BA Tortuga - Volleys and Touchdowns.pdf

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Tortuga, B.A. - Volleys and Touchdowns
Volleys and Touchdowns
BA Tortuga
Jackson tapped his feet on the rungs of his barstool, hands wrapped around his cue stick. The
remains of the Monday night football game party lay all over the den, popcorn bowls empty, the
big nacho plate covered with a sticky layer of cheese residue.
Mitch was the only one left, the rest of the guys taking off once the post-game show was over.
Jackson kinda liked it that way; he and Mitch felt easy. Good. Even if he was gonna kill the man
for flipping channels until he found some Australian tennis match.
"How can you stand that pussy shit?"
He got flipped off, Mitch's blue-blue eyes just rolling. "Godfor-fucking-bid you should have to
watch a sport that requires thought and skill, dickhead."
"Oh, blow me. Football takes a lot more thought than chasing a little, bouncy ball all
over a court." And it took padding. So there.
"Bullshit." Mitch bent over the table, lined up his shot. Okay, so pussy tennis gave a man great
thighs. So what? "You got too much sense knocked out of you. I, at least, had to own up to every
shot I missed. I couldn't blame it on the guy next to me."
"Well, that's not exactly impressing me with your intelligence. I mean, I could blame the
line if I got sacked." Which he had. Too many times to mention. "You'll never make that shot."
"Fuck off, man. You bet your ass I'll make it." Mitch stretched out, going up on tiptoe. "You
just can't admit you aren't athletic enough to run around in the heat trying to have a perfect
backswing."
"And you couldn't handle playing on an icy field in twenty below."
God, that man had a fine ass. Jackson sighed. And that thought and a dollar would get
him a cup of coffee.
"Tennis balls don't bounce worth shit on ice." Mitch took the shot and fucking made it.
Asshole.
"No. And football pads don't go well in the heat. You're comparing apples to oranges. I, at
least, am talking technical stuff."
Mitch walked around the table. "There's a shit-load of skill in tennis, man. The game's faster
moving, there's more action, it takes speed and quick decisions. You already know the play
before you play it; you just have to not fuck it up."
Willing the guy to miss so he could get a few shots in himself, Jackson nodded. "And in
football you have to coordinate all those other players and make snap decisions and all kinds
of shit could go wrong."
Yeah, so he also wanted Mitch to stop shooting so he could stop staring at that ass. It did him
no good. None.
"You're just jealous because I don't have to wear all that heavy crap and that ugly helmet." Ha!
The shot went wide and Mitch leaned against the wall, reaching for his longneck. "Or because the
people I teach these days don't have to wear it."
"Why would that make me jealous? You have to wear those white shorts." Before he set up his
shot he grabbed the remote and switched to a rehash of the Raiders game.
"Hey! That was a good volley you just turned off!"
Mitch upended the beer, long throat working enough to distract fucking Gandhi or some
other really Zen-type guy. Glad as Hell he was shooting, Jackson bent over the table, willing
his dick to go down. "Yeah, just like Chinese ping pong."
"Which, if I remember from high school, asshole, you sucked at too."
There. He sank the seven and headed around the table, scowling at the TV. "Okay, what the
fuck is that?"
Mitch looked over, tilting his head. "Viagra commercial, maybe? The guys are all doing
the 'gee, I got some' grin."
"No, I mean you changed the channel again, dickhead." He grinned, pushing and pushing.
Mitch just cracked him up.
"Me? Change the channel? Violate the almighty clicker?" Man, butter wouldn't melt in that
mouth.
He knew better. No. No thinking of Mitch's mouth. "You did. It's back on that tennis
thing." Sinking another ball, Jackson circled the table and advanced on Mitch, intent on
stealing the remote back.
"You must have turned it subconsciously. Wanting to watch, you know?" The remote slid
behind Mitch's back, into one pocket.
"Don't make me come after that thing. I may have been a quarterback, but I know how to
tackle." Mitch feinted and Jackson lunged. His shoulder was blown, not his knees.
