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.
“See?” she says, clearly fishing for some positive feedback. “Look at me. Vertical.” With a few rotations of her wrists, she sweeps up her arms, like an actress prepared to receive applause. “I even got up and peed. Splashed my face off. Changed into something comfy. Aren’t you proud?”
I gulp.
She grins, seeing where my eyes have snagged. “Thought you might like that.”
“‘Like’ is an interesting choice of word.” I cross the room, set the tray between us on the bed, and hand Frankie her coffee.
After taking a long sip, she sighs contentedly.
“Hardly seems fair,” I say, trying to keep my eyes on the cinnamon roll I’m cutting into quarters but largely finding my gaze drawn over and over to her breasts. “I wouldn’t look nearly as good in one of your shirts.”
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.”