy date thing worked. Stand there and look beautiful but keep your trap shut. Drink but not too much. Don’t eat anything that crunches or crumbles or ruins your lipstick. Smile but not too much.

  Barf.

  She was not about to sign up for a life that treated Tuesday nights like it was prom.

  She checked her watch. She still had an hour before she needed to head upstairs to set up. They had a conference room on the second floor where they hosted educational seminars. Frankie was working on building a set of online classes for business owners who were too busy to take time out of their day to attend. But it was slow going with the grad work and the catering. Just a few more jobs that she’d already committed to and her credit card balance would be gone. Then just a few more months and she’d have that shiny MBA in hand.

  And then?

  Then she wasn’t sure. She’d love to stay here, working for Brenda and Raul. They were the heart of the business community in Brooklyn Heights. But their budget was already stretched near to breaking. If they lost just one grant, cuts would have to be made, and unfortunately for Frankie, she’d be first in line. It was another reason she wanted to make sure they had the online classes to offer.

  She’d find something that excited her, that challenged her. And she’d finally be able to claw her way up from the paycheck-to-paycheck existence she’d known her entire life.

  She was startled out of her reverie
by the door. A courier popped in hefting a large black box. “Looking for a Ms. Baranski,” he said, popping an ear bud out of his ear.

  Brenda pointed an index finger in Frankie’s direction. “You found her.”

  “Cool,” he strode over and dropped the box on her desk. “Just need your signature here.” He whipped out a tablet and Frankie signed the screen with her finger.

  “Who’s it from?” she asked.

  “Big guy at Kilbourn Holdings downtown. Later,” he said, flashing a quick salute before heading back out the door.

  Frankie stared at the box, half scared to open it. What could he possibly have had the time to send her in the scant hours since they’d been wrapped up naked in each other’s arms? Even Prime wasn’t that fast. Oh, god. What if it was a box of sex toys?

  Brenda leaned over Frankie’s desk. “Hurry up. I’m dying over here!”

  She’d be dying if it was a value pack of dildos. But there’d be no getting rid of Brenda until the package was open. Carefully, Frankie lifted the lid and peered underneath.

  “Well?”

  Frankie dumped the lid to the side and parted the delicate layers of tissue paper. Seriously, who had a gift wrapper on hand first thing in the morning?

  “Oooh,” Brenda crooned as Frankie pulled the coat out of the box. It was black like her current one, but the similarities ended at the color.

  Wool—and was that cashmere?—with a plaid silky lining.

  “It’s so soft,” she murmured.

  “Put it on,” Brenda ordered.

  “Holy crap. It’s Burberry.”

  Brenda shoved her into the coat. It felt luxurious. She stroked her hands over the fabric. The coat nipped in at the waist and fell to mid-thigh.

  Brenda nodded approvingly. “You look just fabulous.”

  “Don’t you dare look up how much it costs,” Frankie warned her. This was no hundred-dollar coat from a department store.

  Brenda shoved her hands in the pockets.

  “What are you doing?”