Fuck, Mitch was fast, just barely brushing by, close enough that his fingers caught the edge of
Mitch's belt, whirling the man around. They smacked together like a linebacker and an offensive
guard, their breath whooshing out. Jackson grabbed Mitch's arms to hold him up as they bounced.
Mitch looked stunned, gasping like a fish out of water, sort of blinking at him. "Damn."
"Sorry." He wasn't. Not really. He'd been wanting ever since he'd been the captain of the
football team and Mitch had been a rich kid with a tennis coach for a dad. He'd take being able
to cop a feel now and then.
"Liar." Now that wasn't at all what he thought he'd hear.
Jackson looked Mitch right in the eye, though, and nodded. "Yep. Through my teeth."
"Pushy bastard." Mitch stepped forward, rock-hard thighs meeting his, heat just flaring in
those eyes. "Always using brute fucking force."
"I can finesse..." He'd been able to put a spin on a ball that would stay precise from the fifty
yard line to the end zone. His cock throbbed, pushing up against his thin sweats, pressing against
Mitch's tennis muscles.
"Prove it." That fucking tennis pro tan was obscene and perfect up close, the lines beside
Mitch's eyes deep from squinting, from laughing.
Oh, God. Prove finesse when he just wanted to eat the man up? Jackson took a deep breath,
calming down as much as he could before setting his mouth to Mitch's, aiming to prove he could
kiss as well as he used to play football.
Mitch gave up a little moan, just enough to prove that he wasn't alone in this game, before
making him push for it, making him work for it. Fuck, yeah. He slipped his tongue between
Mitch's lips, tasting beer and popcorn, grabbing Mitch's ass and lifting, rubbing. He'd imagined
it a million times. The reality was better.
Oh, shit. That running and stopping and turning made that sweet, little butt rock hard, cheeks
fitting in his hands. Mitch was right there, pulling on his tongue a little before letting go, the kiss
going back and forth between them.
He'd never been one to lie down and bottom, so he kissed even harder, squeezing that fine
butt, letting his teeth bruise Mitch's lower lip. Damn. Hot. Good.
"Did I already call you a pushy bastard?" Fingers slid over his bare scalp, pushing at the hint
of stubble before tugging him closer. "Sexy motherfucker. Thought you'd sit on the fucking
sidelines forever."
"I thought you weren't interested." How long? How long had they been looking and looking
and not touching? Now, though, they were gonna score. Jackson slid one hand up Mitch's back,
hand pressing between his shoulder blades, taking another kiss, then another. Soft, wet, Mitch's
lips were addictive.
The more they kissed, the closer Mitch pushed, the tissuepaper jeans just keeping that prick
away from him, that tight little ass covered up. Finally he kinda snapped, realizing that his play
strategy was fucked. Naked first. Then crawl into each other's skin. He pushed Mitch back until
he thunked
against the pool table and wrenched his mouth away from the kiss, frantically working the button
and zipper on those jeans.
Mitch pulled Jackson's t-shirt off, pulling his fingers away from the long line of heat that was
so fucking close. Bastard just laughed when he growled too. Tease.
"You'd better watch it, buddy. I've waited too long as it is." He growled, reaching again for the
line of pale blonde hair trailing down Mitch's belly, feeling it catch on his calluses.
"I haven't played full-contact sports in a long, long time, Jacky-boy. I'm trying to see if
there's anything in it for me." Mitch stretched, arching just right under his touch.
"Trust me. There'll be something in you." God, that man. Jackson let himself look. Really look.
Long, lean, with blonde pubes, Mitch had nothing in common his own wide chest and shoulders,
brown goatee and shaved head. Finally he obeyed his twitching fingers and reached down,
cupping Mitch's cock, his balls.
Oh, now. Look at that. Mitch pushed into his fingers like a skin after a good snap, solid and
sure, pushing right into his palm. Eager for the next play.
