Chapter Five

 

 

Jackson lifted his face for a kiss, and Mitchell was happy to provide it. He held his gaze as their mouths met softly, capturing Jackson’s sigh. He cupped the back of Jackson’s head and guided him down to the bed. A groan filled his mouth, and he deepened the kiss. He shifted to press his body over Jackson’s, rewarded with a hand on his back. He arched into it, and the hand slipped lower, tracing the curve of his ass. Mitchell braced his legs on either side of Jackson’s hips, encouraging him to stroke along his crease.

“God, your ass. You taunted me with it from that first night, pacing back and forth. The things I wanted to do with you.”

“It’s yours now. Do whatever you want with it.” He started rocking, pressing back against Jackson’s fingers and forward along the length of his cock. All along his length. His professor was hiding an impressive package behind his lectern.

It was enough to give an average-sized guy a complex if he didn’t know he could make up for it in flexibility. He brought his knees up and rose onto the balls of his feet. He wrapped his fingers around Jackson’s base and slid down, groaning when it brushed across his hole.

Jackson’s hands on his hips stopped his motion. “I don’t want to rush this. I want to play first—” He raised his hands, and Mitchell hissed when Jackson pinched his nipples “—do some of the things you’ve tormented me with over the phone for the past two weeks.”

Slow. He could do slow. It’d just been awhile. Bathroom hookups were quick, all about getting off and getting gone before getting caught. And he didn’t want to think about the times he’d woken up in a hotel room with a hangover and a couple used condoms to give him a clue as to what had taken place.

He wanted to remember every minute of tonight. He let Jackson roll them over and bent his leg to cradle him between his hips. Jackson’s fingers were replaced by his lips. A quick nip of teeth, which made him shiver. He stroked through Jackson’s hair, the curls twisting around his fingers. As Jackson slid lower, those curls dragged Mitchell’s hands down with him.

“Look at you,” Jackson whispered. Mitchell lowered his gaze just as Jackson ran the tip of his tongue over the head of his cock, catching a single bead of precum. His eyes closed, and Jackson continued to lick away each bead as it formed. Just when Mitchell was ready to beg for more, beg for his mouth, he was engulfed in wet heat.

His shout was so loud, he had to have woken the neighbors. He couldn’t contain his moans and whimpers, couldn’t control the trembling of his thighs. He tugged on a handful of curls to pull Jackson away before he lost control.

Jackson slid up his body. “Tell me what you like,” he whispered.

“You inside me, please.” Mitchell waved his hand vaguely at his nightstand, and Jackson leaned over to pull out a condom and lube.

Jackson slicked up his fingers and slowly circled Mitchell’s hole. When one finger finally pushed inside, his vision splintered. The finger pressed deeper, then came almost all the way out. Jackson began sucking on Mitchell’s nipple, matching the rhythm of his finger. Two fingers. Three. Mitchell felt the stretch through every inch of his body.

“I’m good. Now. Do it now.” He writhed on the bed.

“It’s been a while for me.” Jackson kept thrusting those fingers, brushing his prostate, leaving him grunting and grabbing at the sheets. “Once I get inside you, it’s all over, so I want to get you close.”

“I’m close. I’m close.” Mitchell cried out. He squeezed his eyes shut and fought to hold back as Jackson finally withdrew his fingers and rolled on a condom.

Jackson pushed Mitchell’s knees up to his ears and leaned in to kiss him. As their lips and tongues met, Jackson pushed inside. He gave Mitchell a moment to adjust to the fullness—and oh my god, he was so very full—then withdrew, only to push back inside.

They quickly found a rhythm. Mitchell arched his back and rolled his hips, seeking friction on his cock.

“Touch yourself,” Jackson ordered, and he was quick to comply.

“Jackson…” Mitchell moaned as he shot, coating his hand.

“Yes. Yes.” Jackson gave one more deep thrust inside him, then froze.

Mitchell gave one more shudder as Jackson pulled out. Jackson got up to get rid of the condom and returned to the bed, pulling Mitchell into his arms.

