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Frank’s hand was still on the back of her neck when she stopped pretending this was about anything other than sex.
Olivia didn’t remember how they got from sitting on opposite ends of his couch—her legs curled under her, his feet planted wide—to him palming the side of her throat with his thumb stroking absently behind her ear. But that was the thing about Frank: he was all slow tension and sudden heat. Always the calm before the wreckage.
“You’re doing that thing again,” she said, voice quieter than she meant.
“What thing?”
“That looking-at-me thing like you’re gonna say something real and ruin everything.”
Frank’s lips curled, dark and knowing. He didn’t look away.
“I wasn’t,” he said. “But I could.”
Her breath snagged, something low and hot tightening in her belly. He hadn’t even touched her yet—not properly—and already her pulse was dancing.
They weren’t dating. That was the rule. No dates. No labels. Just bodies and boundaries and nights like this where she ended up at his place after too much tequila and not enough food, curled up with a man who looked at her like he knew every secret she’d ever buried.
“You want a drink?” he asked, voice gravel-soft.
She shook her head. “I want your mouth on me.”
His nostrils flared. The smile dropped. He leaned in slowly, like every inch was a warning.
“You sure?”
She laughed, breathless. “Have I ever not been?”
That was all it took. His hand slid fully around her throat and pressed—not enough to cut off her breath, but enough to make her body recognize the command. Knees weak. Mouth open. Want dripping like wine down her spine.
He kissed her like a man starving. Like the space between her lips was the only oxygen in the room. Olivia made a noise low in her throat, grabbing his shirt in both hands to drag him closer, closer, until she could feel the promise of him pressed thick and hard against her hip.
“I want to wreck you tonight,” he murmured against her mouth. “No filters. No soft. Just raw.”
She whimpered. “Fuck, yes.”
“Good,” Frank said, pulling back just enough to tug her shirt over her head. “Because you’re not coming until I say you can.”
Her stomach flipped.
He kissed down her neck, open-mouthed, wet, dragging teeth just enough to leave a warning. She’d worn no bra—on purpose, of course—and he wasted no time in sucking her nipple into his mouth, hand clamped at her waist as she arched into him with a gasp.
“On your knees,” he said, voice suddenly hard.
She obeyed instantly, dropping in front of him on the living room rug. Frank stood, towering over her, and undid his belt slow, like he wanted her to watch. Like he got off on the way her eyes followed every move.
“Hands behind your back.”
“Frank—”
“Now.”
God, she loved when he got like this. Clipped. Controlled. Mean with how much he cared .
She locked her fingers behind her back, chest rising and falling with sharp anticipation. Frank pulled his shirt off, let her see the lean muscle of his chest, the way his abs flexed when he shifted. He reached for the silk tie he'd left draped over the armrest.
She’d given it to him as a joke once. He never used it for anything but this.
“Lean back on your heels.”
She adjusted. He came around behind her and bound her wrists together, the silk snug but not painful. His fingers brushed the edge of her spine, slow, reverent.
“You’re not gonna use your hands once tonight,” he murmured in her ear. “Understand?”
“Yes,” she breathed.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, sir.”
Frank groaned low in his chest. “Good girl.”
He came back around, eyes dragging down her body. “Open your mouth.”
She did—and he slid two fingers past her lips, pressing them deep on her tongue. Her eyes fluttered closed as she sucked, tasting the salt of his skin, the control humming between them like a live wire.
“You’re going to choke on me tonight,” he said, voice all grit. “You want that?”
She nodded, tongue curling around his fingers. He slid them free, and unzipped himself.
He was already hard—thick, flushed, the tip wet with pre-come—and Olivia couldn’t help the way her body clenched at the sight. She leaned forward instinctively, mouth open, but Frank held her back with one hand on her jaw.
“Not yet,” he said, voice low. “Look at me.”
She did. Her chest was rising too fast. Her hands were bound behind her back and her knees were already sore from the rug, but none of that mattered.
Frank stroked himself once, slow, deliberate.
“I want you messy. I want my cock down your throat until your eyes water. And you’re not allowed to come tonight unless I’m inside you. Got it?”
Olivia swallowed hard, nodding. Her skin buzzed.
“Words.”
“I got it,” she whispered. “I want it.”
“Good girl.”
He stepped forward, sliding his cock against her lips. She opened for him, tongue flat, and he pushed in with a groan.
“Fuck,” Frank hissed. “You look so good like this.”
She moaned around him, and he began to move—slow at first, letting her adjust, then deeper. One hand in her hair, the other tightening under her jaw, guiding her, holding her steady. He never shoved, never forced—but he controlled , every second.
When she gagged, he pulled back slightly but didn’t stop.
“That’s it,” he murmured. “Breathe through it.”
Tears pricked at her eyes as he fucked her mouth, shallow thrusts becoming deeper, more rhythmic. She was drooling, cheeks wet, thighs pressed together as the ache built and built between her legs. She needed friction. Pressure. Anything.
And he wasn’t giving it to her.
He pulled out with a gasp, hand still in her hair.
“Look at you,” he said, voice ragged. “You’re dripping, aren’t you?”
She nodded. Couldn’t even speak.
“Yeah. That pretty pussy’s soaked and you haven’t even been touched.”
He bent and untied her wrists, then hauled her up by the hips and tossed her over his shoulder. She squealed, legs kicking, but he slapped her ass hard and she went still.
