Winning With Him

by Lauren Blakely

  To pants. To grunts. To one or two words.

  So good.

  Yes.

  Fucking yes.

  Amazing.

  Oh, God.

  That’s all we are as our bodies rediscover each other. He shifts his neck so he’s looking at me, and he doesn’t have to say a word for me to know what he wants.

  We make out like crazy. Kissing wildly in the kind of soul-searing kiss that you don’t ever think can truly happen to you.

  Until it does.

  And then . . . you know. That “seeing stars” isn’t just a saying. That it’s the truth. When you come together as one with your guy. When you reconnect with the man you’ve spent the last five years longing for.

  Maybe you didn’t feel that longing every day or every night. Maybe you learned to live with it. Maybe some of the time, maybe even most of the time, it was dormant, but still you hoped that you’d find your way back to each other.

  Now, here we are, wrapped up together. I move in him, rocking my hips, indulging in slow, euphoric strokes that make my groin simmer and my dick show off how hard it can get.

  Pleasure blazes over my skin as we kiss. But soon our lips slide apart as I hit that pace. The pace that says we’re not far off. Lust spins in my veins, coiling tight and hot in my blood.

  I wrap my hand tighter around his dick.

  And it’s like Declan loses his mind to bliss. He’s groaning, incoherent words of carnal bliss falling from his lips, till he gasps, “Yes, like that, do that.”

  Pride surges in me, knowing how close he is, how much he wants to get off. How I can give him incomparable ecstasy, like he gives to me.

  As my fist shuttles up and down his hot length, pleasure blasts through my body. It’s like a nuclear reactor inside me. I’m radioactive with desire, and I’m about to overheat. Declan unleashes the sexiest moan I’ve ever heard in my life, shooting all over my hand, hot jets of come landing on the sheets, on my palm, everywhere, as he gasps and pants.

  My brain goes haywire, my own climax torpedoing through me, as my cock jerks hard inside his body and I fill him with my come.

  I can’t even catch my breath, and I’m not sure I want to. I just want to bask in this ecstasy, in the aftershocks of our intimacy. I’m buzzing from the high, and I don’t want to leave my favorite place—Declan Steele.

  But I ease out, wrap my arms around him, and I kiss him as I laugh softly.

  I can’t help it. I’m just happy.

  He laughs too. A blissful, post-sex high. The kind I’ve only ever wanted to enjoy with him. And enjoy we do, arms snaking around each other, lips sealing this second chance.

  This is what it feels like to come back together.

  It’s like being home.

  “I’m so happy,” I whisper.

  He reaches his arm back, clasping my head. “Me too.”

  But there’s that matter of how messy barebacking can be. I drag my hand to the top of his ass, then along his crack, down his thighs. Dragging it through the mess I made of him.

  I smirk, feeling kind of proud. “Shower with me?”

  “I bet it’s the first of countless post-sex showers.”

  He slides out of bed, and I smack his ass. “You can count on that.”

  30

  Declan

  Here in the light, I have a great view of the canvas of my favorite work of art.

  The pad of my thumb roams over the black ink on his hip, tracing the fine lines of the sun, then the moon. “Finally. I get to see this ink you promised to show me,” I say, as I explore his new tattoos with my fingers.

  “You were a little distracted before. I get it,” he says as hot water beats down on us in Grant’s Shower Palace.

  His title for it, and does it ever deserve the name. It’s a shower fit for a king, with a gleaming, black-tiled floor and walls, and fifty or so showerheads, it seems. Hot water is spraying me from every direction, and I love it.

  I especially love the beads of water sliding down my man’s body. Like right there, over his hip. Home to his new ink. “Tell me about these,” I say.

  “Well, one’s the sun. It brings light. The other’s the moon. It causes tides.”

  “Smartass.” I run my fingers along the design. “Why? When? A tattoo is never just a tattoo for you. It’s a mantra.”

  His lips curve into a grin. “That’s true.”

