More from Frankie

• Frankie’s Very Merry Bad Decisions

  November 30, 2025

  🎄 Frankie’s Very Merry Bad Decisions 🎁

  Frankie should’ve stopped drinking an hour before she actually did—but the Christmas party cocktails were sweet, cold, and kept magically appearing in her hand. By the time the music got loud and the lights turned soft and gold, her inhibitions had melted like snow under a heat lamp. And she wasn’t the only one feeling bold. She caught her coworker Mason watching her over his glass. Dark suit, loosened tie, the kind of quiet guy who always kept things professional… except tonight, he didn’t look away. He held her gaze. Slow. Intentional. Hungry. Frankie’s body warmed instantly. It didn’t help that her other coworker, Jordan, slid in behind her and murmured in her ear, “You look incredible tonight.” The compliment hit harder than it should’ve. Maybe it was the alcohol—maybe it was the way Jordan’s hand brushed her waist just a little too long—but something inside her snapped. “Do you two want to get out of here?” she asked, voice low and reckless. They didn’t answer. They just followed. In the empty conference room, the door barely clicked shut before Mason kissed her—hard, urgent, like he’d been thinking about it for months. Jordan’s hands roamed her hips, her thighs, sliding higher, tugging at her dress like he couldn’t decide whether to pull it up or rip it off. Frankie moaned into Mason’s mouth as Jordan pressed against her from behind, his breath hot on her neck. Their bodies sandwiched her, grinding, touching, claiming. “God, Frankie…” Mason groaned. “You taste sweet.” “She feels even sweeter,” Jordan added, fingers slipping under her dress. Her head fell back, a soft cry escaping her lips. She didn’t care who heard. She didn’t care about the office. She didn’t care about anything except the heat flooding her body and the way these two men were devouring her like she was their late-night Christmas dessert. Mason lifted her onto the conference table, knocking pens and tinsel out of the way. Jordan pushed between her legs while Mason kissed down her throat, his hands gripping her thighs, pulling her closer like he couldn’t get enough. She gasped, back arching, legs trembling. “Frankie,” Jordan growled against her skin, “you’re so damn needy tonight.” “Drunk,” she whispered. “And horny.” “Good,” Mason answered. “We’ve wanted you for a long time.” Her mind barely processed the words before another wave of heat rolled through her. Their mouths, their hands, the way they touched her everywhere at once—Frankie could barely breathe. And she didn’t want to. By the time they were finished with her, her dress was wrinkled, her lipstick smeared, and she was sprawled across the conference table like the naughtiest holiday decoration anyone had ever seen. Jordan tucked her hair behind her ear. Mason kissed her swollen lips. “Merry Christmas, Frankie,” Mason murmured. She smirked, breathless and ruined. “Best. Party. Ever.”

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• Frankie’s Midnight Pickup

  November 16, 2025

  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.”

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