RED NOTES AND KISSES-Chapter 42: FRIDA -

The bar radiates an aura of elegance and mystery, its interior a harmonious blend of modern luxury and timeless charm.

Outside, a sultry red neon sign casts a seductive glow, beckoning passersby with a promise of indulgence.

Inside, the ambiance shifts to one of understated sophistication. Warm, ambient lighting cascades from crystal chandeliers, casting a golden glow that reflects off polished mahogany surfaces.

The bar counter, a stunning slab of black marble with golden veins, stretches across the room, illuminated by an underlit LED strip that gives it an ethereal, floating appearance.

Women in short, clingy dresses drink and chatter with their dates or friends, their laughter mingling with the soft hum of jazz from a grand piano resting on a small stage.

Behind the counter, rows of backlit glass shelves display an impressive collection of bottles, their vibrant hues adding a splash of color to the muted, sophisticated palette.

Velvet barstools in deep emerald green line the counter, while cozy alcoves with plush leather couches offer private corners for more intimate conversations.

As he moved through the bar, heads turned. Some glances were fleeting and curious, others lingered with a mix of worry or interest, nothing new.

The herringbone floor beneath his steps barely whispered of his presence, but he felt their gazes following him.

One woman in particular, seated with a glass of wine, locked her eyes on Frida in his arms.

Her gaze flickered with jealousy, lips pursing slightly as she looked away. He smirked at that, pulling Frida closer to him, a subtle but deliberate gesture.

The room seemed to dim momentarily, the soft glow of candles on each table reflecting in the vintage mirrors lining the walls.

The night was alive with subtle tensions and unspoken stories, each sip of a cocktail an indulgence and a secret.

As he carried Frida out of the bar, the bartender’s voice croaked nervously behind them, breaking the charged silence. "Boss, hey, is she your girl?"

Frida heard the tremor in the bartender’s laugh, and she felt the deep rumble of the man holding her vibrate against her cheek.

"Are you the one who gave her that stuff?" His voice was so rich, so deep, it made her toes curl. "I should fire you."

The bartender winced audibly. "I-I tried to offer her something lighter, I swear, but she’s a bit stubborn."

And then he chuckled, a sound so low and velvety it slid over her skin like a caress. "I’m aware," he replied simply.

The cool Vegas night wrapped around them as they stepped outside, the lively energy of the streets mingling with the slow burn sparking between them.

Frida hiccuped softly, her head snuggling deeper into his chest.

His scent overwhelmed her, clean, spicy, and utterly intoxicating. Her nose brushed against him as she whispered, "You smell so good."

He chuckled again, and it was the most beautiful sound she’d ever heard. Or maybe she was just really drunk. "You’re just really drunk," he said, echoing her thoughts.

Her heavy-lidded gaze peeked down between them, drawn to the strength of his swaying arms.

Damn, he worked out. Her hands moved over the hoodie encasing his hard muscles, and she felt his breath hitch.

"You feel so good," she moaned softly, her fingers tracing the solid outlines of his triceps and biceps. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

A faint tremble coursed through him, and she felt it under her fingertips.

The realization sent a wave of heat flooding through her. "Your arms are so strong," she whispered, her voice a seductive purr. "I want to touch them."

She shifted in his arms, leaning closer, her breath brushing warmly against his neck. Then, with deliberate slowness, she pressed her lips against his skin, just a fleeting kiss on his throat.

He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His voice was thick when he finally spoke. "Don’t do that, Frida."

Her name rolled off his tongue like a forbidden caress, and she shivered at the way it sounded.

The cool breeze was a sharp contrast to the heat crackling between them, a current of desire so electric it left her breathless.

Her drunken thoughts slipped out before she could stop them. "I burned my hair today," she blurted suddenly.

A low rumble of amusement escaped him, but she wasn’t done. "Should I cut it? Would you like it long or short?"

He didn’t answer immediately, and she tilted her head curiously, her small hand reaching up to wrap gently around his throat. "Say something," she demanded softly.

His breathing quickened, his restraint palpable. "Jesus, Frida, you’re making this hard..." His voice was a dark, rich baritone, each word laced with need.

"Look, I like your hair long, short, curly, straight, heck, you look good in all of them."

She blinked up at him, her wide eyes locking on his. She could feel how her touch, her presence, unraveled him. And she loved it. "I want you," she whispered suddenly, her hands sliding lower, brushing over the hard planes of his chest, then lower still.

Her fingers caressed the impressive length of him through his pants, and his entire body tensed as if the world itself had paused. His sharp inhale was like music to her ears.

"I want you right now," she whispered again, her voice husky, filled with conviction.

Her hands traced up his body, exploring every curve of muscle beneath his hoodie, until she reached the edge of the mask obscuring his face.

She pressed her fingertips lightly against it. "Show me your face," she demanded, her voice both tender and commanding.

His breaths came faster, harsher, his chest rising and falling against her. "I know you want me," she teased softly, her lips curving into a knowing smile.

"You have no idea," he rasped, his voice so low it sent a shiver racing down her spine.

In one swift motion, he opened the car door and gently placed her in the driver’s seat.

His massive form hovered over her for a moment, so close she could feel the heat radiating off him.

His dark eyes burned with an intensity that stole the air from her lungs, the fire between them so raw, so potent, it left her trembling.

Her heart hammered wildly as he leaned in, his face mere inches from hers. His voice dropped to a sultry whisper, every word wrapping around her like silk.

"When I make love to you, Frida..." he began, his gaze searing into hers. "I want you sober and very present, so you’ll always remember, while looking me in the eye."

The sheer power in his words left her breathless, her lips parting as heat coursed through her veins.

And in that moment, nothing else existed, only him, only her, and the undeniable pull between them.

The words were on repeat in her head.

When he makes love to her...not when he fucks her...makes love to her!