He carried her to the bedroom like she weighed nothing, laid her out on the sheets with her legs wide and trembling.
“No toys tonight,” he said. “Just you, your body, and my hands.”
Olivia exhaled shakily. “Please, Frank. I need it.”
“You’ll get it,” he said, kneeling between her thighs. “But not until you earn it.”
He dragged his tongue up her inner thigh, not touching where she needed him. Again. And again. She writhed. He held her down.
Then finally— finally —his mouth was on her.
Olivia cried out, arching hard. His tongue was magic, maddening—circling her clit, teasing, retreating every time she got close. His fingers didn’t help either. They worked in and out of her at a pace just shy of what she needed. Slow. Controlled.
“I want to come,” she gasped.
Frank looked up at her from between her thighs, chin glistening.
“Beg.”
She whined. “Please. Fuck, Frank—please let me come. I’ll do anything.”
His smile was cruel. Gorgeous.
“Anything?”
“Yes,” she moaned. “I’m yours. Please.”
“You are mine,” he growled—and then he latched onto her clit, sucking hard.
She screamed, back bowing—and then he pulled back just as fast.
“Not yet,” he said, mouth against her inner thigh.
She thrashed. “You said—”
“I said you’re not coming until I’m inside you.”
He moved fast. Condoms in the drawer. Body over hers. He caught both her wrists in one hand and pinned them above her head. The other guided himself to her entrance, pausing—waiting—teasing.
“Tell me you want it,” he said, voice like gravel.
“I want it,” she begged. “I want you inside me. I need it.”
“Tell me you want me to ruin you.”
“I do. I do , Frank—please.”
He pushed in with one hard thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
Olivia sobbed with relief.
Frank didn’t start slow.
He set a punishing rhythm from the first stroke, grinding deep, making her feel every thick inch as he bottomed out again and again. His grip on her wrists tightened. He pinned her like he owned her.
And fuck—maybe he did.
Olivia couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. Could only feel—him, inside her, around her, everything spinning.
“Open your mouth,” he ordered.
She did—and he spat in it. Her pussy clenched violently.
“Swallow.”
She obeyed. He kissed her so hard after it knocked the air from her lungs.
“Such a good fucking girl,” he whispered. “You take it so well.”
“Frank—please—I’m close—”
“I know.”
He fucked her harder. Deeper. He wrapped his hand around her throat—not cutting off air, but enough to make her squirm, dizzy with pleasure.
“I wanna come,” she begged. “Please—let me—”
“Not yet.”
He pulled all the way out and slapped her pussy, watching her squirm, her legs jerking.
“You like that?” he said. “Like when I make you wait?”
“Yes—yes—I hate it—but I love it—”
He shoved back in, hand back at her throat, mouth pressed to her ear.
“You’re not allowed to come until I say. You do and I’ll stop. Understand?”
She whimpered. Nodded.
“Use your words.”
“Yes, sir.”
Frank kissed her, brutal and slow. Then—changing positions—he flipped her over effortlessly, dragging her hips back and pinning her face into the mattress. He fucked her from behind, one hand gripping her hair, the other on her lower back.
“I’m gonna come,” he growled. “You wanna come with me?”
“Please—please—”
“Then earn it.”
He reached around and rubbed her clit, hard and fast.
“Come with me,” he said through gritted teeth. “Now.”
And she exploded .
Olivia shattered. Her vision blanked out. Her body clenched around him, milking him as he came deep inside her with a groan so low it made her shake.
They collapsed together, tangled, breathless. Sweat slick between them. Her wrists throbbed from earlier. Her thighs were shaking.
Frank kissed the back of her neck gently. “Okay?”
She nodded. “Better than okay.”
They lay there for a long moment. Her heart still racing. His breath on her skin. And just when she thought maybe— maybe —this could mean more…
He rolled away.
She didn’t stop him.
He stood, grabbed a towel, cleaned himself off. Tossed it to her wordlessly.
Olivia sat up slowly, pulling it between her legs, blinking.
“Staying the night?” he asked, already reaching for a glass of water.
She hesitated.
“I should probably go.”
He didn’t argue.
Just nodded, too casual, too nothing .
She stood, got dressed in silence.
At the door, she paused.
“I like you best,” she said softly, “when your head’s between my legs.”
Frank looked at her. Smirked. “Yeah. I know.”
And she left.
Still not his.
Still not whole.
Still afraid that if they reached for more—it would all come undone.
Olivia didn’t sleep.
She lay awake in her apartment, sheets twisted, skin still tingling in the places Frank had touched—where he’d left marks. Her wrists still bore the faint redness of the tie he’d used. Her thighs still ached from being held open.
And her chest?
That was the worst of all.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
They were supposed to be clean about it. Fuck, leave, fuck again—maybe text something filthy at 2 a.m., or show up with a bottle of wine and no underwear.
No feelings. No fallout. That had been the rule.
But something had changed tonight. The way he looked at her before he came. The way he kissed her throat when he thought she was too far gone to notice. The way he held her after. Brief, instinctive—but real.
And the way he’d shut down right after. Like it scared him too.
Her phone buzzed on the pillow.
Frank:
Did you make it home okay?
Olivia stared at the screen. Blinked.
It was a normal message. Thoughtful. Basic.
But he never texted after.
She typed. Erased. Typed again.
Olivia:
Yeah. Still buzzing.
