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He leans in, swallowing hard. “Please?” A growl rumbles deep with him.
It’s then I realize this kid might be twenty-two, but our time together will be everything I’d hope for it to be.
He lifts his face, his eyes penetrating mine. “I’ll beg all night long if that’s what it takes.”
At his pleading, I’m reminded of how pretty he is. The pink pouty lips. The scruff across his jaw. The stain of red splashed on his cheeks from the alcohol. But I also realize he’s six years younger than me. Or, five years, seven months, and thirteen days, according to his calculations earlier when he asked how old I was. Don’t worry, you didn’t miss anything. I don’t want to revisit the fact that I’m older than him, so I left you out of that tidbit of information.
I stare at him, a tingle running up between my thighs.
His eyes drop to my lips, and I watch with rapt attention as his tongue darts out and wets his bottom lip. “Am I at least on the roster for this particular game?”
I sink forward and sag into him. “I think you might just be the starting pitcher.” And then I burst out laughing, hunching forward. “Even though your aim is shit.”
He scowls. “I have excellent aim…when sober.”
I reach over, pluck his hand from my thigh and take it in mine. “My house isn’t far.”