Always Only You (Bergman Brothers Book 2)

by Chloe Liese

  She smiles. “The heating pad helps my joints, but it makes me sweat like a prostitute in church. None of my shirts felt good when I put them on. Too scratchy. Too hot. I just needed something big and soft and nice smelling.”

  I pop a bite of cinnamon roll in my mouth and graze the back of my hand against her nipple, pebbled sharply through the material. “Glad you found one.”

  “Hope you don’t mind,” she says. A subtle shiver rolls through her as my finger dips between the valley of her breasts and teases the other nipple just the same way. “I riffled through your drawers and found it.”

  My head snaps up. “You went through my drawers?”

  “Mhm,” she says before taking a bite of cinnamon bun and chewing. “Who knew Søren Bergman color-codes his underwear, socks, shirts—”

  I kiss her, if for no other reason than to stop her teasing. And while I know nobody likes morning breath, now we both taste like cinnamon and coffee.

  When I pull away, her eyes are hazy, and she has icing on her lip. I lick it away and feel her breath hitch. “I like things tidy,” I say quietly. “Helps me find them more easily.”

  Her smile is slow but warm, and when she lifts a hand and brushes the hair off my forehead, I want to drop to my knees.

  “Hi,” she whispers.

  “Hi,” I whisper against her lips. I kiss her again, then sit back and lean against the headboard, like her. We eat in quiet, but it’s comfortable. Easy and peaceful.

  Until Frankie finishes her cinnamon roll and licks the tips of her fingers. Not that I’ve been anything less than hard for the past twelve hours, thanks to Frankie’s proximity, but now my cock throbs as a furious ache builds in my groin.

  Frankie tsks and sets down her coffee. “Can’t have that, Zenzero.”

  I glance up from my coffee. “Can’t have wha—Jesus!”

  Her hand slides over my joggers, right between my legs, and I nearly scald us, violently sloshing my coffee as I throw it down on the nightstand. I want to stop her, but if I do, I’m pretty sure I’ll keel over from the blood rushing to every inch of me that Frankie’s palming with expert strokes.

  “F-Frankie, you don’t have to—”

  “Søren Bergman, unless you’re about to go into cardiac arrest or the house is on fire, shut up and let me make you come.”

  I grunt as she releases me and then slides her hand beneath the elastic of my sweats. Turning toward her, I set the tray off the bed, and drag Frankie down, flat on the mattress. My mouth clamps over her nipple, as I suck hard through the cotton of her T-shirt. With new wetness, her nipple’s evident, a dark berry color I want to lick and bite and tease for hours. Cupping her full breasts, I groan appreciatively.

  When I drag my teeth gently over one wet, stiff peak, her fingers delve into my hair. She gasps and arches into me. “Holy shit, Ren.”

  Working her nipple with my mouth, I slip my hand down her stomach and curve it over the wet heat seeping through her panties. Just a faint slide of my finger and her thighs clamp on my touch.

  “Oh. Don’t stop doing that,” she pants. Her fingers tighten in my hair, holding me close. Her hips tilt upward.

  I grin in satisfaction, until I feel her palm gliding over my boxer briefs, her grip hugging the length of me, up and down. “Frankie.”

  It’s all I can say, all I can see and feel. Her lips press to my hair as I suck and tease her nipples, as I gently rub her through her panties, quick, tight circles. Frankie’s hand works me, sure and fast, sending dizzying heat and a furious ache for release surging down my spine. The need to thrust, to drive and pound takes over. I press my hips harder into her grip, feeling the warning of release building, hot and powerful.

  “Ren,” she whispers.

  I lift my head long enough to meet her lips, to kiss her as she cries against my mouth and comes in soft, beautiful waves against my hand.

  I want to savor it—the hazy satisfaction in her eyes, the way she smiles wider than I’ve ever seen her—but her hand is temptation itself, and I’m scrambling at the edge.

  Holding my eyes, she bites my lip, dragging it between her teeth. The pain of it trips the wire that sends me soaring. On a grunt of pure bliss, I come, while Frankie’s hand works me in gentle rubs that stretch out my orgasm.

