Page 60 of Hiding in the Outfield

He looks around the room.

“Hmm? No? Bummer. All right.”

Frankie walks up to me, grabs my hand, and gives it a light tug. “Second guess.” He pulls me toward the door. “Jackson went in search of sex tips from the other experienced men in the house.”

He leads me into the hall and lowers his voice. “Because someone is feeling nervous and anxious about doing things for the first time, and the perfectionist athlete in him is terrified of not being any good.”

“Maybe,” I whisper. “I want to make it good for you.”

“Trust me, Jackie-babe, you will. I have zero doubts on that front. But…” He stops suddenly, and I crash into him. His hands slide up to my chest, and mine fall to his waist. He searches my eyes. “What changed? Why the freak out now?”

I drop my forehead to his and close my eyes. My pulse thrums in my neck, a constant buzz through my veins.

Soft lips coast over mine. “What changed, Jackson?”

My fingers dig into his hips.

“I want more, Frankie,” I whisper. “I’m ready for more.”

He slowly backs away into his doorway, brown-and-gold eyes glinting back at me.

“Well, then, follow me, babe. Let me show you more.”

TWENTY-ONE

FRANKIE

I had thought Jackson left to grab some food. The guy eats an impressive amount, which I suppose makes sense given his size. I assumed he’d be coming back upstairs with it, but after fifteen minutes, I got antsy and figured I’d see if maybe he was eating downstairs. Which would have been terribly rude, because excuse me, sir, where was my invite? Or…maybe Paulie had finally given in to the urge and killed him.

I was not prepared to walk by Easton’s room and hear Jed’s voice droning on about how to give a blowjob. Like, how fucking cute can you get? Jackson’s sitting there, his giant self squeezed into this little armchair, while my roommates lecture him on gay sex.

I want to make it good for you.

Yeah, we will have no problems there. He already has the most important piece covered—he cares about his partner’s pleasure.

I close my door, spin us, and push him until his ass hits my bed. I step between his legs.

“What do you want to experience first?”

I let my hands drift over his shoulders and down his biceps. I squeeze and stifle my groan. Rock. Fucking. Solid. I swear I can’t even dig my nails in; they’re that hard.

I tilt his chin up and hover just before his lips. “Want me to suck you off?”

He draws in a quick breath, steals some of mine right with it. His fingers shake on my waist. I glance down and whimper. He’s in gray sweatpants, and they do nothing to hide his thoughts on my suggestion.

I rest a hand on his thigh. Just the top. Don’t move it.

Those thick, strong quads tremble beneath my palm, and it’s unbelievably heady. This six-foot-six thoroughbred of an athlete is a quivering mess for me. “Or we could start with hands.”

His chest lifts and falls, his breaths already choppy. “I-I think the minute you touch me, it’ll be all over.”

I slowly slide my hand from his thigh. “Would you prefer to touch me?”

“Yes,” he says hoarsely. “I’d like to see you. Explore you.”

I shiver. Not going to say no to that. I step back and pull my silk button-up sleep shirt over my head. Those blue irises go dark as they scour me. I tease the waistband of my matching royal purple shorts.

“Want to do the honors?”