Squeezing a little, he moved as Mitch spread his thighs, stepping between them, feeling
warm, hairy skin on his hips and legs. So warm. And the scent of Mitch's need was gonna kill
him.
"Fuck. Don't stop. You've got amazing fucking hands." Mitch groaned, moaning, ass sliding on
the felt. "For a football jock."
"Asshole." He did stop, just for a minute, his hands sliding around to cup that amazing ass
again, lifting and pulling as
he bent. Then he started touching again, this time with his mouth.
"Jackson!" Those strong fingers wrapped around his head, gripping him as those thighs were
raised up and back. Strong and flexible.
Moaning, he sucked Mitch in, licking the underside, grunting at the taste. Hot, sharp and
bitter, but so good it made his cock ache. Mitch started rocking, pushing and whimpering and
sliding and begging and fuck, he'd wanted to know, so fucking long. Needed to know.
Those sounds. Jackson could live for those sounds. He sucked harder, pulling at Mitch's
flesh, begging for it.
"Gonna. Oh, fuck, Jacky. Gonna." That too-classy voice was back to raw and wanton, the sound
burning right into his brain.
"Mmmhmm." He wanted it. Needed it. Maybe it wasn't smart, or safe, but Mitch was his best
friend. He wouldn't hurt Jackson for the world. Jackson licked the vein along the underside of that
long cock, sealed his lips tight and bobbed up and down.
"Oh." That one fucking sound was like the still in the stadium during that game-saving
kickÐit lasted for-fuckingever and then he got what he needed, Mitch, hot and salty and strong,
pouring right into him.
Jackson took it all, licking Mitch clean, feeling like he'd scored the game winning touchdown
with ten seconds left in the game.
"Jackson. Damn. I. Damn." Flushed and panting, Mitch looked fine spread out on his
table.
"What? You what, Mitch? What are you gonna do for me?" He knew he had to push it, had to
keep the one-upmanship going. There were rules, even when everything changed, rules of
sportsmanship. It would keep them steady while they got used to this whole new play.
Those bright eyes just sparked, Mitch sitting up on his elbows. "I'm going to show you exactly
what firm grip means, helmet head."
"Yeah? Gonna show me your backhand?" Fuck, the man had the sexiest grin. Jackson started
to pant, face hot, chest flushing dark.
"Forehand, stud. Turn around and step back against me, Jacky. Gonna make you ask me
please." Mitch pulled him down, gave him another hard, deep kiss.
He kissed back before pulling away and doing as he was told, a little hesitant, but game to
see what Mitch had in mind.
Mitch scooted up, wrapped around him, all that hot skin plastered against him. "You feel
good, Jacky."
Then that left hand wrapped around his cock, stronger than he imagined, tendons standing
out on the strong wrist as Mitch's hand started to move.
"Oh. Fuck." He just stared. That was all he could do.
"You fucking know it. Be the best fucking handjob you've ever imagined." Those sharp teeth
ghosted over his shoulder, teasing him.
"Oh," he tried for offhand, but his voice cracked. "I've imagined pretty hard. You'd best
do good, buddy."
"How long have you imagined, Jacky?" Mitch got hold of his earlobe, tugging.
"Since..." Uhn. He tried to concentrate, but all of his blood went south, pooling in his cock.
"Since college. Remember when I came to see you in that tournament?"
"Yeah, I took second. I remember. You looked like a brick shithouse."
"And you looked like a Greek god, man. All tanned and golden." He'd just tumbled for
Mitch, then gone back to Mississippi State and thrown his best year ever.
That hand. Fuck him. If Mitch's other hand hadn't been on his hip, his knees would've
buckled. "We've missed some time, but this'll do."
"This is more than doing it. Trust me." Mitch's thumb scraped over his slit and Jackson's
eyes rolled, his hips pumping in time with his heartbeat.
"That's it. Fuck yes." Mitch pushed closer, cock sliding on his ass.

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