  After a long, silent moment, I flop back on the bed and pull her carefully with me, holding her head to my chest but distanced from the hot spill all over my stomach. With one firm kiss to the top of her hair, I sigh heavily.

  “Ren?” she says quietly.

  I peer down at her. “Yes?”

  “I’m feeling a little worried.”

  I grasp her chin, tilting her head so she’ll look at me. “Why?” Her face is tight, anxiety clear in her features. “What is it?”

  She reaches and kisses me. “Because if it’s that great when our clothes are on, what the hell’s going to happen when they all come off?”

  Searching her eyes, I try to see why the promise of something so good scares her so much. But I come up short. There’s no answer, other than the fact that all of this is new and unnerving for Frankie, as it is—albeit, in different ways—for me. There’s nothing to be done or dismissed about that. Just space to be made. Time and patience.

  With a kiss to her forehead, I rest my head on hers, allowing quiet to be answer enough.

  For now.

  22

  Frankie

  Playlist: “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” Leanne & Naara

  At some point recently, my life became an Austen novel. As if the book itself might be capable of some kind of sexually repressing black magic, I’m tempted to throw Sense and Sensibility out the window and hope it sends Ren bounding into my room to make an honest woman out of me.

  It’s been beautiful, glorious, dizzying torture. Days of cuddling and finger tangling and making out and dry humping and Holy Saint Francis of Assisi and His Furry Animal Friends, I need Ren to use that big old stick God gave him and score with me already.

  I bypass two of the guys in the hallway, breezing into the training room. I need to find Ren, because it’s four o’clock. Which is when my plan of action kicks in.

  I’m not the world’s best at lying on the spot, but I am damn good at premeditated subterfuge. In precisely three minutes my stomach will start to hurt. I’ll let Ren known I’m going home for the night, that I’ll miss the game.

  Darlene’s in on my plan and made sure one of the PR interns is prepared to at least keep up with Twitter and Instagram during the game, so we’re covered on that front. It’ll only be the second game I’ve ever missed. The first I missed was because I got a horrible chest cold—thank you very much immunosuppressant medications—and finally had to admit defeat, laid up on the couch and yelling hoarsely at the TV while Pazza’s head swiveled furiously between the hockey game and me.

  “Seen Ren?” I ask Lin.

  He shakes his head as John tapes his ankle for him.

  “Schar? Have you seen Bergman?”

  Kris glances up from heel stretches. “Negative, Frankie.”

  Muttering under my breath, I storm out of the training room and roam the halls, my ears attuned, hoping I catch the warm, low tenor of Ren’s voice.

  I’m supposed to be at Ren’s childhood home in exactly one hour, and with the bitch that is LA traffic, I want to leave plenty of time for me to get there and for his parents to make it to the arena. Because Ren Bergman was not playing another professional game without his parents being there, complex family dynamics or not. Plus, it gave me a perfect opportunity to hang out with Ziggy. He talks to her on the phone every day, and a few days ago—sue me—I eavesdropped. Ren caught me, those cat eyes crinkling as he grinned, and the scary connection between that expression and my libido was reinforced, because I nearly came on the spot. “Want to say hi, Francesca?” he said.

  I abhor phone calls, but I have some pride. I took that phone from him, and don’t ya know, chatting with Ziggy was weirdly okay. After that, I felt like w
e had enough foundation for me to act on my idea.

  Lost in thought, I slam right into a familiar chest. Warm, spicy, solid. I have to fist my free hand not to grab him by the shirt and kiss him.

  “Francesca.”

  I smack his stomach. “That’s Frankie to you, Zenzero.”

  “Whatever you say, ladybird.”

  My eyes roll so hard it hurts. “Hopeless.”

  Gently, Ren grasps my arm and steers us to the side of the hallway as Andy and Tyler walk by. I usually don’t sense when people are coming or going around me if my focus is otherwise occupied. I’m that person who’ll stand in the middle of the hallway, gabbing, oblivious to blocking your way.

  “Everything okay?” Ren asks quietly.

  Clearing my throat, I set my hand on my stomach. “Actually, no.”

