Page 45 of Hiding in the Outfield

My brows lift. Damn. When Shane goes for something, he commits.

Frankie plants his hands on his hips. “Now hurry the fuck up.”

I grin at the top-level sass in his tone and finally get my ass over to his bed. He already has a bunch of pillows propped up against his headboard since he hasn’t been able to sleep flat. He moves the board of snacks to his nightstand.

I pull back the covers⁠—

“I do have one rule for guests.”

I pause.

“No shirts allowed.”

I shake my head with a laugh but quickly pull my plain white tee over my head. I stick my thumbs in the waistband of my joggers. “Pants?”

“Pants stay on,” he says firmly. “Pants for preservation. A man only has so much self-control.” He says this to my abs.

I flex and get a little thrill when he bites his lip.

“Hot fudge?” His gaze roams my chest, and he licks his lips.

My cock twitches. “F-for the ice cream?”

He groans. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Probably for the best. His tongue trailing over my chest…sucking chocolate from my abs… My dick hardens.

“Dear fucking Lord, we need to start this movie,” Frankie says hoarsely. “And you need to put that away.”

I glance down at my dick tenting my sweats.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s not polite to tease people with things they can’t have? Rubbing it in my face like that is rude.” His head falls back, and a strangled sound flees him. “Ohmygod, and now that’s all I can picture,” he whispers.

I slide into bed, and he punches buttons on his remote, muttering under his breath as he gets the movie started. He passes me my bowl of ice cream, slides into bed, and grabs his. Then he reaches over and grabs a small teacup of something and dumps it on his.

“What’s that?” I ask between mouthfuls. He topped mine with whipped cream and hot fudge and a peanut butter syrup thing. Fuck, it’s good.

“Affogato.” His lips tilt up at the corners. “Espresso over ice cream. I told you there’s nothing vanilla about Frankie.”

A grin tugs at my lips. A jolt of caffeine and sugar. That does seem fitting. “Can…can I try it?”

“Anything for you, sweetness.” He holds out a freshly filled spoonful for me.

I lean forward, and my gaze snags his just as my lips close around the spoon. Those whiskey eyes go dark. He slowly slips the spoon free, and I can’t help how my tongue trails along the underside. His nostrils flare, and my groin tightens. I swallow down the coffee-coated chocolate, a faint moan rumbling deep in my chest.

He pulls away, and we both sit back staring at the TV, panting. Damn.

“Soon, Jackie. Soon.”

I clear the roughness from my throat. “So, what is this movie?”

He lets out a huff of mock exasperation. “I’m not surprised you have no idea, but it’s still a crime that you don’t know what Dirty Dancing is. It’s an iconic movie. And Patrick Swayze is a literal wet dream in it. The way that man moves his hips.” He closes his eyes and lets out a moan. “Let’s just say, give me Dirty Dancing sans clothes, and I’d be one happy man.”

“So a sexy guy dancing? Is it like Magic Mike?”

He shoots me an incredulous look. “I honestly don’t know whether to be mad at you for saying that or feel sad for you. No, it’s not like Magic Mike. It’s ballroom dancing.”

It’s my turn to make a face. Ballroom dancing? Um…hard pass.