17. Chapter 17

Sure enough, when Connor made his next start a few days later, the scout was back.

By now, Connor had learned enough what he looked like that this time he was able to spot him himself.

Jackson must've done the same thing—which didn't surprise Connor at all, because the guy was annoyingly and perfectly prepared for any possibility that might send Connor into a tailspin.

It was the kind of behavior that was making sex with Jackson increasingly addictive—and not just sex, but the man himself. And the kind of behavior that once they made it onto the field made Connor want to scream in frustration.

He didn't want to be handled.

But at the same time, he fucking craved it.

"Hey, I don't want you thinking about it," Jackson said, rising to his feet and jogging to the mound. It was difficult to even face him these days without getting half-hard. This was the first time Connor had pitched since they'd started having sex, and when he'd first seen Jackson, slipping into his uniform in the clubhouse, he'd had to actively force himself not to stare.

Apparently his dick was conditioned to get hard whenever he saw Jackson's bare skin, because he'd been aroused ever since and fighting it.

"What am I thinking about?" he grumbled. The chafing of his cup against his dick was not helping his mood. "I didn't say anything."

"No, but you looked it."

"What, are you the Connor whisperer now?"

Jackson cracked a smile at that. "Yeah, kinda."

He was the ultimate professional—always making sure to keep their hookups in private and their relationship at the ballpark and in the clubhouse strictly professional, but Connor still caught the flash of heat in his gaze as he said it.

"I don't want to talk about it," Connor said. But he was thinking about it. Couldn't stop thinking about it.

"About the scout in the stands?" Jackson said it so casually, like it wasn't a big deal. But they both knew differently.

"Yeah. Seriously. Does he want to come down here and get a closer look at the merchandise? See if I'm worth it?" Connor hadn't really realized how being treated like just a number, just a piece of meat, had begun to wear on him. How that was all he'd ever expected for himself, until Jackson had showed up almost a month ago and reminded him that he was a person. Demanded, even, that he stop being the Comet, and start being Connor.

Made him look at himself with value. Not just as Connor Clark, the hottest pitcher in the minors—but Connor.

In some ways, that mindset change had helped him become a better pitcher. And in others, it had made everything so much tougher.

He couldn't just spiral the way he used to. He didn't even want to. He had to face everything he felt, head-on, and not shove it away, burying it with booze or sex or reckless, antagonistic behavior.

"Hey," Jackson said, putting a hand on his arm. "You've got this. You were awesome your last start, and I know you're just going to keep doin' what you know how to do. Okay?"

"Okay." But Connor didn't feel as sure as Jackson sounded.

"Remember, he's just a man. He eats and shits like anyone else." Jackson shot him one of those rare smiles that hit him deep and resonated—and also, extra bonus, made his cock twitch.

"Yeah, yeah, so you say," Connor said.

"You need to warm up anymore or are you good?"

"What do you think?"

Jackson grinned again. This one reminded Connor less of that surprisingly deep, nearly spiritual connection they were forming, and more just made him want to pin him to the nearest flat surface and kiss him hard, until neither of them could control themselves.

Unfortunately, that was not going to be happening anytime soon.

He had a job to do first.

"You're good," Jackson said, patting him on the back. "Come on."

"I don't feel all that great," Connor admitted as he slumped down on the bench in the dugout. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?" Jackson had grabbed his bat on the way in to sit down and was checking it thoroughly for splinters or cracking before the game started.

"Compartmentalize," Connor hissed under his breath.

"You mean, deal with people looking at me like a thing, like I'm just a bunch of stats, not a flesh and blood person?"

Well, there was that too.

But that was not currently the situation Connor was having problems compartmentalizing.

"No," Connor said. "Well, yes, but uh . . .that isn't my problem right now."

To Connor's surprise, Jackson grinned. He'd half-expected a lecture. But instead, he said, "Guess I remember what it was like when I was young. Couldn't get enough."

Connor elbowed him in the side. "'Cause you're an old man now and aren't keeping up?"

"I hadn't thought about it," Jackson said, shrugging.

But at night, after they had sex—sometimes twice; once, memorably Connor had come three times—they lay in bed and Connor couldn't just hear Jackson's heart beating, but sometimes he swore he could hear Jackson's brain working overtime.

He wanted to ask him what he was thinking about, but he didn't, because he was afraid of the answer.

He was afraid that saying it out loud would scare Jackson off. Would convince him that what was happening couldn't keep happening. And the sex was so goddamn good, so completely addicting, Connor didn't know how he'd handle living without it. Because he would have to. There was a reason the scouts were here, every time he started a game. Because he was this close to being called up. All it would probably take was an open slot on Tampa Bay's pitching roster, and he'd be there.

