18. JACKSON
EIGHTEEN
JACKSON
The plastic cushioned railing of the dugout squeaks under my grip. It’s bottom of the ninth, and we’re down by one in our Thursday night game. Two outs. One out away from another painful loss.
“Our fate is in the hands of a kid who was playing Single-A a few weeks ago,” O’Neil mutters.
His arm flexes against mine. The tension is palpable.
We’ve got the tying run on second with Roche.
If Trent can just knock it in, we’re still in this.
Big moment for our rookie. From what I’ve seen so far, he’s really good, but this is the highest-pressure situation he’s been in since he got the jump.
And right now, we need a fucking win. Tempers are high with how many losses we’ve had.
Come on, Trent.
The pitcher sets, and my muscles lock tight. The pitch comes screaming in. Trent swings big and—contact! I jump up, O’Neil right there with me.
“Go, go, go!” O’Neil punches the air like he can propel the ball. Anything to give that ball more life.
It’s heading to the right field wall. Fuck, there’s no way it’s clearing it. But that’s okay. This is fine. The right fielder definitely isn’t getting there in time to catch it. It hits the back wall and takes an erratic jerk, flying right past the charging right fielder. Yes!
Roche crosses the plate, and a cheer goes up that shakes the entire dugout. We’re still in this baby! And Trent is hauling ass around second right now.
“Holy fucking shit. That kid’s got wheels,” O’Neil says in disbelief. “He’s gotta be faster than Michaels.”
“Run, Trent!” Nebs screams from somewhere to my left. We’re all hollering at him now.
The right fielder sends it soaring. The first baseman is waiting, ready for the relay to home if needed. And—shit—our third base coach is sending Trent!
“Oh my God! Oh my God!” O’Neil has a death grip on my arm.
“Fuck! Why is he sending him?” My heart jams in my throat. My stomach is winding itself into the guts of a baseball.
The dugout goes dead silent, every one of us leaning over the rail. Nobody breathes.
The first baseman whips it home.
Trent slides. He’s too late, though. I know it before the tag even comes down.
Everything caves in. My gut drops and splats right onto the dugout dirt.
But it’s okay. We’re tied. We’re still in this—
“It got by the catcher!”
The ball skips through the dirt. Trent slides over the plate.
“He’s safe!”
“WE WON!”
My jaw goes slack. Holy fucking shit.
Holy fucking shit.
Then the dugout explodes. Shouts. Bellows. Whoops. Someone’s pounding their chest, and gloves are flying. We storm the field and swarm Trent.
Finally. Finally, a fucking win. I’ll take it, error or not.
I walk into the townhouse riding the high of our win, and Frankie’s waiting by the door. He doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t greet me, or his brother, or any of the guys; just grabs my hand and drags me to the stairs.
“What’s going on?” I stumble after him, grinning.
“I think you need a shower.”
My brows pinch. “Uh. I just showered at the clubhouse…”
“You didn’t do a good enough job.”
I laugh. “Frankie, what has gotten into you?”
He halts a few steps up, and I barely stop myself from crashing into his back. He whips around to face me. “I got a call today.”
I cock my head. “Okay…”
“A doctor call.”
I freeze. “A-a doctor call?”
A wicked grin spreads across his face. “Frankie is cleared for light activity.”
My heart rate skyrockets. “And th-that means your cheek can handle the increased blood pressure to your sinus—”
“Jackson. I have gone way too long without an orgasm. I am cleared.” He jabs a finger at me. “And yes, I specifically asked about orgasms, okay? If you don’t shut up and join me in the shower in the next five seconds, I’m doing it without you.”
With that, he spins on his heel and dashes the rest of the way up the stairs.
I stand there staring at the empty spot on the top landing like a fool for way too long. But holy fucking shit. I don’t know what we’re going to be doing, but I’m minutes away from being naked with Frankie. In a shower. With, like, slippery soap and suds and stuff. My pulse drums against my throat.
Why am I still standing here?
I bolt up the stairs. I’m pretty sure I hear chuckles from behind me.
I stiffen, my chest tightening. But then it immediately loosens.
Those are good chuckles. I guarantee the guys will tease me about this later.
In, like, a friendly, fun way too. Ragging on me for hooking up with a guy. I’m safe here.
What is this alternate reality I’ve fallen into?
I turn the corner and jog down the hall. When I get to Frankie’s room, the drum of the shower stream is already filtering through the cracked bathroom door. I quickly close the bedroom door and slip inside the bathroom—just as Frankie’s bare ass disappears behind the frosted walk-in shower glass.
