Page 75 of Hot Streak

“What—”

But Jackson didn’t let him speak. Instead he pressed one palm against Connor’s mouth and the other against his chest, pushing him deeper into the stall.

“I sure as fuck want you to do what I say,” Jackson said in a low, frustrated, furious voice, “but I want you to do it for you. Because you respect yourself. Because you respect the game. Not to butter me up. Not to get into my pants.”

Connor wanted to laugh. But he couldn’t. His breath was caught in his lungs.

Because Jackson kept moving closer and closer, until he was right in Connor’s space and Connor hadn’t even had to coax him there.

He’d come willingly.

Jackson might be strong, but Connor was strong too. He reached up, wrapping his fingers around Jackson’s wrist and with an effort lowered it. But even when he let go, Jackson didn’t move his hand. His fingertips brushed against Connor’s damp T-shirt, fingertips lingering.

He looked every which way Connor felt.

“You said I was a pain in your ass,” Connor finally said quietly. “You said you didn’t even like me.”

“I think you said you didn’t even like me,” Jackson retorted. “And I don’t like you.”

Connor wasn’t much of a student of human nature, but in the last few weeks, he’d become a student of Jackson Evans. He studied him, even when he didn’t want to. And he knew how close he was to breaking.

“Liar,” Connor whispered.

He barely got the word out before Jackson kissed it right off his mouth.

There was heat and light and pressure. Jackson’s body pressing into his. His strength unmistakable. And his lips weren’t gentle on his, they were fierce and demanding, like they could steal Connor’s breath, steal the rest of his meager self-control.

It was a kiss like he’d never experienced before. But it wasn’t just that he’d never kissed another man before—though that was true—but it was that he hadn’t kissed Jackson before.

Now he’d never be able to pretend he didn’t know. He’d never be able to forget.

Jackson’s hands curled into his shoulders, fingers digging into the cotton of his T-shirt, his mouth moving hotly and confidently against Connor’s, tongue dipping into his mouth.

Connor heard someone groan. Was it him? Was it Jackson?

For a second he cared, because surely he should care that they were kissing here, in the baseball facilities, where anyone could catch them—but then Jackson slid his hands down, around his waist, and yanked him closer. Connor’s brain whited out with desire, and if this was what kissing a guy was like, Connor didn’t think he’d ever be able to settle again.

Jackson had taken kissing and stamped himself all over it, proclaiming forever that anyone else was merely mediocre.

Even the hard press of Jackson’s cock against his thigh didn’t scare him; Connor only felt the exhilaration that crested through him when he realized what it was. That his own was aching in his shorts. That he craved, desperately, Jackson’s touch.

One second they were kissing, and the next they weren’t, Jackson moving backwards, horror dawning across his face—the exact opposite of what Connor hoped for.

He wanted Jackson to want to do it again and again, but instead, his lips had compressed into a tight, unyielding line.

“Shit,” he muttered, and the self-recrimination in his voice made it clear that unlike the way Connor had hoped he’d express a desire to do it again and again and again, he was instead gearing up to explain, again, why they couldn’t.

“Don’t even say it,” Connor said.

“How do you know—”

“You don’t exactly look happy that it happened. That we kissed. That we almost did more,” Connor muttered.

“We shouldn’t have.” Jackson sounded annoyingly self-righteous. Connor wanted to slap him. Or maybe just kiss him again.

“So you say,” Connor said.

“I lost my temper. I lost the train of thought. I lost . . .myself.”

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