Page 95 of Hiding in the Outfield

His face tightens, and he looks away.

“Hey,” I say softly, carefully pressing on his chin until he looks at me again. “I’m not upset with you. I just have this inkling that maybe the world has shaped your way of thinking, has pushed you to put people into boxes. Boxes it made.”

I stroke his cheek. “People aren’t meant to be put into boxes, Jackson.”

He nods slowly.

“I know why you’re surprised by my interest in sports. In my athleticism. I trend toward the femme side. I’m full of sass. I love make-up. And, fuck, if there’s glitter, sign me up. But I also like baseball—not just because of sexy men in tight pants. I love the game.”

His pupils flare, and his fingers tighten on my waist. Oh, someone likes that. Likes that I love his sport.

I trace the curve of his pec with my fingertip. I barely hold back my groan. He’s so. Fucking. Meaty. But I need to say my piece before we get distracted.

“I like to go to the gym as much as I like to cozy up with a romance book, a glass of wine, and my hyaluronic acid eye gel patches. I’m a hell of an athlete and…” My gaze flicks up to his. “I can drop it like the best of them at the club.”

“I’m the baseball player who wore eyeliner as part of my uniform. And actually got the whole team to for a while because we ended up on a winning streak, and you know how we’re all⁠—”

“Superstitious as fuck.” He sends me a small smile.

I return it and nod. “Exactly.” I spread my arms wide. “I am femme. I am masc. There is no box you can put me in. I don’t fit in any of the ones the world has created. Because I’m uniquely me. And I’m damn fucking happy to be me.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “For the assumptions, for⁠—”

“Nm-mmm.” I shake my head. “I just wanted to point it out. It’s something I see everywhere, even inside the queer community. I’m not surprised about the assumptions you made about me. I just…I know you’re one of the good ones, babe. I know you are above what the world wants to reduce us to. Stereotypes. Caricatures.

“You’re a big, buff man. But you can still paint your nails if you want to, you know? You can love the color pink, and it won’t make your dick fall off, I promise. There is no rulebook on how we are supposed to be, despite how hard society tries to make us think otherwise. You don’t have to put yourself inside a box either, Jackson.”

I push off him and stand. “Anywhooo…I just wanted to say that. I’m stepping off my soapbox now.”

I start to turn away, but large hands catch the backs of my thighs, and Jackson heaves me up. My chest slams into his, and in the next heartbeat, his mouth crashes down on mine. I clutch his shoulders, inner thighs squeezing onto his hips for dear life as he walks until my back hits a wall.

He pushes my head back, hand coming up to wrap around the side of my throat, tongue thrusting against mine like he has something to prove. I whimper because yes sir, please sir, more sir.

He’s never kissed me like this before. Apparently, I should be giving speeches more often.

“You’re.” He kisses along my jaw. “So fucking.” Down my throat. “Amazing.” He bites down on my shoulder, and I cry out at the pain, but it instantly melts into a moan. “You drive me wild,” he murmurs into my skin.

Then he trails his tongue all the way up my neck. His hand has made its way to my chest, his thumb teasing over my nipple. I tremble, my whole body vibrating.

His lips meet mine again, and we fall into another wild kiss. I can barely keep up. He pinches my nipple, and swallows down my moan. Does it again until I’m a quivering mess.

He pulls back, panting. “I’ve never met anyone like you. I admire you. God, I envy you.” His forehead hits mine, our ragged breaths weaving together. “You make me want to be better,” he whispers. “You make me want to be brave. To be me.”

A tightness grips my chest. “Dolcezza.”

He eases me down until my feet hit the floor, then he laces our fingers together and tugs me to the bathroom. “Come on. I need you naked in the shower. Now.”

I blink repeatedly and stumble after him. Abrupt change, but Frankie’s rolling with it.

“I’ll get the shower going. You grab what you need and get undressed,” he says as we enter the bathroom.

I strip down to my cheeky lace boyshorts, but leave them on because⁠—

“Fuck.”

Because that. I grin and bend over the counter to grab my bathroom bag. Did I need to bend over to get it? No. A whimper echoes through the bathroom. Ah, music to my ears.

I spin around and lean against the marble countertop. “Like what you see, Jackie-boy?”