Page 147 of Hiding in the Outfield

“I want to be able to kiss you,” he murmurs.

And I get it. I want the closeness too. The intimate connection. The ability to stare into those beautiful blue eyes as they darken over.

I sit and languidly shuffle backward. He follows, crawling in rhythm with me. His lips find mine again, and his tongue slips into my mouth, rolling in tandem with mine. Lazy. Light… Loving.

His hands skim over every inch of my skin, and mine his, though I avoid his bruised ribs. I revel in the bunch and flex of his ass under my left hand, the clench of his trap under my right. So much muscle. So much meat. Our hips grind, but the friction is a mix of pleasure and discomfort.

Reading my mind, he blindly reaches for the lube, his mouth still fused to mine. Then his hand slips between us, and he coats us. He pulls away and shifts back, then scoops me up into his lap, knees spread wide, those thick thighs the perfect seat.

I sigh into our next kiss and wiggle my hips until his hand wraps firmly around us both. And then I just hold him. Arms wrapped around his shoulders, hands sifting through his hair, our hips rocking lightly, but his hand doing most of the work. It’s a soft sex. The beautiful kind. The kind built from warmth and affection, from a place of security and peace. The kind I’ve only ever had with him.

The pressure builds unhurried, coil after coil swirling like a summer breeze inside me. It settles heavily in my groin. Jackson grunts into my mouth, his fingers flexing tighter. My pulse picks up as the storm builds in the distance. I draw back, needing to see him. Our noses bump as our bodies rock with our subtle grinding. Those blue eyes are a dark gray, storm clouds rolling in.

A single streak of pleasure courses through me. A warning. Lightning in the distance. My mouth parts, and our lips catch and graze, choppy breaths mingling. A throaty rumble comes from the back of his throat, the sound skittering down my spine. Another flash of pleasure lights me up. My thighs clench around his waist, my biceps flexing.

Closer.

His fist tightens, speeds up in time with the pleasure building inside us both.

Even closer.

Our mouths hover, his breath bursting over my skin, and I thrust into his hand. The pressure rises, my balls drawing tight as zaps of bliss shoot down my dick.

Even closer.

“Frankie.” His desperate whisper laced in pleasure-pain spins and swirls around me, setting my skin on fire.

I catch his mouth, our tandem groans melding together to the point I don’t know which one comes from me and which comes from him. His free hand bites into me, and I yank back on his hair; a death grip I need to keep me from being completely blown away. It’s a tornado of bliss crashing down upon us, and our only hope is to hold on to each other to survive the storm.

He tenses, everything going still except for his shuttling hand. And then his next words light me up.

“I love you.”

I thrust into him and hold, clenching him to me as my mouth crashes down on his in a bruising kiss. No finesse. No elegance. Just lips trapped together by a force more powerful than all the problems hovering in the shadows of this hotel room.

Love.

I have to believe love will be enough.

I have to.

The alternative isn’t something I can bear.

Jackson’s alarm rings through the small hotel room, and I groan, burying my head under my pillow.

We passed out last night immediately afterward—literally wiped ourselves off with the towels and crashed. I think both of our bodies and minds had reached their limits from lack of sleep and emotional turmoil. I grimace. Ugh. I didn’t even brush my teeth.

The room goes silent, and Jackson shuffles up in the bed until he’s resting against the headboard.

I glance at my own phone. Six a.m. Fuck my life. Jackson hadn’t gotten back to the hotel until just before midnight.

He scrubs a hand down his face. “Sorry.” His voice is thick with sleep. “Chuck wanted me to call him before I head in.”

And now I’m instantly awake. I grab some pillows and stack them behind us so we’re more comfortable while Jackson lifts the phone to his ear.

“Hey, Chuck.”

I lean in, shamelessly trying to eavesdrop, but I can’t make out everything Chuck’s saying.