8. Andres
EIGHT
ANDRES
The hallway outside our hotel room smells like stale recycled air and carpet shampoo.
We’re all still buzzing from the win, some of the guys’ loud voices bleeding through doors, laughter ricocheting off the walls.
Somebody down the hall yells, “Woooo!” like we just won the World Series instead of a regular-season away game.
Jackson’s hand is in mine, and it’s the only thing that matters.
Not the noise. Not the city.
Just him.
The key card beeps green, and I push the door open, stepping aside so he can walk in first. I always do that, not because of manners, but because of a habit I formed without meaning to. Like my body decided a long time ago that if the world is going to swing at him, I’m going to take the hit.
Jackson tosses his cap onto the desk and exhales. “Thank God,” he mutters, voice rough. “No more people.”
I lock the door behind us and set the latch, because I’m not playing about safety even when we’re in a hotel with a front desk and cameras and key cards.
Fans can be crazy.
His eyes flick to my hands because my baby notices everything.
“You’re doing it again,” he says.
“Doing what?”
“Building a fortress,” he says, but it’s soft. Not like he’s annoyed. If anything, he likes it, even if he pretends he doesn’t.
I cross the room slowly, trying hard not to rush things. Jackson’s body is still running on adrenaline, and I know what comes after. The crash. The quiet. The part where his brain tries to convince him he doesn’t deserve the happiness he just earned.
I stop in front of him, close enough that his breath warms my throat. He lifts his chin and his blue eyes are bright, but there’s tension tucked in them.
“You played your ass off tonight, mi sol,” I whisper, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead.
A smile tugs at his mouth. “I think my ass is still attached to me.”
I slide my hands down his back to cup his perfect ass, and he groans. “Mmm, I think you’re right,” I murmur.
“It is a great ass,” he chuckles. “It’s served me well.”
I huff a laugh, then slide my hands to the hem of his hoodie and grip it. Jackson’s gaze drops to my mouth and the entire day has been nothing but restraint. The plane. The terminal. The bus. The field. The crowd.
His father lives in the back of his head like a curse he’s trying not to speak aloud.
All day I’ve been careful.
All day I’ve been patient.
But the second that door closed, I’m not a second baseman. I’m not a PR-friendly athlete. I’m not a man who smiles for cameras and answers questions with, “We're just focused on the season.”
I’m just his.
And he’s mine.
Jackson opens his mouth like he’s going to say something smart. Something teasing.
“Micromanage me into this mattress, Gonzalez.”
The words land and my whole body tightens and I grab his hoodie and pull him into me, fast. Not rough. Just desperate in a way that makes him make that little sound in the back of his throat that he thinks I don’t hear.
Oh, I hear it, and every time I do… my heart rate kicks up a notch.
My mouth finds his and this kiss isn’t short. It’s a kiss that tells him I’m proud of him. That I’m hungry for him.
That I’ve been holding myself back all day, and I’m done.
Jackson’s hands slide up my chest, gripping my shirt, and he kisses me back like he’s starving too. I break away just enough to breathe.
“God, I need to be inside you,” I murmur against his mouth, slipping my tongue past his lips to stroke his.
“So take me then,” he whispers, breathless.
“Carajo…” I groan. “Mírame a los ojos mientras te estoy cogiendo.”
His brows knit for half a second, like his brain wants to come up with something bratty to say but he doesn’t. “Dámela… esa verga grande tuya. Hazme gemir tu nombre aquí, en estas sábanas baratas de hotel.”
Jackson speaking Spanish is one of my favorite things on this earth, but hearing him talk dirty to me in Spanish makes me absolutely feral.
“Look who’s been using his little learning app to get better with his words.” I back him up until his calves hit the edge of the bed, then I guide him down slow, keeping my hands on him the whole time. Grounding him. Holding him steady. “You're so fucking sexy when you talk dirty to me, nene.”
Jackson sits, and I drop to my knees between his legs and the moment his breath catches, I’m gone.
“Dre,” he warns, like he’s not sure if he wants this to be sweet or filthy.
“Shh,” I say, and I hook my fingers under the hem of his shirt. “Let me.”
Slowly, I peel his hoodie off him, then his shirt, baring the skin I know like my own heartbeat. My gaze flicks to his pump site and the CGM patch on the back of his arm. To the tubing that coils at his waistband.
The technology that keeps him alive. For me. My chest goes tight with something violent and tender.
Jackson watches me take him in.
“Don’t,” he says quietly, like he knows what I’m thinking. Like he can hear the part of me that wants to fight the entire universe for daring to make his body complicated.