Three dots. Then a pause.
Frank:
Same.
She bit her lip, heart thudding.
And that was it. No follow-up. No "let’s do it again." Just silence.
Until—five minutes later—
Frank:
Wanna grab coffee? Not a euphemism.
Olivia stared. She shouldn’t go.
She shouldn’t.
Olivia:
Where?
Frank:
The place by your building. Half an hour?
Her heart flipped.
She was already throwing on clothes.
Frank was already there when she arrived, leaning on the counter with a to-go cup in his hand, looking maddeningly casual. Like he hadn’t had her on her knees the night before. Like he hadn’t pulled her apart and left her soaking in his come.
He looked up. Smiled.
“Hey.”
Olivia slid into the seat across from him. “This normal? Coffee and small talk after choking me out?”
Frank’s grin widened. “We’re evolving.”
“Dangerous.”
“Terrifying,” he agreed, sipping his coffee.
She studied him. He looked tired. In that soft, morning-after way that made her want to drag him back to bed and watch him fall apart.
“What’s this about, really?” she asked. “We don’t usually—do this.”
“I know.”
Silence stretched between them. She nursed her drink.
Then he said quietly, “I keep thinking about what you said. Before you left.”
Her cheeks flushed. “I was joking.”
“You weren’t.”
“No,” she admitted, staring into her cup. “I wasn’t.”
Frank set his drink down. Leaned forward, elbows on the table.
“Olivia,” he said, voice low. “If we go any further…”
“I know,” she whispered. “It’ll ruin everything.”
But what if it ruined everything in the right way ?
The walk back to Olivia’s apartment was full of everything unsaid.
She didn’t invite him in. She didn’t have to.
He followed.
Inside, neither of them said a word. She set down her keys, kicked off her shoes, and turned. He was standing too close. Looking at her like she was the last thing holding him together.
Olivia opened her mouth—something quippy, maybe—to break the silence. But Frank was already moving.
His hand curled around the back of her neck and he kissed her.
It wasn’t like the others.
This one was slow .
It didn’t ask. It promised .
Her knees went weak.
Frank pushed her gently back until her spine met the wall. He didn’t press further. Just held her there with the weight of his mouth and the way he kissed like he was memorizing her.
She made a soft noise, fingers tangling in his shirt.
“I thought this was coffee,” she said breathlessly when he finally pulled back.
“It was.”
She licked her lips. “This isn’t part of the rules.”
“I don’t care.”
She blinked. “You always care.”
Frank stepped closer again, mouth brushing her jaw, his voice rough with restraint. “Do you want me to stop?”
Her answer was a kiss so deep he groaned against her tongue.
The clothes came off slower than usual. There wasn’t the desperate frenzy of last night—there was heat, sure, but it felt… personal. Peeling each other down to skin like it meant something.
Frank picked her up and carried her to the couch. Olivia fell back against the cushions, legs spread, inviting. He kneeled between her thighs and just looked at her for a moment.
“You’re beautiful,” he said.
She blinked. “Frank—”
“You are. Let me show you.”
And he did .
He ate her out with a devotion that made her squirm. Soft licks, then harder. Fingers working in slow, steady strokes. No teasing this time—no edging. No games. Just the build.
Just her.
Olivia cried out, legs trembling as he pushed her over the edge.
And still he didn’t stop.
She came again— harder —and when she opened her eyes, Frank was watching her with something that looked a lot like awe.
“Up,” he said, voice hoarse.
She obeyed on shaking legs.
“Turn around.”
She faced the couch back. He bent her gently over the cushions.
“Hands behind your back.”
She gave them. And when she felt the silk tie—the same one from the night before—wrap around her wrists, she moaned.
“You trust me?” he asked softly.
“Yes.”
He kissed her shoulder. Slid in from behind—slow, stretching, filling.
Olivia gasped.
This time, he didn’t pound into her. He moved in deep, rolling thrusts, grinding with every push until she was panting his name.
“Can I mark you?” he asked, lips at her throat.
“Yes,” she whispered.
His teeth sank in.
She shattered.
Olivia didn’t mean for him to stay the night.
She definitely didn’t mean for him to stay the morning after.
But when she woke—hair a mess, throat sore from gasping his name, her wrists faintly marked with silk creases—he was in her kitchen.
Shirtless. Making coffee.
He turned at the sound of her footfall. Gave her that lazy, wolfish smile.
“Morning.”
She blinked. “You stayed.”
“You snored.”
“Asshole.”
He handed her a mug. “Figured I owed you breakfast after what I did to your thighs.”
She took the cup. Sipped. “My thighs are grateful. My legs, however, may never forgive you.”
Frank chuckled. His eyes flicked down, lingering on her—bruises blooming along her inner thighs, her hips, that mark at the curve of her neck.
“Sorry,” he said.
“No, you’re not.”
He grinned. “No. I’m not.”
He made eggs. Burned the toast.
She leaned on the counter watching him, dressed only in his shirt.
It was dangerous— this . Too soft. Too couple .
“You ever do this before?” she asked.
He glanced back. “Burn breakfast?”
“Stay. Make coffee. Pretend it’s something else.”
Frank was quiet for a moment. Then: “No.”
She nodded. “Me neither.”
Silence stretched again. Heavy with all the things they hadn’t said.
Olivia finally asked, too quiet: “What are we doing, Frank?”
He didn’t turn around.