  The look of sheer panic that immediately tightens his face makes sympathy rush through me. I bring my hand to his chest, an intuitive gesture of reassurance, but then I pull it back when I remember where we are. “I’m okay overall, but my stomach—it’s no bueno.”

  He tips his head. “Your stomach? Did you eat something bad? Do you have a virus?”

  “Ren. Relax.” The fact is that twinging cramps have been bugging me since last night, sharp and persistent. I’ve also been an achy, creaky mess for the past week, too. I’m due to start my period, so it’s not entirely surprising. It makes it much less difficult to feign discomfort. Because I am uncomfortable, just nothing that would normally keep me from working. When you live with chronic pain, you get used to living through it. You just do life, until you collapse. Then you pick yourself up, change around the meds, and try again.

  “It’s…lady stuff,” I tell him.

  He visibly relaxes. “Oh. Okay. You know, I’m not delicate, Frankie. You can say you have cramps and you’re getting your period.”

  I smile at Ren, delighted by his attitude and somewhat surprised. It’s a natural bodily function. I don’t see why we have to wrap it up in euphemisms. But long ago, I learned that’s what’s expected, especially from men. It’s nice to know that with him, I don’t have to play that game.

  “Okay. Yeah. I have horrible cramps, so bad that I’m nauseous. I’m heading home.” Holding his eyes for a brief moment, I slip my fingers inside his, careful that it’s hidden from anyone’s view in the hallway. “Good luck tonight. Hat trick or bust, Bergman.”

  He grins. “As always, I can only promise my best.”

  Isn’t that true. It’s all anyone can do. And so few of us are comfortable admitting that. When I release his hand and start to turn away, Ren calls my name.

  “Yes?”

  Stepping closer, he drops his voice. “Can I come over tonight?”

  “I mean…like I said, I might be out of commission.”

  “I know that. I just want to stay with you.”

  My heart does a pirouette inside my chest. “Oh. Well, sure. But let’s be real. My bed sucks compared to yours. How about I’ll meet you at your place after the game?”

  Ren opens his mouth to speak, pauses, and smiles politely at one of the team coordinators as she passes. When she’s gone, his eyes return to me. “Just go there now. Use the soaker tub in my room, relax. Okay?”

  “Okay.” We hold eyes, and Ren’s jaw tics. I know he wants to hug. Kiss. He has this habit of swaying me in his arms when we hug that’s not only dreamy but soothing. “Bye,” I whisper.

  He squeezes my hand, then releases it. And I walk away with a sinking feeling that grows with each step. I don’t like leaving him without kissing him goodbye.

  Who the hell are you?

  Good question. Something’s shifting inside me, a mere week into this little experiment. One in which I’m prying open the ironclad doors of my heart and letting someone in. Something inside me doesn’t just want to creak those doors open oh-so-slightly. It wants to fling them wide open in welcome. It wants to trust love and tell the universe, do your worst.

  Because there’s no arguing, eventually the universe will.

  Okay. So, meeting Ren’s parents in person was a shit ton more stressful than I thought. I felt like some sneaky teenager who’d almost been caught making out in the basement. They don’t know I’ve savored their son’s breathtaking body with desire guiding my hands. They don’t know that he makes his mother’s cinnamon roll recipe for me and kisses my forehead every morning when he hands me my coffee. They don’t know that I’ve laced profanity with his name so many times as he made me come apart.

  And if I have my druthers, they never will.

  I also felt a tad awkward, first because I snuck Ziggy’s number from Ren’s phone, texted her and asked her if she was okay with my idea—which I simply presented as an opportunity to get her parents out of her hair and talk, girl-to-girl. While the idea was born out of wanting to get Ren’s parents to a damn game already, fact is, I do want to be a friend to Ziggy, to give her some encouragement I could have used when I was first diagnosed. I’m reaching out not only because of this heart-spinning feeling I have for Ren, but also out of genuine concern for Ziggy and a wish to know her better.

  So, then came calling Mrs. Bergman, explaining I was a good friend of Ren’s who knew Ziggy and wanted to offer to hang out with her as another woman on the spectrum, have a heart-to-heart. I told her Ren wasn’t in on this—that I wanted to surprise him with their presence. After which Mrs. Bergman sounded pretty wary. I asked her to use Willa and Ryder as a character reference and call me back.