A whimper falls from me, and I tear at my clothes. Shirt. Pants. Boxers. All gone. I step into the shower and freeze. Shit.
Frankie bursts out laughing. “Oh, Jackie-babe. You are a fucking gem.”
My cheeks heat. Forgot to take off the socks. “A little over-eager.” And so, so fucking nervous.
“Trust me, sweetness. I appreciate it.”
I step out and quickly tear off my soaking wet socks. Whoops.
When I step back in—appropriately barefoot—he’s standing under the shower stream, head tilted up, eyes closed, slicking his dark hair back. His biceps flex with every slide. I swallow hard. He’s lean but strong, defined. His frame is so much smaller than mine, though.
I come from a line of giants. My dad and brother are big; my uncles and grandfather were all big.
Olanders are Olympians. Frankie compared me to Ares, and it’s not that far off.
I’m six-six and clock in at two-eighty on a light day.
I get compared to Aaron Judge on the regular in baseball.
Which I can’t deny doesn’t light me up. Because fucking goals.
But Frankie…oh, Frankie. He’s lean and limber and long lines. And I want him wrapped around me like a spider monkey.
Water cascades down him, carving a path around his firm, hair-dusted pecs, trickling down the divots of his abs, down his happy trail to—a sound bursts from me, a sound that’s desperate and destroyed all at once.
His dick fits him perfectly, long and lean just like him.
And pointing directly at me. Taunting me.
My stomach knots. I glance down at myself.
This is the first time another guy is seeing my dick, a guy who I'll be hooking up with.
Does he like what he sees? Am I…am I adequate enough? I steel myself against the insecurity.
“You, Jackson Olander, are a fucking snack.”
Clearly, I hadn’t hidden it well enough. I slowly lift my attention back to his face.
His gaze is on my dick. “Jumbo-sized snack.”
My breath hitches at the husky desperation in his voice. And it helps. He definitely likes what he sees.
He grabs his body wash and starts soaping up. He watches me, a knowing little smile on his lips as I stand there frozen. Frozen and so fucking hard. His hands travel down his torso, spread wide, unhurried.
Lower.
Lower.
I lean forward.
They close around his dick.
One. Slow. Stroke.
A deep groan rumbles from him, and my cock twitches.
“Enjoying the show?”
My gaze flies up to his, lids heavy, dark eyelashes clumped together and gathering small droplets of steam.
I can’t figure out where I want to focus first: his face with those plush lips slightly parted, a rosy flush deepening on his cheeks as he strokes himself—my stare drops—or where those long fingers run lazily over his dick, his forearm flexing with each small movement.
The knot in my stomach tightens, and anxiety slams into my chest. I’m fine. This is fine. I’ve totally got this. Will probably come in like five seconds, but I’ll make that up to him. I have no idea what I’m doing, but hey, I have a dick. That’s gotta count for something.
His dark eyes sharpen. “I didn’t really have a plan going into this, but…why don’t we start small?”
Apparently, I’m a lot more transparent than the frosted shower glass. Or maybe it’s just Frankie. He’s always seemed to see more of me than anyone else.
“Touch yourself, Jackson.” He pauses, and his next words come out low and throaty. “I want to watch you while you watch me.”
Oh. Shit. Yes. But also. “I’m afraid there won’t be much of a show for you,” I croak out. “A couple strokes, and it’ll be over.”
He leans back against the white subway-tiled wall. “Then don’t touch your dick, darling. There are a lot of other places you can touch that I’d appreciate.” His stare scrapes over me, and he bites his lip. “Sud up.”
My hands obey him. They no longer work for me; they’re at the whim of this man. I reach for his body wash, but he stops me with a small sound in his throat.
He jerks his head toward his collection of soap. “The bar soap, Jackie. I got you some oatmeal goat milk soap.” The heat in his eyes softens. “Should be safe for your sensitive skin.”
My jaw goes slack. I-I’m speechless. The strangest feeling builds behind my sternum. It’s tight and hot, and I probably should be more concerned that I might be dying, but I can’t think straight. It was just so thoughtful. I don’t think anyone’s ever done anything like that for me before.
“Sud up, handsome,” he prods, a satisfied smile curling his lips.
I let out a shaky breath and lather my chest. A hiss escapes my lips. My skin is so oversensitive, so fucking on edge. I accidentally graze my nipple, and a moan falls from me.
