Page 45 of Hot Streak

That surprised Jackson. “What?”

“If anyone says shit about you,” he repeated, “tell me.”

“Did you tell Deke this?”

“No,” Connor said. “Because he’s not mine.”

Jackson couldn’t quite breathe. The heat in Connor’s eyes was searing.

“You . . .uh . . .didn’t want to claim me, just a few days ago.”

“So you think,” Connor said quietly. Intently.

He wanted to reach for the water bottle on the table next to the bed, wet his suddenly parched throat, but he also didn’t want to move. It preserved, even for a second, the fallacy that Connor might lean over and cash in on all those promises his gaze kept making.

Jackson couldn’t stand it anymore. He didn’t know what kind of insanity Connor was dealing with, but he looked away. Picked at the blanket with a fingernail. “Sure, yeah,” he said, trying to make it light, casual. Like it wasn’t the kind of promise that resonated. Like it didn’t mean the whole fucking world to him, the guy who’d learned to protect his own back in every clubhouse he’d ever walked into.

But instead, his voice came out deep, guttural. Rough. Desperate. Like he wanted more than just a promise.

You do.

“Good.” Connor nodded and finally, thank God, slid off the bed and went back to his own.

But as he did, he peeled off his shirt, and before Jackson could stop himself, his fists clenched in the pooled sheets. There was so much flawless golden skin. Wide shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist. The flex of his shoulder blades and his biceps as he turned around. Leaned in and Jackson got only a glimpse of Connor’s knowing smile before he flicked the light between them off.

Chapter 7

The next morning, Connor wanted to talk to Jackson again—but this time it was him who escaped early.

Jackson might believe that Connor had been giving him the cold shoulder the last few days, but the truth was, their avoidance almost certainly had the same reason.

Connor had been pissed. It had been undeniable. But he’d also been working through some of the realizations Tristan had helped him see.

He had a feeling Jackson was trying to escape the sexual tension by doing the same.

It sucked, not waking up to see all that hotness sprawled in the bed next to him, but Connor could be patient, when he had to be, and he knew nothing good could come of him rushing this.

Because he knew now it was going to happen. It was inevitable.

He hadn’t been nearly as confident as Tristan that Jackson was interested—or attracted—to him, but after last night, he’d rethought his position.

Jackson was locked down tight, but it had been obvious when Connor sat on his bed he’d nearly swallowed his tongue. He’d been undeniably surprised, looking like he loved it and hated it in equal measures. Then the heat in his eyes when Connor had stripped his shirt off?

He’d never been looked at like that before. Never, ever wanted a guy to look at him like that. But it had nearly killed him to turn the light off. Long after it had gone off, he’d lain there, in silence, listening to Jackson’s breathing only a few feet away and wondered what he’d do if Connor shed his sweatpants and climbed into bed with him.

Would he fight it?

Or would he show Connor exactly the kind of pleasure he’d been missing?

It had taken him ages to actually fall asleep. Ages for his dick to finally get soft. But when he had finally dropped off, his dreams had left him shaken and even more aroused than before.

This morning, he reached for his phone and texted Tristan.

You were right. And don’t be a smug jerk about it, okay?

Tristan’s response was almost immediate. Of course I was. You make a move, yet?

Not exactly.

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