"So this compartmentalization just comes naturally to you, then?" Connor teased, trying to lighten his own increasingly morbid thoughts.

This is everything you wanted. Everything you've been working towards.

He wouldn't let . . .whatever this thing was between him and Jackson . . .derail it. He couldn't. But the temptation still existed.

"I'm good at everything, darlin'," Jackson retorted back.

Connor wanted to argue, but it was impossible to deny the truth.

Jackson kinda was good at everything. Not extraordinary, maybe, but a solid, reliable guy. Good at throwing, good at catching, good at hitting. The thing he was amazing at was something the baseball world still didn't really value—bringing out the very best in a pitcher. More than once, Connor had wondered if that had been why he'd never "made" it, not because baseball had discovered his sexuality.

Because that was another conversation going nowhere.

"I'm gonna assume your stunned silence means you agree," Jackson said, nudging him. "Come on, game's startin'."

Connor didn't need Jackson to tell him he was struggling with overthinking.

It was obvious, in how long he took between each pitch.

He wasn't necessarily shaking Jackson's signs off—he'd finally stopped doing that shit—but he was taking his sweet ass time to throw each one.

Like the longer he thought, the better the end result might be.

Like if he ran the pitch clock down to nothing, each pitch might guarantee him a spot on the major league roster.

And it wasn't like he was pitching badly, but his pitching lacked the speed and flair it normally had. He wasn't quite hitting the corners of the zone the way he usually did.

They were in the third inning, two batters down, one to go, one standing on first, because the guy had refused to bite on some of Connor's sloppier efforts.

Anyone else who decided to be patient and make Connor throw strikes was going to take advantage of him in a big way.

Jackson straightened and, calling for a time out, jogged out to the mound.

To anyone else Connor might look like normal. But Jackson knew his face by now. Knew every little expression he made and the ones he probably didn't even realize he was making.

Right now it was half a frown, a frown like he was trying very hard not to frown.

"What's up," Jackson said, keeping his voice calm and level.

"You're the one who called for a time out," Connor retorted.

"Yeah. Sure. But you're the one who's not hitting the edges when I call for it. Your placement's sloppy."

"Maybe I'm just not feeling it today."

"You've been freaking out ever since you saw that scout. Doesn't matter how much you think about each pitch—it's not gonna make them that much better."

Connor full-on frowned now.

"I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," Jackson interrupted him. They didn't have forever. Already the umpire was making restless movements, like any moment he might start to jog out, indicating that their time out was over.

"What do you want me to do about it?"

Jackson dropped the ball into his glove. "Don't think. Just pitch."

He jogged back to home plate and settled into his spot. The batter glanced over at him. "He's sure high-strung, isn't he?" he asked, his disrespect obvious.

He wasn't going to give this asshole the satisfaction.

Don't think. Just pitch.

Jackson called for a high inside fastball and prayed Connor had listened.

Sure enough, he waited almost no time, throwing the pitch almost immediately.

It whistled right past the pitcher, and as it hit Jackson's glove, he didn't need to look at the board to see that it had hit the upper level of Connor's speed. It was the best pitch he threw all night.

And maybe the batter didn't say anything else, but from the way he approached the box the next pitch, it was clear from his body language that he was taking Connor fucking seriously this time.

The rest of the game went the same. Connor found his groove—but every once in awhile, he'd slow down, starting to think, and that would inevitably fuck him up. Jackson would have to go back out there and remind him—he had an arm and he knew how to use it, if he'd just let it do what it was capable of.

Still, it was a pretty damn good game. Jackson hit a double and another solo homer, and the Rogues won, six to one.

Jackson didn't need to see the scout's report to know that Connor had earned his spot in the majors with this start.

He told himself he'd done his job.

Even as something in the vicinity of his heart, which he was resolutely ignoring, ached.

It was always going to be this way.

But somehow, that didn't make him feel any better.

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.

"Talk to me," Connor murmured. "Please."

He couldn't say all the thoughts swirling through him. But he could say something.

"I'm sorry, I should have gone out with you guys, when Deke invited me—"

"Yeah," Connor agreed. "But if you didn't want to, you didn't have to just . . .run away like that."

I was scared.

But the problem was hiding away didn't change the way Jackson felt.

"I know," Jackson said. He turned around, and it was hard—impossible, almost—to look at Connor's gorgeous face, to meet his eyes with the same blunt honesty. But he did it, because it had been cowardly before. And because it wasn't like running away had made any of this easier.

"I want you," Connor said, and when he leaned down, kissing Jackson, it felt like he was saying a different set of three words.

I love you, too.

Maybe neither of them said it, but the kisses they shared were just as hot as always, just as passionate, but there was an extra desperate edge to them.

