Always Only You

by Chloe Liese

“Well, I get it,” I tell him. “You know I wear earplugs during games.” My hip twinges with discomfort and wobbles a little. Before I take a spill and make Ren crap his pants with worry, I grab one of the stools from his kitchen island and ease myself onto it. “Still, it has to bum you out that your parents don’t come.”

  I do a tally of the family that I have observed at Ren’s games. Freya, the eldest, who came with some hunk with Caribbean blue eyes and black hair—Aiden, I think was his name. Ryder and Willa of course—they’ve come the most. Then, the older brother, Axel, who came alone and looked like he’d swallowed something sour. We didn’t meet. I just saw him from a distance when he awkwardly hugged Ren, then took off. What about the other ones? “You have a bajillion siblings. One of them couldn’t hang with Ziggy so your parents can attend a game?”

  No answer.

  “Do your brothers and sisters know why your jersey number is seven?”

  His whole body stiffens. I watch his throat work as he swallows. “I just like the number seven.”

  “Bullshit, Zenzero. It’s for your family. Seven siblings, isn’t it?”

  Who barely come to his games. In what world does being a professional hockey player make you the black sheep of the family?

  As if he’s followed my train of thought, he shrugs, opening the oven and peering in. A burst of cinnamon and sugar wafts from behind the oven door, but before I can glimpse what’s in there, he snaps it shut. “The Bergmans aren’t a hockey family.”

  “You’re Swedish for Christ’s sake. Northern Europeans invented hockey.”

  “Nova Scotians, sweet pea.”

  I choke on nothing particular except the absurdity of what just came out of his mouth. “I’m sorry, what did you just call me?”

  Ren grins as he turns off the heat underneath the stew and covers it with a lid. “I need an endearment for you. I’m trying them out.”

  “Um. How about Frankie? That’ll do fine.”

  “Pff.” Ren closes the distance between us, standing inside my legs. Those warm, calloused hands slip around my neck and delve into my hair, massaging aching muscles. “You call me sweet things.”

  I groan as he hits a tender spot. It makes my eyes fall shut. “The Italian word for a root vegetable. And a thinly veiled reference to a brutal, pillaging Viking. Not exactly amorous.”

  “They don’t have to be amorous,” he says quietly. “They just have to be mine, for you…turtledove.”

  “Nope.”

  “Huckleberry.”

  “Hell, no.”

  “Lambkin.”

  I crack an eye open and give him a look. “You’re hopeless.”

  “We both knew that.” He presses a long kiss to my forehead again. “You’re in my kitchen,” he whispers, tipping my head up to meet his eyes. “Pinch me.”

  I grab a nice little bit of skin at his side. Just skin, because there sure as shit isn’t any fat on his torso.

  “Ow! Frankie, I was being figurative.”

  Oops. “Sorry. I’m a literal gal, Zenzero.” I grab his hips and pull him closer. “Let me kiss it better.”

  Sliding my hands under his shirt, I shiver with the delight of my palms running over that taut warm skin, the ridges of his stomach.

  A low, strangled noise rumbles out of his throat. “Frankie—”

  “Shh. I won’t go too far.”

  I spot the tiny red mark where I pinched. Leaning toward him, I press my lips to his stomach, then slowly trail my way to just above his hip. It feels much sexier than seems logical. I mean, it’s his stomach. I’m kissing a boo-boo.

  But then his fingers slip through my hair, and helplessly, he tips his hips forward.

  “Careful, you’ll poke my eye out with that thing.” I kiss his stomach again and palm the formidable outline of his erection straining those sinful sweatpants.

  On a groan, he pulls away and bends over, hands on his knees as he takes long slow breaths. Just like after sprints on the ice. It’s oddly satisfying to see I’ve affected him that much. “You’re dangerous, Francesca.”

  I smile down at him and pat his back. “’Bout time you figured that out.”

  Belly full of Ren’s killer cooking, we’re settled on Ren’s couch watching Sense and Sensibility. Hugh Grant stands across the screen from Emma Thompson, both of them dressed in Austenian clothes. Hugh, as Edward Ferrars, is trying to talk to Emma Thompson, playing Elinor of course. But he’s just awkward as hell. I can’t think of anyone who has cornered the market on adorably awkward better than old-school Hugh Grant.