“Your leg?” Mitchell asked. That had been a lot of exertion for Jackson. On top of those goddamn stairs.

“What leg?” Jackson murmured.

Mitchell heard the change in Jackson’s breathing as he quickly drifted off. Mitchell replayed the last several minutes over in his head.

Sex was a conversation. Usually stimulating, sporadically funny, occasionally boring, and sometimes regrettable. Sex with Jackson was cuddling in front of a fireplace with jazz playing in the background. As if they already knew each other so well, the exact words were superfluous. He hadn’t had a conversation like this since… in years.

 

*  *  *

 

With no lessons on Sunday, Mitchell would have gladly spent the next day by Jackson’s side. But the professor had essays to grade and an article to polish, so they’d gone their separate ways after a leisurely breakfast.

Mitchell had a lot to think about after last night, which meant moving his body to free his mind. He considered going to the rink, but he didn’t want to to run into anyone he knew. He’d go for a run instead. It remained oppressively hot in the city, so as long as he stayed well south of the Intrepid, the foot traffic in Hudson River Park should be sparse.

He was glad Jackson had told him about the cancer. He had to have been nervous that Mitchell would reject him, but he’d taken the chance. Mitchell was still working to gain that level of trust in return, and he knew Jackson noticed. He’d be hurt if Mitchell didn’t start opening up soon, especially after he’d already put himself on the line. But how did he explain his stupidity over Barton or his hurt over his parents’ reaction?

How did he know Jackson wouldn’t take the story and run to the press with it?

No, that was ridiculous. Jackson was honest to his core. He’d proven that last night.

His cell phone rang, and he answered through his headphones without looking at the screen. The only person who called him rather than texting was Jackson.

“You forget your socks or something?” Mitchell teased.

“Mitch?”

Speak of the devil. He moved to the side of the path and pulled out his phone to see Barton’s name. Dammit, he’d meant to block him after the bastard kept texting.

“Hanging up now, Bart.” As much as Mitchell disliked the shortened version of his own name, Barton hated his with the fire of a thousand suns.

“Wait!” Barton yelled as Mitchell’s finger hovered over the red disconnect button.

Mitchell hesitated. Barton had been trying awfully hard to get in touch for someone who had to know the contact wasn’t welcome. Maybe he was sick or something. As if I should care?

“Sixty seconds,” he conceded.

“I’ve got an opportunity. A very lucrative opportunity.”

“Congratulations. Forty-five seconds.”

“Dammit. It’s something for both of us. As a matter of fact, it only works with both of us.”

“That’s a shame because there is no more both of us.” Mitchell side-eyed the red button. He didn’t need thirty more seconds of this bullshit.

“They want the two of us to cover the Olympics,” Barton blurted in a rush.

Mitchell’s finger twitched. “What?” He sighed. “Start at the beginning.”

“The network wants us to cover the Olympics,” he repeated. “We’d do an interview together in the next few weeks to show that we’ve buried the hatchet and moved on. Then a few segments during some of the fall skating events and Nationals.” Barton paused to catch his breath. “And then the Olympics.”

“What the hell makes them think we’d be interested in working together?” He’d sooner skate naked at Wollman Rink in January. “Last I heard, you were still competing.”

“Because… I sort of told them we would.”

“You what?!” Red button, red button.

“Look, it’s not public yet, but I’m retiring. The Federation and the network think the acrimony between us will make for good television.” He hesitated. “They insist we come as a package. If you don’t agree to it, there’s no deal.”

Barton always did talk too much. Except when he didn’t say anything at all.

“Your minute is up.”

“C’mon, Mitch. We could be so good together again. Onscreen and off.”

He laughed, a little hysterically. “That ship sailed so long ago, I’m sure it’s been put up in dry dock somewhere. Besides, I’m seeing someone.”

“The guy who left his socks behind?” Barton said with disdain.

“Yup. Big feet. Huge.”

“How big is his pocketbook?” Barton scoffed. “I know you could use the money after what happened with your parents.”

“Yeah, and who was the impetus for that, huh?”