“Don’t you don’t me,” I murmur, leaning forward to kiss the inside of his thigh. Once. Then higher, drawing a slow line of worship with my lips.
“I’m not mad at you,” I murmur, unclipping the pump from his sweats and setting it next to him on the comforter. “I’m mad at everything that makes you feel like you have to do this alone.”
His hand slides into my hair, fingers tightening as he tips my head up to meet his eyes.
“But I don’t,” he whispers. “Have to do it alone, not anymore.”
“Gimme a kiss, mi sol.” I pucker my lips for him. He rolls his eyes, smirks, and then kisses me anyway.
Rising to my feet, I pull my shirt off, then tug my joggers down with my boxers. Jackson’s eyes drag over my chest like he’s memorizing me all over again. Like he needs proof that I’m real. I climb onto the bed with him, straddling his thighs, and cradle his face in my hands.
“Look at me,” I say, low, and his eyes snap to mine immediately.
When my lips touch his, it’s slow. Deep, but gentle. I want him to feel it. Not just in his body, but in his bones.
This is real, baby.
We’re real.
Jackson’s hands slide down my back, then to my waist, gripping hard like he needs something solid to hold onto.
I press my forehead to his. “Tell me what you want,” I whisper.
“You,” he breathes. “Always you. Like this. Face-to-face. No rushing.”
My throat tightens. I kiss his cheek. His jaw. The corner of his mouth.
“I can do that,” I murmur. “I’ll always give you what you need, Jack.”
Jackson’s eyes go shiny, and he blinks like he’s trying to clear it away.
I don’t let him.
I kiss the tears he’ll try to pretend aren’t there. Kiss his eyelids and the tip of his nose. Then I slide down, hands on his hips, and tug his pants off.
Jackson inhales sharply and I inch him back toward the pillows.
“Lube?” he mewls as I flick my tongue over his nipple.
Reaching over to the bedside table, I take out the little travel-sized bottle I stowed there earlier. I click it open, squirt some over my fingers, and then press them to his hole. Teasing at first, and once I feel him relax, I slide one in.
“Tell me if anything feels off,” I say, pumping my finger inside him. “Your stomach. Your head. Make sure you talk to me.”
Jackson’s lips twitch and his eyes flutter closed when I add the second finger. “Micromanaging.”
“Damn right,” I murmur, and I kiss him again, slow and deep. Then I pull back, wipe off my hands, and apply more lube to him and my dick.
He adjusts slightly, then slowly wraps his legs around my waist and pulls me closer. I press the head of my cock to his hole and push in carefully, watching his face the entire time.
Jackson exhales, eyes fluttering. “Oh… fuck,” he whispers.
I stop and hold still. “You okay?” I ask, situating myself so I’m resting on one arm near his head, my other hand gripping his thigh. “Good?”
“Good. So fucking good, baby.”
The rhythm starts slow, gentle thrusts as I keep it controlled. Jackson’s nails dig into my back, and he keeps his eyes on me like he’s anchoring himself.
This isn’t the kind of sex you have to forget. It’s the kind you have to remember.
Remember that you’re wanted.
Remember that you’re safe.
Remember that happiness isn’t something you have to earn by suffering first.
Jackson’s breath breaks and he pulls me closer, mouth pressed to mine, and whispers, “You’re… you’re so fucking good to me, Dre. God… I love you so fucking much.”
I kiss him like it’s a vow.
“I’ve always loved you,” I whisper, because I want it carved into his heart. “I’m never going to stop loving you.” Thrust. “Until the day I die, I’m going to love you, Jackson.” Thrust. “And then forever afterward.”
When he starts to shake, I slow down, sliding my hand between us to wrap around his cock, stroking him just a little faster than I’m fucking him. Jackson’s face goes open, helpless in the way he only is with me.
“Andres—”
He comes hard, leaning in to bite my shoulder and muffle his moans. I hold him through it, murmuring in Spanish, soft and low, like prayer.
“Eso es, mi sol. Así.” My own release follows a second later, and I collapse onto him, breathing hard, forehead against his.
For a few brief seconds, we just exist.
No crowd. No cameras. No baseball.
Just us. I roll to the side, tug him with me, keep him close, reach for the water bottle on the bedside table and hand it to him. He drinks, then passes it back, still watching me like he’s trying to keep me in his sightline.
“How’s your blood sugar?” I ask, brushing my knuckles over his cheek.
He flicks his wrist over and checks his watch. “One-forty. Steady.”
Relief loosens my chest. “Depending on how much of an asshole your body wants to be, that could go up or down,” I murmur, then kiss his forehead. “Food sounds like a good idea either way.”
Jackson’s smile is sleepy and wrecked and real. “That sounds good to me, baby.”