  Then again, Ren’s pretty good at working the adorkable angle, too.

  Ren shifts slightly, sliding his fingers through mine again, and squeezing gently. Never enough to hurt my fingers. Which is good, because they’re throbbing just fine on their own.

  I’ve tried to ignore for the past two days that my normal baseline discomfort has ratcheted up to nagging pain and stiffness. I shouldn’t be flaring. The biologics and low-dose corticosteroids I take generally work well. If a flare’s coming, I’m going to be pissed. Unfortunately, there’s really nothing I can do except wait and see. And burrow deeper into Ren’s arms as I yawn.

  My eyes keep drooping, not because I’m bored. The movie’s gorgeous. It has my attention. I’m enjoying comparing what I’m reading for book club to the film and noticing the liberties they’ve taken. But the truth is the team’s schedule gets to me. And trekking all day through various degrees of pain and discomfort, not to mention the mental work of keeping up with a demanding job and all the socializing, wears me out.

  Then there’s being tucked inside Ren’s arms. His legs, too. It’s so cozy, I can’t help but feel sleepy, lounging on his massive sofa in the living room. Dove gray. Soft linen. Plush yet firm. The solid wall of his chest heats my back, and the heft of his arms around me is more soothing than my weighted blanket.

  Soft lips press to my temple. “Still awake, sugar lump?”

  I half-heartedly jab him with my elbow.

  “That answers that,” he groans.

  “You know what you can call me?” I glance up as he leans over me and we brush noses.

  He kisses the tip of mine. “What?”

  “Grumpapotamus.”

  He frowns. “I don’t like calling you any iteration of grumpy.” Smoothing my hair back from my face, he stares down at me. “You’re not grumpy. You’re just…”

  “Grumpy. We’ve discussed this. Best not to dispute it. Better to ask why?”

  He sighs. “Okay. Why?”

  I slide my hand along his thigh and watch his jaw tic. “Because I want to turn off the movie. And stop playing spoons.”

  A slow grin warms his face. “You don’t like cuddling?”

  “I mean, I do. You’re a top-notch cuddler.”

  He dips his head in a bow. “Thank you.”

  “I just want more.”

  Ren unthreads his fingers from my hand and cradles my jaw in his grasp, his thumb scraping across my lips. “We’ll get there, Frankie. I want more, too,” he whispers, before his mouth sweeps softly over mine. He nudges my lips open, teases the tip of his tongue against mine.

  I wrap an arm around his neck and slide my fingers through his hair. It’s silky yet thick, and he sighs into my mouth when I scrape my nails along his scalp. Ren wraps an arm around my waist while one hand cups my face, his thumb gentling the dimple in my cheek. His touch is restrained tenderness. But his kiss is pure hunger.

  Sparks skitter across my skin and heat pours through my veins as a sweet ache settles between my thighs. I’ve made out a good bit in my day, and up until now I would have said it was a pretty fine history of tongue tangles and handsy gropes. But as our kiss deepens and my body warms under his touch, I’m confronted with a new understanding of the past. Nothing I’ve done prepared me. Nothing compares to this.

  Ren pulls back and grins, his gaze not leaving my lips. I’m waiting. For hands to slide down my waist, to shuck my leggings and rub me to a rough,
powerful orgasm, but instead, I feel warm fingers, calloused and rough, weaving through mine again.

  A shuddering sigh leaves me. I’m painfully aroused. Perplexed and in awe that someone who’s waited this long seems determined to wait longer.

  Ren brings my hand to his mouth and presses hot, slow, open-mouthed kisses to my palm, then every tip of my finger. I’m practically panting, arching toward him as his mouth drifts to the tender inside of my wrist. His tongue swirls in slow, steady circles which aren’t hard to imagine teasing somewhere else that longs for touch.

  Exhaling slowly, Ren plants one last kiss to my wrist, then lowers it. I stare at him in obvious confusion, my hair mussed from his fingers, my lips parted.

  A dry laugh jumps out of him, before he stifles it. “Come on, honey bun. Time for bed.”

  I gape at him as he stands and holds out a hand for me. “Are you shitting me?”

  “Okay, so ‘honey bun’ was weak, I’ll give you that.”

