Page 109 of Hot Streak

He wasn’t in any mood to celebrate, even though Deke and Kevin had both asked him to come out to the Strike Zone.

He also managed to sneak out of the ballpark, too, when Connor was talking to the media after the game.

It was cowardly. Jackson knew it. But he needed time and some quiet to lick his wounds. Wounds he’d told himself he’d never feel again—and God, he’d tried. He’d tried so fucking hard to resist Connor.

But Connor had wiggled his way under all his walls and barriers so easily and seduced his brain and his body and goddamn it, his heart, so effortlessly.

Jackson was allowed to be angry about this, he told himself as he puttered around his apartment. It was still small. It was still ugly. And yet it seemed especially empty and joyless tonight, without Connor lounging on his bed or stretched out on the threadbare couch, laughing at something on the TV.

He’d go to the Strike Zone, for sure, tonight.

Maybe he’ll even pick up someone else.

Jackson knew the moment the thought crossed his mind it was wrong—and that it was unfair. From the moment Connor had made his desires known, he’d never even looked at anyone else. Jackson had both hated and loved that.

He headed into the kitchenette and put a mug of water in the microwave and hit start, thinking that maybe he’d make some tea in the hopes of forestalling a long, sleepless night of angsting.

The microwave beeped. But no, it hadn’t, Jackson realized, as he glanced at the numbers still ticking down.

It wasn’t the microwave beeping. It was the front door. Someone was knocking on it, and he knew exactly who that someone was.

Stupid idiot, Jackson thought as he walked over to the door.

He didn’t want to answer it—and he desperately wanted to at the same time. How had this thing between them shifted?

If he was smart at all, he’d leave Connor out there, he’d tell him anything he could to make him go away. But Jackson already knew he couldn’t do that.

That he couldn’t bear to do it.

It didn’t matter how many times he reminded himself that Connor Clark was not meant for him to keep. He couldn’t help the desire that spiraled through him in a heady rush.

Compartmentalization, my ass.

Sure enough when he answered the door, Connor was on the other side, wearing a bright smile on his face and an uncertain look in his eyes.

Maybe it was that inherent dichotomy—so much endless confidence paired with that streak of doubt—that Jackson found irresistible.

Because there was nothing he liked more than seeing that fear vanish. And being the one to do it? God, it was intoxicating and addicting.

“Why’d you sneak out?” Connor asked, and Jackson could hear the effort in his voice to keep the question casual as he walked into the apartment.

The microwave beeped.

“I . . .” Jackson hesitated. Keep it casual, too, he kept telling himself, but it was getting harder and harder. “I thought you’d be out celebrating.”

“And I wouldn’t want you there?” Connor laughed, but he didn’t sound very amused.

“I’m just making some tea. You want some?” It was painfully obvious he was changing the subject—refusing to answer the question—but Connor didn’t call him on it.

“Tea?” Connor sounded confused.

Jackson headed towards the microwave and pulled it open, fingers hot on the cheap ceramic. He dunked in a chamomile tea bag.

He was about to turn around and offer it to Connor when he felt the man walk up behind him. Jackson’s fingers clenched on the edge of the counter, hating and loving how Connor’s arms felt so right around him, how delicious his mouth drifting on the back of his neck felt. “I know I said you were an old man,” Connor teased in a low voice, lips coasting down, to nearly where his skin met his shirt, “but tea takes it to a new level.”

“I—” Jackson swallowed hard. Wanting to rub his ass against Connor’s evident erection. Even tea apparently wasn’t enough to diminish his desire.

Or your own.

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