Page 57 of Hot Streak

Connor was not used to Jackson being such a vocal pain in the ass.

Usually that was him, and it clued him in to just how much pain the guy must be in.

“Did they give you any painkillers?”

“No, because I wouldn’t take them.” Jackson’s jaw jutted out stubbornly, and oh my God, this guy.

“You should ice it, at least,” Connor said and didn’t quite manage to smother his gasp when Jackson pulled his shirt up in front of the mirror.

The bruise was horrible already, bright purple and red blooming across Jackson’s side, tinges of sickly brownish-green on the edges.

But it wasn’t just the colors spreading across his skin that drew Connor’s gaze.

His whole torso was a fucking work of art. Smooth ridges of muscle, sloping gracefully downwards, and Connor’s eyes caught on the trail of dark hair that led under the waistband of Jackson’s sweatpants, riding low on his slim hips.

He’d wondered before if he was actually interested in what was hidden by that gray fabric, but now he knew he was.

He itched to reach out and tug them down. Look his fill.

He imagined, in a very different scenario, Jackson gazing back, the warmth in those dark eyes blazing into an inferno, the way he’d set a careful hand on Connor’s shoulder as he loosened his pants.

Trust him to explore and touch all he wanted, with no pressure, no hurry, no obligation.

Until Connor wanted it, until he couldn’t live without taking it further, without letting Jackson touch him in return.

“Hello? Are you even listening?”

Connor snapped out of it, suddenly, far too aware he’d gotten caught standing there, with his own pants metaphorically down, fantasizing about pulling Jackson’s down.

“Uh, yeah, sorry. I was . . .” Connor trailed off, because he could hardly say what he had been doing.

“I said, yes, I should ice it.”

“You want me to get some ice?” Connor asked. Maybe it would be good to get some air. For a week at least, he’d wanted Jackson to take his shirt off in a place where he wouldn’t look like a major creeper for staring, and yet, now that it had happened, he didn’t know how to even look.

“That’d be nice,” Jackson said. “Then after that, I can at least be comfortable while I lecture your stupid ass about how dumb retaliation is.”

“It wasn’t—”

“It’s dumb,” Jackson interrupted, emphasizing every single word.

“Fine,” Connor said, grabbing the ice bucket.

It only took a few minutes to head down to the lower floor, fill the bucket, and return to their room.

When he walked back in, Jackson was still in front of the mirror, wincing as he poked at the bruise.

“Stop that,” Connor ordered as he set the ice down on the dresser. “You’re only going to make it worse.”

Jackson made a face. “Trust me, I get that. But I’ve got to put this stupid topical ointment on. The instructions say to let it sit for at least five minutes before I get it wet, so the ice is out until then.”

“Ah, okay.” Connor shoved his hands in his pockets. Maybe it was shitty of him to be turned on watching Jackson’s fingertips linger across his skin when he was hurt—but that ship had sailed.

“Ugh.” Jackson grimaced again, twisting his torso more dramatically, like he was having trouble getting access to the spots that were really bothering him.

And before Connor could think better of it—or talk himself out of it—he said, “Why don’t you let me do that?”

Jackson turned to him, shock etched on every line of his face.

---