Always Only You by Chloe Liese (z-lib.org).epub

Ah, yes. There’s reality, punching me in the face: Attention, Frankie, you’re
in only a pair of boy short undies emblazoned with the Deathly Hallows, barely
covered by an oversized Kings hoodie.
I tug down the sweatshirt, wishing it was long enough to reach the tops of
my neon green compression socks, which stop just above my kneecaps. I wear
them because they give my joints a sensory-friendly, pain-relieving squeeze.
My cheeks burn as heat more intense than any flare roars from my toes to the
crown of my head. Just staring at Phantom Ren stirs a heavy ache low in my
belly.
As I take stock of my raging-to-life libido and the less sexually appealing
aspects of my outfit—which would be all of them—I begin to have a crisis of
sorts. I am aroused by the sight of Ren Bergman. Again. First in the locker room,
then at Louie’s, then in the training room today. And now, here, at my front
door. I’ve always thought him striking—because duh, he is—but I just tried to
ignore it. And now, it seems I can’t anymore. I saw an enticing side of him when
he threw down with Matt, and now I can’t unsee it. I can’t stop thinking about it,
honestly.
He’s not real. That’s what I need to focus on. The real Ren has no reason to
be here, looking like sex on a cinnamon stick. Meaning it won’t hurt anything if
I allow myself to ogle this figment of my high-as-a-kite imagination.
I stare at him, falling headlong into those wintry irises. I stare. And stare.
And stare.
But like all fantasies, my indulgence in it has to end. Taking a deep breath, I
slam the door on the mirage. Otherwise, I might get imaginatively carried away
and invite Fictitious Ren in, then fantasize about undressing him with a ferocious
need to know if the carpet matches the gorgeous ginger curtains.
And that, I simply can’t afford to do.
I’m not sure how long the door’s been closed. How long I’ve been panting
for air, my back against its smooth surface as I wait for my body to cool off from
my hallucinations. I am never smoking that weed again, seeing as it’s clearly
laced with something else. Carter at the dispensary has some answering to do.
But then Ren’s voice dashes all hope that this is a drug-induced fantasy.
“Frankie?”
I yelp, jumping away from the door as nimbly as I can.
“Y-yes?” I peer through the peephole.
Mary Mother of Jesus Riding on a Donkey, that hair. In moonlight, it’s the
precise color of a faded copper penny.
I must have been a real asshole in a past life, because karma seems bent on
punishing me this round. Namely, my inability to moderate myself with those