  “Not that.”

  He frowns, before recognition dissolves the crease between his brows. “Oh. Going to bed. No. It’s late. Why wouldn’t we go to bed?”

  “Well, uh.” I gesture to the massive hard-on that’s at my eye level, about to bust his sweatpants. “I’d say we have a good eight inches of reason right there.”

  Sighing, he tries and completely fails to adjust himself. A hard-on like that isn’t going anywhere. “It’s fine.”

  “Whatever you say.” Taking his hand, I leverage myself up with a bit more effort than normal, straightening slowly and assessing him for any signs of fussing or pity. But he just watches me intently, observing, absorbing. Nothing more.

  “You might be fine,” I tell him. “But if you thought a hangry Frankie was scary, you’re looking at a sexually frustrated Frankie. Brace yourself.”

  Stepping close, Ren wraps his arms around my back and pulls me close. “I said let’s go to bed, Francesca, not to sleep.”

  With a quick kiss to the tip of my nose, he spins away, going through what I already know after a few nights staying with him is his nightly routine of locking up. Double-checking the security system and locks. Making sure the outdoor motion-sensor lights are on.

  Pazza snuffles awake from her position near the door where she’s been snoring. Ren sweeps up my cane, then sets it by my side.

  While I stand dumbstruck, wondering how a virgin got so damn good at the game of seduction.

  21

  Ren

  Playlist: “Toothpaste Kisses,” The Maccabees

  After I locked up last night, we brushed teeth side by side at the twin sinks in my bathroom, Frankie scowling around toothpaste suds and the hum of her electric brush, me grinning at her reflection in the mirror. Before I had her over last night, as I cooked and tidied up and changed the sheets on the bed, I had a long think about what Frankie told me at lunch the day prior. How scary this was for her, to open up and try being together.

  The only thing I have on my side, I realized, is time. Time to show her I can take it slow, build trust and comfort. Time to show her I don’t find a single thing about how she ticks or what she needs to be intrusive or inconvenient or anything else the people from her past made her feel.

  So, when she came over, I held her hand instead of slipping it inside those tight black leggings, much as I wanted to. I swirled my tongue over the silky skin of her wrist, rather than the silky skin between her thighs.

  What I failed to anticipate was exactly how cranky it would make her to go slow. So, making an adjustment, I figured I’d tuck her in, touch and kiss her, give her an orgasm and put a smile on her face. After brushing teeth, I kissed her thoroughly to try to erase that pout darkening her features. It seemed to work somewhat, because she wandered out of the bathroom without any cranking, straight toward my bed, where she dropped with a groaning flop.

  But by the time I showered off, used the bathroom, and came out, she was snoring softly, tucked inside the blankets, her dark hair a splash of ink against paper-white sheets.

  Slipping into bed, I thanked God for my memory foam mattress that absorbs motion and didn’t even shift her body in the least as I settled in next to her, before I turned off the light. And then I curled around Francesca Zeferino, kissed her cheek as I breathed her in, and fell asleep.

  Her soft moan is the first thing I hear. Then birds chirping outside. I blink awake to sunlight bathing her in its glow and lift my head enough to get a good look at her. Frankie’s eyes are scrunched shut, her jaw tight. I can’t tell if she’s dreaming or just pissed that she’s partially awake.

  Glancing over my shoulder, I read my clock. It’s only a few minutes until my alarm goes off, so I silence it, before it starts playing banjo music and makes the little ray of sunshine in my arms likely to commit murder.

  Another quiet groan leaves her. Carefully, I prop myself up on my elbow, searching her for the reason she sounds so uncomfortable.

  She has arthritis, bud. Of course, she’s uncomfortable, especially in the morning.

  Not that Frankie needs to know, but once I realized what she was dealing with, I did my homework on RA. I know the cost of sleep. Lying still settles inflammation in your joints and stiffens them. It’s unavoidable.

  But why is she hurting? Aren’t her meds supposed to manage that? A fierce surge of worry and protectiveness blasts through me. I want to wrap her up and kiss it all better. I want to take everything inside her that hurts and put it in my body. I’m big. Solid. Someone like me should have this, not someone like Frankie. It’s unfair. Patently unfair.

