Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,7

it.

But I couldn’t pretend.

As I crossed home plate, he clambered over the final seat and ran onto the field to give me a hug, but tripped and fell—a drunken, stinking mess.

His scent clogged my nostrils. That had to be alcohol. Later, I’d learn it was tequila.

He lifted his arm, a plaintive plea, laughing, like this was all so funny.

Nothing was funny. This wasn’t what I’d wished for.

Heat flooded my cheeks, the surge of embarrassment. Shame filled my body.

“Give me a lift, son,” he said, chuckling.

As my throat tightened, I spotted movement on the edge of my vision—a bird swooping by. No, a falcon. I wanted to be that falcon and fly away from here.

From all the eyes watching me. Watching us.

They looked away when my mother ran down from the stands to help, embarrassed for her.

I was keenly, horrifically aware of every stare as I left the field with my parents. I longed, again, to be that bird arrowing away from here, swift and powerful.

And I hoped, then I hoped harder, that this would never happen to me again.

4

Grant

Present Day

The night before

* * *

After an hour of Xbox with the guys, I return to my room, ready to snag a good night’s sleep. Ready, too, for another epic game tomorrow. After I shower and dry off, I get into bed.

Naked.

Why bother with clothes? I’m alone and I’m going to jerk off to the brand-new beautiful, filthy, fantastic images roaming through my mind.

Last night with Declan Steele.

Another first.

Another incredible, amazing first when we fucked, and he set my body on fire. I shudder as I replay yesterday evening in his hotel, how my world turned hot and electric when his body hugged my cock for the first time. When he urged me on, drew me closer, whispered filthy words to me.

Like he’d done the night before when he fucked me.

With those twin memories, a jolt of wicked pleasure hits me like a strobe light. I am rock hard and ready to indulge in images of him and us.

My man just does it for me, in every single way.

My man.

I grin, savoring the knowledge that that’s who he is.

The guy I’ll be seeing in November.

But before I take a trip to Dirty Declan Land, I’ll just send him a note. Nothing too boyfriend-y, since I know fuck-all about being a boyfriend. Something simple. Something that’s focused on the thing we have most in common.

The game.

I tell him how I played tonight, then hit send.

Setting my phone down, I shut my eyes, take my cock in my hand, and imagine the next time I’ll see him.

How I want it to be when we’re together again.

No limits. No barriers. Everything on the table. Just him and me. Me and him. Skin to skin, touching, exploring, discovering more of each other.

I want him inside me again.

I want to be inside him again.

I want to taste him everywhere. Want him to fuck my mouth. Want him to come on me.

Shuddering, I stroke harder, faster.

Images flicker past my eyes.

He flips me over, fucks me hard, rides me to the edge. Then stops. Leaving me there, right there.

So I can get behind him, do the same, drive him crazy too.

Fuck him like I love him.

Let him fuck me the same damn way.

A charge races down my body, and it doesn’t take me long till I’m coming hard in my hand, picturing us.

I pant, breathe out hard, and let the filthy bliss of my release spread through my body.

Then it’s time to clean up.

After, I check my phone.

No reply, but that’s cool.

He’ll write back when he can, and I’m going to learn how to be the best damn long-distance boyfriend there is.

A stupid grin takes over my face as I get back into bed, and I think of him as I slide into slumber.

I swear I can still smell him on the pillow.

I clutch it closer and fall asleep.

I wake in the middle of the night to take a piss, then check my phone when I return to bed.

Ah, there’s a reply from him.

Bring it on.

What did my guy say? I bet it’s sexy. I bet it’s supportive. Just like him.

I click open the text.

Read it.

And blink.

Is this a joke?

* * *

Declan: This is killing me, Grant. You have to know. But making plans was a mistake. We can’t do this. Any of this, including November. Miami is a bad idea.

* * *

For a long stretch, I can’t move. I can’t think. I read it again, and the same