“We’re doing what works.”
Her throat tightened. “Is that what last night was? What this is?”
Frank turned. Met her eyes. And for the first time, she saw fear there.
Not of her.
Of what this meant.
He came over, still holding the spatula, bare-chested and messy and real .
“Olivia,” he said. “If we change it, we can’t go back.”
She swallowed. “I know.”
“I’m not good at that stuff. Dating. Real things.”
“I’m not asking you to be.”
“You’re lying.”
She didn’t deny it.
He stepped closer. Pressed his forehead to hers. “I like you too much to ruin this.”
“Then why does this already feel ruined?”
He kissed her. Slow. Sweet.
And didn’t answer.
The eggs went cold.
Neither of them touched the plates.
Frank leaned back against the counter, shirt still off, arms folded like he didn’t trust himself to move. Olivia stood a few feet away, mug forgotten in her hands.
He hadn’t said it.
And that was the problem.
She wanted too much. And Frank only gave what he could bear to lose.
Olivia set the mug down. Quiet. Controlled. “I think you should go.”
Frank looked up sharply. “What?”
“You said it yourself. If we change it, we can’t go back. So let’s not. Go.”
His jaw tensed. “You don’t mean that.”
“Yes, I do.”
“No, you don’t.”
She crossed her arms. “I can’t do this if you’re going to treat me like something breakable you’re afraid to keep.”
Frank stepped toward her, slow. “That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
He hesitated. Hands twitching at his sides.
That pause told her everything.
She turned to walk away—
He caught her wrist. “Don’t.”
Her breath caught. She looked back, and he was there , right behind her, chest to her spine, hand still gentle on her wrist, mouth at her ear.
“Don’t ask me to leave when every part of me is begging to stay.”
Her voice cracked. “Then say it.”
He kissed her neck. The place he’d bitten the night before.
And he said:
“I need you.”
Olivia’s breath hitched. Her eyes stung.
But when she turned around, ready to demand something more—
Frank kissed her.
Hard.
And the moment shattered.
They didn’t make it to the bedroom.
He took her against the wall, hands everywhere—rough, unrelenting. She was already soaked. Already shaking.
Frank’s hand slid between her legs, teasing—one finger, then two.
But he didn’t move.
“You want to come?” he asked, voice ragged.
She nodded, breathless.
“No,” he whispered. “Not yet.”
He edged her. Again. Again.
Olivia was crying by the time he let her finish, grinding against his hand, his teeth at her throat, breath ragged against her ear.
Then he fucked her raw—still holding her wrists behind her back.
Still afraid to say the word she needed.
Still afraid to hear it from her.
The sun was high by the time they collapsed again, tangled on the floor, their clothes somewhere in the haze of heat and need.
Olivia lay still against Frank’s chest, his heartbeat pounding in her ear.
He hadn’t let go of her wrists until the last second.
And even then, she could feel the impression of his grip like phantom cuffs, branding her with something more than fingers.
They didn’t talk.
Until she did.
“I love you,” Olivia said quietly.
Frank flinched.
It was small. Barely perceptible.
But she felt it. Every part of her registered that break.
She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t.
She just kept staring at the ceiling like maybe it would swallow her.
Frank said nothing.
Seconds passed.
Then he sat up. Grabbed his shirt from the floor. Didn’t put it on.
Just held it in his hands.
Olivia sat up too, dragging the throw blanket over her chest.
“You don’t have to say it back,” she whispered.
“I know,” he said, too quickly.
Silence again.
Frank finally spoke, his voice hoarse. “I don’t know what that means when it comes from you. Because I don’t know if you love me , or if you love what this does to you. What I do to you.”
Olivia stared. “That’s not fair.”
“I’m not fair. I’m fucking terrified, Olivia.”
“Of me?”
“Of losing this.” He looked at her now. “We’re good at this. We’re fireworks. We’re chemical. And I don’t want to fuck that up.”
She reached for him. Touched his hand.
He let her.
“Then don’t fuck it up. Stay. ”
He looked down at their hands.
Then said—softly, like it killed him:
“If I stay, we stop being whatever this is.”
She didn’t pull away.
But she didn’t press further.
Because he wasn’t wrong.
They were perfect because they didn’t ask for more. Because they let the tension breathe. Because they lit the match, burned the room, and walked away before the roof collapsed.
She let go of his hand.
He stood. Dressed.
Paused at the door.
“I want to stay,” he said. “You know that, right?”
Olivia nodded.
But she didn’t ask him to.
He left.
Three weeks passed.
And they didn’t talk about that morning again.
Frank still came over. Late. After shifts. After drinks. After pretending that what they had wasn’t a slow, exquisite implosion waiting for the final spark.
He never stayed the night.
And Olivia never said I love you again.
But the sex was different now.
Angrier.
Hungrier.
Like neither of them could stop scratching at a wound they’d both agreed not to treat.
This time, he didn’t even make it inside before his mouth was on hers.
She’d opened the door—wearing nothing but a T-shirt and that look he hated, the one that dared him to ruin her—and Frank shoved her back against the wall, kicked the door shut with one boot, and devoured her.
“Turn around,” he growled.
Olivia grinned. “Didn’t even say hi.”
“Not in the mood to be polite.”
She turned.
His hand wrapped around her throat from behind, not squeezing— not yet —just holding her there while he pressed against her ass.
She arched back into him, shameless.
