Page 47 of Hiding in the Outfield

“You realize my name is Francesco. Frances is literally in my name.”

I snort. “Um, Frances and Francesco are nothing alike. Francesco,” I say with a light accent. “Is for a sexy Italian man. Frances…is for a great aunt.”

A funky beat starts playing in the movie as Frankie smothers his laughter in my chest. He straddles me, smiling down at me. “So, you liking it?” He lifts his brows. “It’s not so bad, is it?”

I shrug a shoulder. “Eh.” I snatch a handful of chocolate chips from the snack tray on the nightstand. “Good thing there’s chocolate to make up for it.” I toss the chips back.

“Oh, realllly?” His eyes flash, and I still.

There’s devilry glimmering in those brown-and-gold eyes. He’s up to something.

He slides out of bed and starts popping buttons on his shirt.

“Frankie…”

The lyrics start up—something about a Silvia and a Mickey and calling somebody’s loverboy. Frankie finishes unbuttoning his shirt while mouthing the words to the song.

On the first call of loverboy, he drops his shirt. Damn, his abs. They’re not a bulky six-pack like mine. But they’re defined and smooth, and the two lines on either side lead down to his cut V. I’d love to trace those lines. With my tongue. I swallow hard. That’s a thought.

Frankie sends me a wicked smile, then crawls onto the bed, just like Baby is doing toward Johnny on the screen behind him.

My heart rate spikes.

He slides a hand up my chest, eyes locked on mine, a filthy grin on his lips. Somehow my pulse drums even faster.

His hand finds mine and grabs it. He leans in. “Oh, baby,” he sings softly in my ear. And slaps my hand on his ass.

My fingers grip tight. There’s nothing I can do to stop them. Something else has taken over my brain, my body. Not something. Frankie. I groan as they sink into his plush flesh, the silky-soft fabric like butter beneath my fingertips.

“Like the movie now, loverboy?”

I whimper. My dick is quickly hardening against my thigh. “You’re cruel,” I say hoarsely.

“Why am I cruel?” He kisses down my neck.

“Remember our conversation about teasing?”

He peeks up at me from where he had been mouthing my collarbone. “You want to rub your dick on my face?” His eyes sparkle with mischief.

I half-groan, half-cry. “Mean, mean, mean.”

He falls on his side, laughter shaking through him, and pulls me with him. “Kiss me,” he whispers. “Kiss me with no expectations. Like we’re two teenagers not ready for the next step.”

I hover over him, forearm planted next to his head. For a fleeting second, we’re transported back in time, two reckless teenagers exploring their feelings in a world where there’s no judgment, no fear-induced shame.

Just racing hearts and wild thrills.

My lips meet his, soft, slow. He follows my lead, and my pulse flutters. I trace the seam of his lips with my tongue, and he parts for me. Warmth blooms in my chest and stomach, like that dizzy, happy buzz you get after a few drinks. Just making out with him, nothing more, is enough. He’s the liquor; I’m drunk on him, and I don’t want the moment to end.

I melt into him, into the kiss. Hands sifting through hair. Tongues languidly rolling. Hearts beating in tandem.

I kiss him until the credits roll.

And even then, I don’t want to stop.

SEVENTEEN

FRANKIE