Times Square Heat: Frankie’s Midnight Pickup
Shopping bags, neon lights, and one very bad decision.
You don’t go to Times Square to be shy.
Frankie’s heels clicked over the pavement like a slow tease, each step a little promise. Neon light painted her skin in flashes of pink and blue as she wove through the crowd, shopping bags brushing against her bare thighs.
She loved it. Loved the attention, the way heads turned when she passed. Tight dress, dangerous heels, lip gloss that caught every bit of light. Frankie didn’t dress to blend in—she dressed like a dare.
She paused in front of a shop window, pretending to admire a pair of ridiculous sequined boots while she really admired herself.
“Those boots don’t deserve you.”
The voice slid over her shoulder, low and smooth. Frankie’s eyes met his in the glass first—tall, broad shoulders, dark jacket, that easy, cocky posture. Then she turned fully, letting him see all of her on purpose.
“Oh?” she said. “What does deserve me?”
He didn’t even try to hide the way he looked her up and down, slow and filthy. “Something that can handle trouble. And you look like a lot of trouble.”
Her pulse flickered between her legs at the way he said it.
They fell into step together. He took one of her bags without asking. She let him. They walked through Times Square with that humming, electric tension building between them.
At the crosswalk she said, “My place is ten minutes away. You carry my bags, maybe I’ll let you stay for a nightcap.”
His eyes said he knew exactly what nightcap meant. “Lead the way.”
The apartment door clicked shut. Frankie kicked off her heels, leaned back against the door, and let him drink her in.
“You talk too much,” she whispered.
“Then shut me up.”
She pulled him into a kiss that tasted like city heat and bad decisions. His hands gripped her hips, dragging her closer, pinning her against the door. Her dress rode up as she wrapped a leg around him, grinding against the hard shape growing against her stomach.
“Bedroom,” she gasped.
He carried her. She kissed his throat. They fell onto her bed in a mess of sheets and skin and hungry sounds.
Frankie arched under him, nails grazing his back, pleasure tightening every line of her body until it snapped, sharp and blinding. His groan followed hers, rough and deep against her neck.
Later, curled against him, she smirked. “Best thing I brought home all night.”
He laughed. “You going to keep me?”
“We’ll see how you perform on the encore.”