He froze, then chuckled.
“Not the shoes! Never the shoes!” Maybe the cat wasn’t a complete failure. One well-timed heel homicide, paired with a disastrous night in bed, and Frankie would pack her Birkin and wigs and bolt in the night.
Another thirty minutes crawled by.
Marcus lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, willing it to cough up another answer to the problem.
None materialized. Bad sex it was. Game plan needed.
Move one: skip the foreplay. No touching, no teasing, no rhythm. Just…efficiency. He winced. The words alone felt like erectile kryptonite.
Move two: Eye contact at the wrong times. Mid-adjustment, mid-condom, mid-everything. Hold it too long. Unblinking. The kind of eye contact that said, “I’m memorizing your dental records.”
Yes, that would definitely kill the mood.
Move three: unnecessary compliments. Not the good kind. The awkward, oddly specific kind. “Nice…elbow.” Or, “Your breathing is so symmetrical.” Maybe even, “That’s a really trustworthy kneecap.”
None of them sounded remotely doable. His body wasn’t wired for mediocrity. Every cell screamed mutiny. The mere thought of Frankie unimpressedmade his blood thrum with the urge to deliver a highlight reel, not a blooper reel.
If anything, the thought of Frankie lying beneath him, unimpressed, triggered the exact opposite instinct. His blood already hummed, ready to prove her vibrator was third-string material at best.
His phone dinged with a message.
Frankie:Marcus, how long are you going to hide out in your bedroom?
Not responding, he headed for her room and pushed the door open without knocking. Nothing he was doing tonight would resemble good manners or competent execution. “I’m here. Try to contain your excitement.”
Frankie was stretched out on the covers, one arm tossed dramatically over her head, the other stroking the fur of the cat now perched like a cursed gargoyle at her side. “It’s a good thing I’m not agreeing to have sex with you because I like your personality, because your personality ranks somewhere between expired yogurt and a speeding ticket.”
He grunted.
She wore nothing but black lace panties and her own straight blonde hair, the wig abandoned on a nearby lamp.
The cat narrowed its one good eye at him, pure Bond villain…minus the martini and volcano lair.
“Surprised you haven’t tossed him off the balcony yet,” Marcus said.
“Hush. You’ll hurt his feelings.”
“He’s a cat. He’ll cope. You ready?”
This was it. Time to execute his nuclear option. He could do this. His goal tonight was simple. Assassinate his own bedroom reputation. Just plain suck. The thought nearly gave him hives.
“Ready when you are,” she said, her voice silk-smooth but laced with amusement.
He leaned in. No kissing. Too intimate. Instead, he brushed his lips against her collarbone in the most perfunctory graze imaginable, stamping the moment with all the enthusiasm of a man clocking in for work.
Then, reluctantly, gracelessly, he stood, shoved down his boxers, and kicked them aside with a hostility that had nothing to do with the fabric. He removed her underwear in a purely perfunctory manner. “It speeds things up if we start naked.”
She blinked up at him. “Wow. Not even a preheat cycle? Bold choice.”
“I’m tired. Long day. No energy for…sparkles, fireworks, or whatever it is you expect.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Just as I suspected. You’re afraid you can’t do it twice, so now you’re acting all macho to avoid failure. Newsflash, ego doesn’t count as stamina.”
“Fine. Let’s do foreplay. Open sesame.” He sighed heavily and dropped to his knees between hers, every moment weighted with obligation rather than desire.
He pressed his mouth to her inner thigh. Half-hearted. Awkward. A sabotage masterclass.
