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You suppose it shouldn't come as a surprise that Franky seems to know exactly what you want. You're pretty used to her reading you like a book in every conversation you've ever had. You don't know whether you're too transparent or if she's just really good at seeing through you (though you suspect it may be a combination of the two).
If it had happened just once, just the first time, you'd have chalked it up to coincidence- simply the fortunate but accidental result of those moments when your body moves independent of your brain.
But when it happens again, the second time? No, there was intent in that. Franky knew.
You wonder if she knew instinctively before the first time. If she'd thought about it, examined every moment of your interactions and seen what you were hiding (but always seemed so much closer to the surface when Franky was around). Something about the idea thrills you; the notion that someone could know you so well, see inside you so intimately, from talking alone.
Or had the first time been an accident and she had simply learned from your reaction as your body had betrayed you? Had she felt the way your body relaxed and gave into her, pleasure flooding your veins as she pressed down, and filed the information away for later?
Either way, she knows it now. She knows just what to do and it occurs to you that she might have done this before, with other women; the thought simultaneously ratchets up your body temperature and fills you with inexplicable and entirely unjustified jealousy. It makes you grind closer to her and she growls at you then, taking her hands away from your throat and pushing you back against the wall by your hips. Her eyes focus on yours and the fire there only makes it harder not to reach out again.
“Don't do that again.” Her voice is quiet but almost frighteningly forceful. You nod, swallowing hard. “Promise me.”
“I won't. I promise.”
The words are forced past your lips as you feel the heat burning your cheeks. Your instincts (your upbringing, your expectations, your conditioning) tell you that you should be embarrassed, to love this as much as you do. But Franky's gaze is firm and unwavering, no hint of humour or awkwardness. She is all desire and sincerity and you remind yourself again that you don't have to be ashamed of this, not with her. (You never asked for her trust and she never gave it, but it's there, unspoken and unbreakable.)
“Good.”
She lets go of your hips then, trails her hands back up your torso, barely touching. She lets her hands rest softly on your neck, one on either side of your throat. The mere presence of them is enough to make your breath catch and your eyes slide closed. She leans in to press firm kisses up the column of your throat, right from between your collarbones up to your chin. Her nails mark faint red lines down the side of your neck. Restraining yourself from moving is nearly impossible even as knowing that she forbade you to sets your skin alight all over again.
Franky kisses you then, not even close to being as bruising as the first one, but hard and unforgiving all the same. She doesn't pull away as she ends the kiss. Instead her lips hover over yours, not quite touching. When she presses down with her thumbs on either side of your neck and you gasp, it feels like you're stealing the air right from between her lips.
She keeps up the pressure until your head falls back against the wall and you're sure she can sense the way your limbs start to feel lighter. You force your eyes open and the look on her face hits you like a train. You expected lust, and there's plenty of it, but there's an edge to her gaze that tells you she enjoys doing this to you as much as you enjoy being on the other side. Her eyes burn with the power of it and she drops one hand, spreading the other around your throat (just like the first time, and the memories only make your reaction more intense).
She slides her other hand under your skirt and against your heated skin. The hand around your throat tightens and you can feel the edges of your reality begin to blur. Your surroundings are rapidly disappearing, leaving only Franky and the pleasure filling your body.
(And really, it's nothing like when you tried to do this for yourself, hot and frustrated one night when Mark was working late.)
Just as it feels like your consciousness is about to float away, Franky seems to know (of course she does) and her movements between your thighs intensify. You're vaguely aware of her resting her head next to yours and then her voice drifts in through the haze.
“I can do what I want to you, don't forget that. I decide.”
Her words feel as though they're all around you, as if they're coming from the intercom system, surrounding you and filling the room. The combination of all the sensations, her hand between your legs, the one still gripping your neck hard enough to bruise, and her words- all of them flaunting her control over you- tips you over the edge.
You'd had an idea what it would feel like from your lonely experiments but the full feeling is beyond imagining. The rush is like the most intense of drug highs, intoxicating, setting every nerve on fire. You've never felt your body- and mind- come apart this way before. The colours of the room burst behind your closed eyes as the euphoria consumes every inch of you and your thighs become slick with your release. You know instantly why they say it's addictive; you already know you'll beg Franky for this again and again and again.
Franky, who holds you in strong arms as you explode and take in deep gulps of air. Franky, who strokes your hair back from the sweat-soaked skin of your face, and presses soft kisses to the blossoming bruises on your neck, as reality slowly filters back in.