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Summary
But then clean, manicured fingertips brush the side of his bashed up head, glide over the uneven row of Lieberman’s stitches, and there are definitely words being said, but he can't quite focus on anything else other than the fact that she's touching him.
He remembers the heat of her palm on his shoulder from the elevator. How close she’d been there, too.
Suddenly every inch of their bodies are pressed together as he groans into her mouth; not so much a kiss as a release of energy, muscle memory and dopamine, making his head spin and his hands wander, and before he knows it they're half-naked and she's pulling him toward her bedroom.
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Another "Frank shows up to Karen's apartment after the bombing" fic, and... well, you can guess the rest.