  “Think any louder,” she grumbles, “and you’ll wake me up.”

  I smile, gently sliding my hand down her arm and back up as I press a kiss to the crook of her neck. “Morrn, morrn, min solstråle.”

  “Calling me names again.”

  I huff a laugh. “I just said, ‘Good morning, my sunshine.’”

  “Sunshine or not, nothing good about mornings.” On a long groan, she rolls slowly from her stomach to her back, her face pinched. “At least not for me.”

  “Frankie, what’s wrong?”

  She sighs. “Mornings are the worst. And you don’t have a heated mattress pad. Which is basically the only thing that helps.”

  Relief soars through me. “Actually, I do.” Leaning past her, careful not to press on her body, I flip the switch for my heated mattress pad. It was one of my first purchases when I signed with the team to combat the muscle soreness and body aches from playing a whole new level of hockey, a good chunk of change for the promise that it’s up to temp in less than thirty seconds.

  “You do?” Her big hazel eyes widen. A long happy sigh leaves her as warmth floods the surface of my bed. “You do.”

  I stare down at her, taking in her face, still soft with drowsiness, a pillow wrinkle slashed across her cheek. Her hair’s uncharacteristically frizzy, and her lips look extra full, pursed in sleepiness.

  “You’re staring at me,” she whispers.

  I nod, bend, and press a kiss to her jaw, then her neck. Everything about her is smooth and soft, so impossibly tempting.

  This is why I put on fresh sweatpants when I got into bed last night—I’m so hard, the brush of the sheets, the weight of the blanket over us is nearly excruciating. I want so badly to spread her thighs, grasp her hips, and sink inside her—to feel Frankie’s body tight around mine, to move with her and hear her cry out, but now’s not the time. Not yet.

  You say that a lot, Bergman. Not now. Not yet.

  Tell me about it. Or rather, tell it to my tortured morning wood.

  “I’ll be back,” I whisper against her neck.

  Throwing off the sheets, I jump out of bed and pull on a shirt. Another noise coming from Frankie makes me spin around, shirt halfway down my chest. “What is it?”

  She frowns at me. “I wouldn’t have minded my coffee delivered by a shirtless Søren, that’s all I’m saying.”

  I tug down my shirt the rest of the way. “I’m feeling
rather objectified right now, Francesca. Now, I planned on bringing a breakfast snack and some coffee. Need anything else?”

  She shakes her head. “Besides your nakedness? Nope.”

  Pazza’s been lying dutifully at the foot of the bed but she bolts upright when I open the bedroom door. There’s a happiness to the pound of her paws, her nails clattering on the hardwood floors, that makes me smile. I pull open the sliding door, watch her run across the deck, down the steps and to the sand, where she promptly pees on the row of fescue that partially shields my property from the shore. She runs a bit farther off, sprinting across the hard sand, terrorizing a seagull.

  When I whistle, she comes running back up the deck, pausing long enough for me to hose down her legs and towel her off.

  “Breakfast, pup.”

  She jogs over to her bowl of food that Frankie packed, while I make Frankie’s coffee how I know she likes and warm two of the cinnamon rolls that I baked.

  It’s domestic. And peaceful. Letting out the dog, making coffees while Frankie rests in bed and has some time to get comfortable for her day.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself. She said she’s nervous to do this. She said she’ll try. That’s it.

  Worry tightens my stomach. While I value Frankie’s honesty, her forthright communication style that seems to go hand in hand with autism, being so keenly aware of her apprehension about a relationship is nerve-wracking. I’m mildly terrified Frankie’s going to break my heart before she even realizes it’s hers to shatter.

  Pazza whines up at me and cocks her head. If dogs smile, this one just did.

  Sweeping up the tray of goods, I stroll down the hall, shoulder open the door, and nearly drop everything. Frankie’s sitting up in bed in nothing but one of my V-neck undershirts. On me, it’s snug, fitted enough to be invisible beneath the tailored dress shirts I have to wear before and after every game. But on Frankie, it drapes.

  Torturously.

  The “V” neckline knifes down her chest, exposing her collarbones and the line of her sternum, the shadow curving between her full breasts. Dark nipples poke sharply against the fabric. Staring at them, my mouth waters.