  She called me not even ten minutes later, sounding a lot nicer than before.

  See, Willa and I are friends. So there.

  When I got to Ren’s beautiful childhood home—sprawling calm, a sea of creamy white walls and natural wood, it was surreal to put a face to his mother’s voice, to see Ren’s eyes and cheekbones in her features. Then greeting his dad with that booming voice and wide smile that I knew instantly he’d given Ren, along with his wavy, copper-penny hair, and broad, powerful build. I was so nervous, my palms were slick with sweat, and my heart was banging against my ribs.

  But once they left, most of my anxiety left with them, leaving just enough nervousness about doing right by Ziggy as I try to reach out to her.

  She stares at the TV, watching the hockey game. The second I glance at the screen, I can pinpoint Ren. Taller than everyone, swooping around the goal. A lick of russet curling around his helmet.

  “One day I want to be able to go,” she says quietly. “I can tell he’s sad I never come. That I make it pretty much impossible for Mom and Dad to go.”

  I don’t say anything right away. I don’t know all of what happened, except that Ren said Ziggy was in a dangerous place at some point. Seems best to simply give her space to talk and process, especially when I don’t know the particulars.

  I don’t touch Ziggy, either, or even sit terribly close. I can tell she doesn’t like it. Since the moment I walked in, she’s kept at least six feet between us. Her parents didn’t hug her goodbye, either. Just kissed her forehead and left.

  So, instead, I’m curled two spots away in a corner of a sofa that’s so capacious, it makes Ren’s look like a pin cushion. Nestled under blankets, I stare at the TV for the most part, crunching on popcorn and cursing these cramps.

  “What do you feel keeps you from going?” I finally ask her.

  She laughs emptily. “All of it. The crowds. The noise. The lights. Even the drive there. Traffic makes me claustrophobic. I hate just sitting there. I jumped out of the car and walked the final quarter mile the last time we were stuck in gridlock on the 405. Mom freaked.”

  That makes me snort a laugh. “Eh. I don’t blame you.”

  Ziggy glances my way, her sharp green eyes that I now recognize are twins of Ryder’s, spearing me. “How do you do it?” she asks.

  I raise my eyebrows. I told Mrs. Bergman I’m on the spectrum. But I haven’t told Ziggy. Because she hasn’t told me. And I don’t want to pressure her.

  “Do what?”
>
  “You’re autistic,” she says matter-of-factly. “Like me.”

  “Did Ren tell you?”

  She nods. “Just like he told you about me.”

  Touché.

  Staring at her hands, she mutters, “He said you’re someone I could talk to if I wanted.”

  “Well,” I say on a groan, as I shift on the couch and try to buy myself some comfort. “He’s right. I am. So, do you?”

  Ziggy glances up, staring at the TV again. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think so. Other times, I don’t think I want to know.”

  “Don’t want to know what?”

  She shrugs. “The hard parts. The stuff that doesn’t get better. The past few years have sucked. I can’t imagine anticipating anything more challenging than this.”

  Setting the bowl of popcorn between us, I peer at her. She’s rail thin. Curled up into herself. If she’s anything like I was at that age, she doesn’t eat regularly, and she’s chronically under-slept and anxious. Which has me deeply curious about what kind of support she’s getting. “Are you in therapy?”

  “Talk therapy,” she says flatly. “I find it occasionally helpful. Mostly exhausting.”

  “Other than talk therapy, are you in occupational therapy? Have you learned about sensory diets?”

  She scrunches her nose. “Occupational therapy, no. But the guy mentioned it in talk therapy, maybe? I don’t remember. I zone out a lot when I go. I do it to please Mom and Dad. Because they’re worried about me.”

  “Well, maybe he’s working you toward OT. That’s where you learn about how to take care of the stuff that’s hard to explain and draining to talk about. For example, sensory diets. Just like a dietician helps you figure out what your nutritional needs are, sensory diets are tailored for each individual person to keep your brain and body balanced and as peaceful as possible, at least until the outside world throws it all up in the air.”

  Ziggy turns so that she’s angled slightly toward me. “What do you mean?”