“You miss me, Frankie?”
“You wore my fucking shirt. You knew I’d lose it.”
He dragged her to the kitchen—slammed her face-down on the table, one hand still at her throat, the other tearing her underwear clean off.
“Color?” he asked, breath hitching.
“Green.”
“You sure?”
“Frank,” she whispered, “make me feel it.”
He tied her wrists to the chair with his belt. Pulled out another tie from his pocket— the tie—and blindfolded her.
“You want breath play?” he asked, low and lethal at her ear.
“Yes,” she gasped.
Then his hand slid down. Fingers between her thighs. Testing.
“You’re already dripping.”
“I’ve been dripping since I texted you.”
He chuckled—low, dark, full of want.
She moaned as he slid two fingers in and stopped moving.
“Hold it,” he said.
And she did .
He edged her over and over—until her thighs trembled and her body burned and she was begging , voice raw and wrecked.
When he finally let her come, she sobbed his name, writhing under him.
He didn’t untie her right away.
He marked her again instead—biting down on her shoulder, her thigh, the inside of her knee—every place that would remind her she was his, but not really .
Because when they were done—
He kissed her.
Untied her.
And left.
Olivia didn’t mean to say his name.
But it slipped out.
She was at dinner with a friend—Avery, an old college roommate who always drank too much rosé and asked questions like she meant well but secretly hoped the answers would sting.
“So,” Avery said, stabbing her salad, “anyone new in your bed?”
Olivia hesitated.
Then: “No one new .”
Avery’s eyes gleamed. “Old flame?”
“Not exactly.”
“Does he have a name?”
Olivia didn’t want to say it.
But the wine was sharp and her defenses dulled.
“Frank.”
Avery tilted her head. “Wait. Frank Frank?”
Olivia nodded.
Avery blinked. “ You’re still seeing him? ”
“It’s not like that.”
“Right. It’s just sex.”
Olivia said nothing.
Avery leaned in, voice low. “You were always good at lying to everyone but him. What makes you think you can lie to him and not crack open?”
Olivia swallowed the rest of her drink and changed the subject.
But the damage was done.
That night, she almost didn’t call.
But the silence in her apartment was deafening.
Frank didn’t answer.
She left a voicemail.
“Hey. It’s me. I know it’s not our night. I just… I saw someone who reminded me of you. Not because they looked like you. Just—he had this sad smile, like he wanted to ask for something and didn’t know how. And I realized, maybe we both do that. Anyway. I’m being weird. Just call me back. Or don’t. I’ll see you when I see you.”
She hung up.
And regretted every word.
Frank listened to it at 2:12 AM.
Then deleted it.
And showed up at her door twenty minutes later.
Olivia opened it without speaking.
He stepped inside.
Neither said a word.
He pushed her against the wall.
She pulled him into the bedroom.
They didn’t kiss.
Not at first.
This wasn’t about sweetness.
It was about silence.
About saying all the things they were too afraid to voice with gasps and bruises and the hollow ache of being almost enough.
When he was inside her, she clung to him like a prayer.
He gripped her throat again, tighter this time, watching the way her pupils blew wide and her mouth fell open in surrender.
“Say it,” he growled.
She gasped. “Say what?”
“Say what you want from me.”
She couldn’t.
Wouldn’t.
Because if she said forever , she knew he’d stop.
So instead, she said, “Harder.”
And he gave her that.
The final night didn’t announce itself.
There was no warning. No shift in the air. Just the same familiar knock, the same look in his eyes, the same ache in her spine before he even touched her.
They fucked like always.
But slower.
And harder.
Frank tied her wrists to the headboard, mouth hot on her neck, his body moving in deep, punishing strokes that made her eyes roll back.
He whispered against her skin—not words, just sounds. Gasps. Grunts. Broken murmurs like he was praying against her collarbone.
When she came, he kept going.
Made her come again.
And again.
Until she was crying, not from pain—but from the unbearable closeness of it.
She wanted to tell him again.
I love you.
But he didn’t ask for it.
So she gave him her body instead.
Let him choke her just a little longer.
Let him edge her until she was shaking, bound and pleading, begging to come like it would save her.
And when he finally let go, when he whispered “ now ” against her ear and untied her with shaking hands—
Olivia shattered.
She sobbed into the pillow while he held her from behind, wrapping his arms around her waist like they could stay frozen there forever.
Frank didn’t say a word.
He just kissed her shoulder.
And kissed it again.
And again.
Like he was memorizing the shape of goodbye.
They didn’t speak in the morning.
She woke to cold sheets.
And a note on the pillow:
“If I stay, I’ll ruin you.
But if I go, I’ll never forget what you taste like.”
—F
Three months.
That’s how long it had been since the last night.
Olivia counted.
She told herself she was doing fine.
There were dates. Casual. Forgettable. Men who said nice things and held doors open and didn’t know the shape of her sobs when she came apart under a hand tight around her throat.
None of them were Frank.
She didn’t want them to be.
But she didn’t want Frank, either. Not really. Not anymore.
That’s what she said.
Even as she wore his T-shirt to bed every night like a secret scar.
She saw him again in line at a coffee shop.
Of all places.
He looked tired. Thinner. His hair a little longer, like he’d stopped caring. Or like no one had touched him in weeks.
He didn’t see her at first.
But when he did—when his eyes met hers across the sugar packets and paper cup lids—something in his face shifted.