A wildness in Connor's eyes, as he sank to his knees, pinning Jackson against the kitchen counter and pulling Jackson's shorts down with trembling fingers.

Jackson was torn between squeezing his eyes shut, trying to make the pleasure last longer, as Connor showed him every trick he'd learned over the last week, sucking his cock. Lovingly, but with an undeniable determination that it was going to be as good as Jackson had ever had.

He took every bit of education Jackson had given him and somehow it was even better than that. When Connor slipped a finger back, circling his hole, Jackson cried out, unable to keep quiet any longer.

"Yeah, let me hear you, baby," Connor said, his throat already sounding rough and wrecked. But he went deep again, and Jackson thought, fleetingly, that he'd never feel this way again. That he'd never, ever get this lucky again. This man was as good as he was ever going to get, and every single moment of his life, he'd be trying to find this again—but he never would.

"Connor," he murmured, reaching down and cupping his head with his hand. Connor groaned in appreciation and sucked him harder, and that was all it took to send him over the edge.

His orgasm felt like it went on and on and on, but finally it ended, and he came back to reality to see Connor sitting back on his heels in front of him, gold hair glinting in the dim lighting, fisting his own cock—like sucking Jackson had turned him on so much he just couldn't help it any longer.

"Shit," Jackson exhaled sharply. "Baby—come 'ere." Jackson reached out and lifted him to his feet, his knees unsteady. It was easy enough, with the unhinged look on Connor's face, to lead him to the bed.

"Fuck me, you gotta just do it," Connor said as he sat down on the edge. "Fingers or your cock, whatever. I don't care. I just need it."

It wasn't like Connor hadn't begged for it before. He'd certainly been unapologetic in his desire for Jackson's cock since the first time Jackson had fingered him.

Jackson wasn't stupid enough to think if he did stick his dick in him, it would change anything. They wouldn't become more metaphysically connected than they already were. But there was a small, very fanciful part of him that wanted to do it anyway, that wanted to be the first one to do it. The only one, his uncooperative brain added.

Or maybe it wasn't his brain at all.

"I'm ready for it, I swear. And I won't start again for days, so it's not gonna affect me. I just . . ." Connor bit his lip. "I want it so goddamn bad, Jackson. I'm dreaming about it. I came here tonight because I want it. I want you."

"Just . . ." Jackson swallowed hard. "Lie back, okay?"

"Are you gonna?"

"Just trust me, I'm gonna make you feel good." Jackson wanted to resist the urge. He should resist the urge. But he didn't know if he was going to be able to.

It was overwhelming, just watching Connor spread his legs without a hint of shame, desire written across every line of his body, etched on his gorgeous features.

He grabbed the lube from the dresser, warming it between his fingers as he leaned down, gave Connor's hard cock a little suck, warming it up too. But Connor didn't seem to need any warmup. He was as hard as Jackson had ever seen, twitching against his tongue, the man underneath him thrashing as he felt his finger begin to enter him.

They'd done this a few times since the first time, and it went easier every time, Connor relaxing into the stretch of it, begging for more. The last time, Jackson had been three fingers deep, firmly massaging his prostate and he'd barely needed to even touch Connor's cock before he'd gone off like a rocket.

The second finger slid in next to the first and Jackson gave an experimental thrust, working him open at what he hoped was a reasonable enough speed. It was hard to even think of caution now, even though the last thing he wanted was to hurt Connor. He was just so eager, and his eagerness turned Jackson on so goddamned much.

Even though he'd just come, less than ten minutes ago, he could already feel his cock trying to get hard again.

"Now, now," Connor cried out. "God, I've never been so ready."

But Jackson wasn't quite ready yet. So he forced himself to take his time. Slid in that third finger, working up to a good rhythm, leaning in to lick and suck Connor's cock every once in awhile, when he couldn't resist it any longer.

Connor's cock twitching against his tongue was all it took to make him fully hard again. And he grabbed a condom, batting Connor's hands away when he tried to help.

"I got it," Jackson said. "Just lie back and . . .try to relax, okay?"

Connor looked anything but relaxed. He was shaking, even as Jackson leaned in, giving him what he hoped were long, soothing touches along his flank as he positioned himself.

"I'll go slow," Jackson promised.

He wouldn't want to. But he would.

"Don't you dare," Connor said, baring his teeth in a fierce grin. "Fuck me like you mean it."

Oh, he meant it alright.

But he hadn't even slid inside him yet, and already Jackson knew it wouldn't be just fucking.

"I got you."