“Nobody told them to pile up a mountain of debt before you had the gold medal and sponsorships in hand.”

True. They’d done that part on their own, just as they’d burned through Mitchell’s savings without his knowledge.

“Think of it as a competition. With your focus on style and mine on strength, we could battle it out over which skaters will win. I know you must miss it.”

No, he really didn’t. As he listened to Barton’s pitch, all he could think about was how much he’d enjoyed these past few weeks with Jackson. They brought out the best in each other instead of exploiting each other’s weaknesses. Jackson made him appreciate all he had instead of feeling like he had to constantly measure up or do more.

“You’re out of time, Barton,” Mitchell said. “Good luck with retirement.”

He disconnected the call over Barton’s pleas.

 

*  *  *

 

The dishes were washed and put away. He’d changed his sheets. He’d done some personal maintenance. Both he and his apartment were all cleaned up in case Jackson finished his paperwork and decided to come over.

He needed to finally open up to Jackson and explain what had happened with Barton and his parents, why his trust had been so thoroughly shattered. That was definitely a conversation he wanted to have in person, though, rather than over the phone. Now that he’d had the rest of the day to think about Barton’s offer, he was also starting to second-guess himself. If he were making commentator money, he could move to an apartment with a reliable elevator. He’d be able to afford to take Jackson out to nicer restaurants than the dive around the corner. He’d hate every minute of being on display with Barton, but he could suck it up at least through the Olympics, right?

In the meantime, he opened his laptop to catch up on Topical. Doc1984 hadn’t been posting as frequently the past several weeks. Then again, neither had he. Mitchell liked to think he was just picking and choosing his battles more carefully. He really didn’t need to troll Doc about his post on the dangers of antibacterial soap. He’d save his flames for the Beyoncé versus Britney versus Taylor argument because Doc was dead wrong on that one.

Of course, he was also spending much of his spare time with Jackson.

Maybe Doc had gotten past date number three with that guy he was seeing. He should thank Doc for providing the impetus for Mitchell going to Sparks that night, where he met Jackson. Whoa, let’s not go overboard.

 

To Doc1984: I didn’t see you as much of a pop music fan.

To Wallflower: You’ve never seen me at all.

To Doc1984: How about Mr. Hot Date? You still seeing him?

To Wallflower: We’re up to date number I’ve-lost-count. But if I’m honest, I hadn’t met him yet that night.

 

Mitchell scrolled back through his PM’s. That had been the night he thought Doc was flirting with him.

 

To Doc1984: So does that mean you really were hoping I’d gone out to buy flowers?

To Wallflower: Lol! It would’ve been the shortest online relationship on record after I met Hot Date.

To Doc1984: I guess that makes me an almost-ex. Still better than dealing with my actual ex.

To Wallflower: Was that a thing?

 

Maybe he could talk this out with Doc, get his insight, before he dumped it all on Jackson. If he thought Mitchell was an idiot for not taking the commentary job, he wouldn’t pull his punches the way Jackson might.

 

To Doc1984: My ex and I used to be competitors. At the most important event of our careers, he outed me and lied about our relationship in order to get an edge and beat me.

To Wallflower: Sounds like a real catch. Did his evil plan work?

To Doc1984: Oh yeah. Barton won, and I was left a laughingstock. And then he has the chutzpah to call me today to see if I want to work together again.

 

Mitchell watched the dots on his screen that indicated Doc was typing. They appeared and disappeared several times before disappearing altogether.

 

To Doc1984: You get disconnected or something?

To Wallflower: No… I’m here.

To Wallflower: So your ex wants to just work together, or does he want you back?

To Doc1984: Either or both. I hung up on him, but now I’m having second thoughts.

 

He waited for Doc to ask more questions, but the conversation went quiet for so long, his screen went to sleep. He tapped the trackpad to wake it.

 

To Doc1984: Hot Date show up?

 

No response. Guess he’d have to wing it with Jackson tonight.

But for the first time in weeks, Jackson didn’t call. And when he dialed, it went straight to voicemail.