He looked… relieved.
And then guilty.
Olivia stepped aside. Let him get his coffee. Said nothing.
She could feel his presence behind her like heat.
When she turned to leave, he spoke.
“Olivia.”
She stopped.
Turned.
He wasn’t smiling.
Neither was she.
“Hi,” she said.
Frank nodded. Looked down at the floor. Then up again. “You look good.”
“So do you.”
It was a lie. They both looked like hell.
But they smiled anyway.
Like liars.
He followed her outside.
Walked with her to her car.
They didn’t say much.
Until he paused by the door, and said softly:
“Still wearing my shirt?”
She froze.
“How do you know I—?”
“I don’t,” he said. “But I hoped.”
Olivia swallowed. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
“I know.”
She opened her car door.
“Do you want to come over?” she asked.
Frank’s eyes darkened.
“Do you want me to?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “But I haven’t slept right since you left.”
He got in the car.
They didn’t speak on the drive.
The silence was electric—thick with all the things they hadn’t said, all the tension they’d convinced themselves had faded. Olivia’s hands gripped the steering wheel too tightly. Frank sat in the passenger seat like a man watching his own execution.
When they got to her place, she opened the door and turned on a lamp.
They stood in the hallway for a full minute.
Breathing.
Watching.
Waiting.
Then Frank spoke.
“I want to go slow.”
Olivia’s heart jumped.
She didn’t trust it. Not really.
“Why?”
“Because if I fuck you like I used to, I won’t be able to stop.”
Her lips parted.
He stepped closer. Took her face in his hands—gentle this time, reverent—and pressed his forehead to hers.
“Let me take my time.”
She nodded.
And just like that, the careful undoing began.
He kissed her on the couch.
Slow.
Hot.
Lingering.
His hands didn’t drift right away. They stayed at her hips, her jaw, her cheekbone. He kissed her like she was a secret, like he didn’t want to wake the rest of the world while he remembered how her mouth fit against his.
Olivia moaned softly, melting into him.
She should’ve stopped this.
But she didn’t.
Frank’s hands moved to her thighs.
Then under the hem of her dress.
Then paused.
“Still green?” he asked, voice low.
“Green,” she whispered.
“Good girl.”
He tied her wrists this time with the tie he always used.
Silk. Black. A little frayed at the end from that one night she pulled too hard.
He kissed down her stomach.
Took his time.
Licked a stripe from her navel to her breastbone, trailing his teeth just enough to make her squirm.
Olivia gasped when he started edging her—fingers, tongue, barely-there contact that kept her trapped on the brink of release.
He held her thighs apart as she shook, as she begged, as she whimpered please over and over again.
Frank didn’t stop.
Not until she was crying.
And even then—
He leaned over her, fingers tight around her throat, kissed her hard and asked, “What are you afraid of?”
She couldn’t answer.
So he bit her shoulder and gave her her orgasm with his hand pressed over her heart like he could hold it still.
Afterward, she curled into his chest.
Neither of them spoke.
He didn’t leave that night.
But when the sun came up—
They still weren’t a couple.
And the silence tasted like blood.
Olivia found out from a friend.
Not even one of her close ones—just someone she used to work with, someone who casually dropped the words like they weren’t a gunshot to the gut.
“Oh, yeah. I saw Frank at that new place on Fifth. With someone. Blonde. Laughing like he didn’t have a care in the world. Cute couple.”
Olivia smiled like it didn’t hurt.
Went home.
And deleted his number for the third time.
He didn’t tell her.
He didn’t owe her anything.
That was the deal, wasn’t it?
No strings.
No expectations.
Just bruises, breathless moans, teeth marks on thighs, and the illusion of intimacy drawn tight like a wire between them.
Olivia told herself she was fine.
She even went on another date.
The guy was nice.
He kissed her with trembling hands and told her she was beautiful, like he meant it.
But when he put his mouth between her legs, she didn’t feel anything.
Worse than nothing.
She felt bored.
Three weeks passed.
She didn’t call Frank.
Didn’t text.
Didn’t drive by his building.
She almost believed she was done.
Until she got drunk alone in her apartment, played that song , the one that always made her think of his mouth, his voice, the way he’d growl “Try to catch your breath” while his fingers curled inside her—
And she came just from memory.
One hand between her thighs, the other clutching the sheets like it was his hair.
When she came down, she cried.
Not because she missed him.
But because nothing else felt real .
Frank texted her three days later.
FRANK:
“You okay?”
She stared at it for an hour.
Typed and deleted at least ten replies.
Then finally sent:
MIA:
“I’m not your responsibility.”
He didn’t answer.
He knocked just after midnight.
She wasn’t expecting him.
But when Olivia opened the door and saw Frank on her porch—hood up, eyes bloodshot, lips chapped like he’d been biting them raw—something in her chest cracked.
He reeked of whiskey and cold air.
Didn’t say a word.
Just looked at her like he needed a place to fall apart.
Olivia stepped aside.
He walked in without asking.
Dropped onto her couch like his bones couldn’t hold him upright anymore.
“I’m not drunk,” he lied.
She sat across from him.
Waited.
Frank didn’t look at her. Just stared at the floor like it owed him an explanation.
Finally, he said, “She was just a distraction.”
Olivia didn’t answer.
“I couldn’t fuck her,” he added, quieter.
Still, Olivia said nothing.