Jackson slid in slow and careful, groaning under his breath at how tight and hot Connor was around him. He'd never felt anything like this before—had barely had any opportunities to do this, and honestly, hadn't even really wanted to, not with any of those random guys he'd had one-and-done hookups with—but Connor was squeezing him so goddamn perfectly it was probably good he'd already come once tonight, taking the edge off his desire. Otherwise, he was never going to be able to make it last. To make it good for Connor.

Bottoming out, Jackson reached out and took Connor's hand, squeezing it hard. "Are you good?" he rasped out.

Connor's eyes fluttered open. The blue had almost been entirely hidden by his dilated pupils. "Oh God, you feel so . . .so fucking amazing," he moaned. "Yes, yes, yes, please go."

He did try to go slow and cautious at first, but it was so hard to restrain himself. Not when all he craved was more of Connor's hot body. He was greedy with need for it, especially when Connor kept egging him on, wanting it harder and faster, begging him from lips swollen from sucking Jackson's cock earlier.

Jackson tried to stay in the moment. Tried to make an indelible memory every time he gazed down on Connor. The way his head threw back and he groaned. The muscles in his arms and his abs flexing as he took Jackson's thrusts. His thighs as he thrust back, working Jackson at the same time as Jackson worked him.

He didn't want it to end. It felt so fucking incredible he wanted to stay hard forever, never leaving Connor's perfect heat. But then Connor began to lose it, his hand reaching down to play with his own cock, barely gripping it at first, teasing it, and then grasping it harder, giving it one or two thrusts.

Jackson barely had time to register what was going to happen before Connor clamped around him, coming hard, and the look on his face as he did, nevermind the hot clasp of his body, was enough to push him into orgasm right alongside Connor.

It was, hands down, the best sex Connor had ever had in his life.

Drowsily, he thought that he'd have to text Tristan back to say, you were right, it was so good I don't even care if you say I told you so. And his sister, too. Because yeah, that whole I'm straight delusion was definitely over and done with.

Jackson came back with a washcloth and helped him clean up before settling in bed next to him, arm wrapped around Connor's shoulders.

"No regrets?" Jackson asked. Like he might have them.

Connor laughed, even as hurt unexpectedly bloomed deep inside him. Why had Jackson asked that? Did he have regrets? Had he not wanted to, and Connor had pushed him into it?

No. No. Jackson had seemed every bit as eager as Connor had. He'd enjoyed every minute of it. Connor didn't think he'd ever forget the look on his face when Connor had come, clenching around his cock.

He'd never forget it either, but then that was a given.

Connor already knew he'd been changed by meeting Jackson Evans.

What he wanted to know was if he was alone. But with the way Jackson kept pulling away, kept making things difficult when they should have been easy, it made it hard to know for sure.

"None whatsoever," Connor finally answered. He hated the way he sounded when he asked, "You?"

He could hear the vulnerability in his voice. The way he was begging, without words, for Jackson to say no regrets, none whatsoever.

"No," Jackson finally said, in a low voice.

It wasn't none whatsoever, but Connor would take it.

"Good." Connor wanted to say more—but it wasn't like he had any more experience than Jackson had. Neither of them did relationships, but it was hard not seeing that this was rapidly becoming a situation you might call one.

"I was thinking," Jackson said a long moment later, "about your pitching."

Connor nearly groaned out loud. "I don't want to talk about baseball right now."

"Neither do I, really," Jackson said wryly.

"Then why bring it up?"

"Because the thought just hit me. You just need . . .I don't know . . .something . . .to take your head out of your head."

"You mean like brain surgery?" Connor retorted.

"No, no. Like . . .get you to stop overthinking. Focus even a part of that uncooperative brain on something else. Something not pitching. Not baseball."

"Hard to think of anything else when I'm up there, on the mound," Connor admitted.

"I know." Jackson didn't even sound judgmental about it. More like . . .it was just a fact, a facet of who Connor was as a person, and it wasn't something to be overcome by sheer force of will, but negotiated around.

It was . . .well, it was nice.

Usually coaches just told him to get the fuck over himself. Not how to do that.

But then, from the very beginning, Jackson had been different. Sure, he'd been an autocratic asshole at moments, expecting Connor to ask how high when he said to jump, but it had rapidly become clear to him that all Jackson was trying to do was make him a better pitcher.

Not even a different one. Just a better, more finely tuned version of himself.

"If you think of something, I'll be willing to listen," Connor said. Hoping that Jackson understood his words for what they were: a compliment on Jackson's own abilities.

Connor could feel his smile against his bicep. "Yeah?" Jackson asked.

"I'm not that contrary," Connor argued. Except that yeah, he kinda had been.

"Not now."

"Guess you just finally figured out a way to tame me," Connor teased. And it was so goddamn easy to turn his head, see the smile on Jackson's face for himself, and kiss him again.