Frankie’s fist tightens on his dick, and I latch onto the small movement. “There you go, Jackie-boy. Those hard-earned muscles provide the perfect backdrop for those suds to slide down.”
My cock aches. A gut-deep pull zings through me with every one of his strokes. Like there’s some invisible connection between his hand and my dick.
His thighs flex, and his harsh moan fills the shower.
“Fuck. You’re so sexy, Jackson. That broody brow of yours, those striking blue eyes, those lips that are dangerously full.
” His hand speeds up. “I’m not ashamed to admit, the first time I saw you, all I could think was how amazing they’d look wrapped around my dick.
And when you couldn’t keep your eyes off me?
Oh, it gave me a horrible hope—and inspired the most delicious fantasies. ”
My fingers still on my abs. “W-what did you imagine?”
“Kneel,” he whispers.
I do.
Without hesitation.
His head tips back, eyes squeezing shut, and a muttered curse falls from him. And I drink him in. Corded neck straining, flush spreading down his tanned skin, dark nipples pebbled. A tremor slices through me. His hips. Hips thrusting into his fist. Oh God. Oh God.
His nearly black gaze lasers in on mine again, and when he speaks, his voice slips over me like silk. “Exactly how I pictured you,” he breathes. “But reality is so much fucking better.”
“What—” I cut off and clear the gravel from my throat. “What did you picture next?” My thick whisper dances around us until it’s washed away by the drumming water.
“I toyed with you,” he whispers. “You were already so desperate. Dropping to your knees without me even having to ask.”
His strokes pick up speed, and my hands fist my thighs.
“I pulled myself out and taunted you with it. Wouldn’t let you have it. Until you were begging for my dick. Oh, and you beg so pretty, Jackie.”
“More.” The plea in my voice is laced with pain.
He sucks in a sharp breath. “Just like that.”
A long, measured exhale falls from him, and his hand slows. Loosens. And that small sign has hints of pleasure slipping down my spine. He’s close. God. He’s close. I’m going to see him come soon.
My hands inch up my thighs.
“You parted those full lips, and it was an invitation I couldn’t refuse.” His velvety, deep timbre wraps around me—wraps around my dick—
“I used you.”
And squeezes. I moan.
“You took me so well, baby.”
A shiver rakes over me. That baby slides down me like the light score of fingernails. I want to be good for him, earn that praise. I know I’m not ready now. But one day I’m going to do it. I’m going to fall at his feet and make that fantasy a reality.
I palm my tight balls and let out a hiss. Frankie’s muscles twitch, and his hand speeds up, nothing but a blur over his dick.
“I cupped that hard jaw of yours,” he rasps, “and fucked your pretty mouth. While you stared up at me, welling blue eyes so desperate to please. Oh, and you did, Jackson. You did so good.”
Fuck me. I can’t. I don’t. Need consumes me. Everything else disappears. My hand flies to my dick. My gaze darts between his eyes and his dick. It’s so red and swollen, minutes from erupting. And his eyes. His eyes are black fire. It’s too much.
My free palm falls to the shower floor, and I give up on trying to see all of him. My gaze locks on his dick. I fuck my fist as pleasure coils. God, I need to see him come. Need him to come first. I can’t miss it.
His harsh groan fills the shower, fills every crack and crevice until there’s no air left for me to breathe. And then I’m not breathing because he’s coming. White cum spills over his crown and hand, rope after rope. It’s the hottest thing I’ve ever witnessed.
My body goes rigid, muscles strung taut as the pressure builds to an unbearable level. And all I can think in this moment is how much I wish I could taste him.
That thought does me in. The tension building inside me breaks, and my orgasm crashes over me.
A low, tortured moan rips from me as ecstasy streaks through my veins, the flames of pleasure engulfing me.
My fingers dig into the slippery tile floor as my body shakes violently and I coat his shower with cum.
I let my other hand fall to the floor to brace myself as I gulp down air. The steam of the shower beats down on my head and side, dripping down into my eyes. But I don’t care. I’m wrecked. A mutual jerk-off session, and it was the highlight of my twenty-six years of life.
I glance up and catch Frankie’s bliss-drunk stare, his body languidly resting against the shower wall.
“Welcome—” He breaks off with a pant. “To sex with a man, Jackson.”
He pushes off the wall and steps around me and out of the shower.
“I’m very much looking forward to showing you more.”
I hang my head, too wrung out to hold it up any longer.
I can’t fucking wait.