“Thought if I could, maybe you’d stop haunting me. But all I could think about was the way you look when you come. The way you whisper my name when you’re too wrecked to scream it.”
Olivia’s throat tightened.
“That supposed to make me feel better?” she asked.
Frank laughed—hoarse, bitter. “No. I don’t want you to feel better. I want you to be just as fucked up as I am.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Neither is this,” he snapped, finally looking at her. “You’re in my fucking blood. I haven’t breathed right in weeks.”
Olivia stood.
“Then go find someone who won’t cost you your sanity,” she said.
“I already did.”
He stood too.
Moved closer.
Too close.
“I already found her.”
Olivia’s breath caught.
Frank didn’t touch her.
Not yet.
But his voice dropped—low, gravelly, edged with something dangerous.
“Let me in.”
Olivia hesitated.
Then nodded.
And this time—
She didn’t stop him when he wrapped her wrists in rope again.
He fucked her like it was punishment.
Like she was the sin and the salvation all at once.
He kept her on the edge for nearly an hour—whispering filth in her ear, his hand on her throat, his mouth everywhere but where she needed it.
She begged.
He didn’t budge.
Until she was crying again, voice hoarse, legs trembling, soaked and desperate and shaking.
Only then did he let her come.
Twice.
And when she lay there after—marked, gasping, skin a map of his teeth and tongue—he finally kissed her.
Softly.
Tenderly.
Like maybe he still loved her.
But when she woke up, he was gone.
Again.
The worst part wasn’t that he left.
It was that he left without saying anything.
No note. No text. Not even the sound of the door clicking shut behind him. Just empty sheets, the smell of him still soaked into her pillow, and silence.
Olivia didn’t cry this time.
She didn’t rage.
She lay in bed, eyes wide, staring at the ceiling like it might offer her some kind of answer.
It didn’t.
She got up. Took a shower. Scrubbed the bruises he left on her hips. Tried to pretend they didn’t make her ache in a way nothing else ever had.
There was a voicemail waiting on her phone.
Frank’s number.
She didn’t play it.
Not yet.
Two days passed.
She played it at 3 a.m. on a Wednesday, lying on the cold tile floor of her bathroom, drunk on boxed wine and bad choices.
“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”
His voice, low and rough, filled the tiny room.
“I keep thinking this will get easier. That I’ll stop needing you. That I’ll meet someone else, or maybe just stop fucking dreaming about you. But I don’t. It’s you. It’s always you. And I hate that. Because I’m terrified that if I try to keep you, I’ll break us.”
Silence.
Then—
“But I don’t know how to keep away from you either. I’ll shut up now. I just… I miss you. I miss your voice. I miss your body. I miss us, whatever the fuck this is. Goodnight, Olivia.”
Click.
Olivia pressed the phone to her chest and cried.
Not because she missed him.
But because every word of it sounded like her own thoughts spoken aloud.
They saw each other again at a mutual friend’s party.
Neutral ground.
Crowded apartment. Music too loud. Cheap liquor and half-strangers brushing shoulders. Olivia hadn’t planned to stay long.
Then she saw him.
Frank.
He looked good.
Not because he was trying to—but because he wasn’t. Dark jeans. Black T-shirt. Hair tousled like he’d been tugging on it all day.
He hadn’t shaved.
She hated how much that still did to her.
He noticed her almost immediately.
Neither of them moved.
For a second, it was like they were back in that hallway, the first time he’d kissed her with his hands in her hair and his mouth tasting like whiskey and apology.
But now?
Now someone else was beside him.
A girl.
Pretty. Laughing. Draped over his arm like it was hers to touch.
Olivia turned away.
Pretended it didn’t punch the breath from her lungs.
He found her in the kitchen twenty minutes later.
Cornered her near the fridge, away from the noise.
“Olivia,” he said.
She didn’t look at him.
“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he added.
She smiled bitterly. “You thought I stopped existing when you stopped texting?”
Frank winced.
“She’s not—”
“I don’t want to know,” Olivia cut in. “You don’t owe me anything. Remember?”
Silence.
Then softly:
“I still dream about you.”
Olivia finally looked at him.
“Then maybe stop sleeping.”
She left the party before midnight.
He followed.
Back at her place, she didn’t pretend.
She didn’t speak.
Just pulled him in by the front of his shirt, shoved him against the wall, and kissed him like she was daring him to say no.
Frank groaned.
Deep.
Low.
Hungry.
He gripped her hips, lifted her off the floor, carried her to the bedroom like a man possessed.
When he laid her on the bed, it wasn’t gentle.
And she didn’t want it to be.
He tied her again.
This time tighter.
Used a new rope.
Slick. Red. It left lines across her skin like flame trails.
He edged her until she begged.
Kept her hovering so close to orgasm she sobbed against the pillow.
“Say it,” he growled, hand wrapped around her throat, thumb on her pulse. “Say you still want me.”
Olivia gasped. “I want you—fuck, I want you—I want you, Frankie—”
Only then did he let her come.
And when she collapsed, spent and ruined and raw, he untied her wrists with shaking fingers and kissed each one like an apology.
Neither of them said a word.
He slept beside her.
But when morning came, he was already dressed.
“Still just friends?” he asked from the doorway.
Olivia sat up.
Met his eyes.
And nodded.
It hurt.
But they both nodded.
They didn’t plan it.
No late-night text. No drunken voicemail. No excuse.
It just happened.
Frank showed up one rainy Friday, soaked through, hoodie clinging to him, hair dripping into his eyes.
Olivia opened the door.
Said nothing.
He walked in.
Hung his coat.
Kicked off his shoes like he lived there.
And for the first time in weeks, it wasn’t sex that happened first.
It was silence.
He sat on her couch, head back, eyes closed.
She curled beside him, curled into him, cheek against his shoulder, breathing him in like she’d been starving for oxygen.
They didn’t kiss.
Not for a while.
Just stayed like that, fingers lightly tangled, heartbeat syncing through skin.
And when he finally looked down at her—
She knew.
They both did.
This was the last time.
Not out of anger. Not out of resentment.
But because they couldn’t keep surviving each other.
When he kissed her, it was slow.
Deliberate.
Like he was memorizing her mouth in case it faded from him.
Olivia let him take his time.
Let herself fall into the rhythm of him—his hands under her shirt, his mouth on her collarbone, the way he exhaled against her skin like it hurt to need this much.
He didn’t tie her up this time.
Didn’t press her down.
He touched her like reverence, like worship.
Like maybe if he was soft enough, it wouldn’t break them.
She came with his name on her lips and tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.
Not because it wasn’t good.
But because it was too good.
Too much.
Too final.
Frank held her afterward.
No words.
Just his hand stroking her spine, over and over, like muscle memory he wasn’t ready to forget.
And she held him back.
Let him fall asleep with his face buried in her neck and his hand still wrapped loosely around her wrist.
She woke before he did.
Frank’s arm was still slung over her waist, his breath warm at the nape of her neck, their legs tangled like neither of them had been willing to let go even in sleep.
Olivia stared at the wall.
She didn’t move.
Didn’t blink.
Because the moment she did, it would become real.
The last time.
The end of the storm they’d been drowning in together.
Because she knew—deep down—they couldn’t keep doing this without shattering completely.
When he stirred behind her, she pretended to still be asleep.
His grip tightened for a moment.
Then loosened.
And slowly, carefully, he pulled away.
She listened to the soft rustle of clothes, the creak of her floorboards, the zipper of his jacket.
Then silence.
No goodbye.
Not even the sound of the door.
When she rolled over, there was a small piece of notebook paper folded on his pillow.
Just in case you forget—
I never wanted just your body.
I just knew it was the only part of you you’d give me.
—F.
Olivia didn’t cry.
She didn’t scream.
She folded the note, tucked it under the mattress, and went to make coffee.
Because what else was there left to do?
They didn’t talk for a while.
Not about that night.
Not about any of them.
They’d still see each other. Still exchange texts. Still exist in each other’s worlds.
But they kept the conversation light.
Safe.
Surface-level.
Because the deeper they went, the closer they’d come to saying what they were both terrified to admit:
That they loved each other.
That they wanted more.
But that they didn’t trust themselves not to destroy it.
Some nights, Olivia would stare at her phone, finger hovering over his contact.
Frank.
The man who made her body sing and her heart ache.
She never called.
He never did either.
They’d drawn their line in the sand.
Crossing it now would mean setting fire to the only version of them they knew how to survive.
So they stayed.
On either side.
Starving in silence.
It had been three months.
No texts.
No hookups.
No voicemails whispered at midnight.
Olivia didn’t expect to see him again—not like that.
Not in line at the grocery store with a bottle of whiskey and a loaf of bread in his basket.
Not in front of her, broad shoulders stiff when he turned and met her eyes like a punch to the chest.
She swallowed hard.
“Hey.”
Frank looked like he hadn’t slept. His jaw was clenched, his eyes darker than she remembered—still beautiful. Still dangerous.
Still him.
“Hey,” he said, voice quiet.
She didn’t ask why he was buying whiskey alone. He didn’t ask if she was still seeing that guy she used to joke about dating when she got lonely.
They just stood there.
Tense.
Stripped bare by time and everything they never said.
She invited him over.
He said yes.
There was no kiss this time.
No lingering glance as he sat on her couch, no hand brushing hers just for the excuse to touch.
They talked.
Just talked.
They talked about books they hadn’t finished, jobs they hated, music that made them cry. They talked about the worst parts of themselves, the things they didn’t tell anyone else.
They didn’t touch.
They didn’t need to.
Because the ache between them was loud enough without it.
At some point, Olivia turned to him.
“I think we broke each other.”
Frank stared at the floor. “I think we were already broken.”
“But we didn’t help.”
“No,” he agreed. “We didn’t.”
A long pause.
Then she whispered, “Why did you never ask me to try? Really try?”
He met her gaze. “Because I was scared that if we gave this a name… it would stop working.”
Olivia looked down.
Nodded.
“Me too.”
He didn’t stay the night.
No sex.
No begging.
No breathless ruin wrapped in tangled limbs and bitten lips.
Just a hug.
A quiet, tight, desperate hug at her door. The kind that said more than either of them ever had out loud.
And then he was gone.
Again.
They wouldn’t see each other for a long time after that.
But sometimes, Olivia would wake up with phantom fingers around her wrist.
And Frank would smell her shampoo on the wind and close his eyes, just for a second too long.
They never got their happy ending.
But they got something else.
Something that lived in every undone button, every half-breath they’d ever stolen from each other.
A maybe.
A what-if.
A memory that never stopped burning.