  I curl my palm around his arm, gliding up his strong muscles, past the art near his wrist. “Like your compass. You told me it’s to help you find your way,” I say, repeating what he told me in spring training one night five years ago. “That’s what this represents to you. You had to do that since your parents said things that were difficult to hear.”

  As he nods sharply, his jaw tightens, but his lips remain ruler straight, so I kiss the corner of them. “If you want to tell me someday, Grant, I’ll listen. You know that, right? I’ll listen to anything you want to say.”

  His hands slide around my waist, his thumbs playing with the divots of my hips. “I do know that.”

  “I can be a good listener. Just because I’m the messed up one doesn’t mean I can’t listen.”

  Grant scoffs, jerks back, stares sharply at me. “We’re all messed up in our own way. Your messed-up doesn’t scare me. It never has.”

  My heart jumps around, like there’s a monkey banging cymbals in there. “Good. Now stop distracting me. Sun and moon. Tell me everything because I want to know more of you.”

  “I will, but let’s stop wasting water.” He lifts a finger. “Though, for the record, I did have this shower installed in an eco-friendly fashion.”

  “With your fifty showerheads.”

  “There are only five. Also, I get sore after games, so a long, hot shower helps.”

  I hum, as he turns off the faucets. “I’ll rub you down after games.”

  He wiggles a brow. “Don’t act like I won’t take you up on that.”

  “Oh, I do want you to take me up on that. I definitely do,” I say as the water peters off.

  He steps out, grabs a towel, then tosses one to me.

  As we dry off, Grant gestures to his new ink. “I got this before spring training my second year. I went back to the same shop in Petaluma. Where my grandpa goes. I wanted it because I knew I needed to be strong going back there.”

  “Strong on the field or off the field?” I ask carefully.

  “Off. First time in Arizona after you,” he says, with a sad laugh, as he rubs the towel over his hair.

  My chest twinges. “Was that hard? Being at the same place where we were? Same hotel?” I ask, flashing back to that time for me too. I’d dreaded walking into the complex in Florida, even though Grant had never been there. That was what stung—entering the baseball season, my favorite time of year, without as much joy in my heart because Grant was in the past.

  Back then, I’d believed he’d stay there forever.

  “Just being there, walking those halls, going up the stairwell, was harder than I expected. Goofing off in the pool with our teammates reminded me of you,” he says heavily, then shakes his head like it can shake off the memories. “That’s why I’m glad I had this,” he says, sliding his finger across the ink. “I wanted a reminder that life is full of opposites. Light and dark, hardship and good times, duty and fun. The sun is strength and power, but it needs the moon, too, for balance. And I knew I needed the reminders to stay focused, to stay strong.”

  “Seems it worked,” I say, hanging up my towel. As he does the same, his stomach rumbles.

  Laughing, I pat his firm belly. “You as hungry as I am?”

  “Famished,” he declares. “Let’s order something. A lot of something.”

  In his bedroom, Grant grabs a pair of gray gym shorts from a drawer and tosses them on the bed beside him. “Want shorts?”

  My brow knits. I’m quiet for a few seconds too long. “We’re sharing clothes?” I ask like a robot.

  He levels me with a skeptical stare. “Dude,
I just came inside your body, and you don’t want to share clothes? That’s your line?”

  Shaking my head, I close the distance between us. “No. I’ve just . . . never shared clothes.”

  Snagging a pair of navy basketball shorts, he tosses them my way. “Good. Start with me. I want that first and I want it now.”

  Laughing, I pull on the navy shorts, going commando.

  Grant opens another drawer, wiggles an eyebrow, then spins a pair of red underwear on his finger. When he pulls them on, my chest heats again.

  “Whoa.”

  He glances down at the form-fitting underwear that emphasizes the outline of his dick—deliberately. He’s wearing the kind designed to show off a guy’s package.

  “Oh, you like?” he asks with a naughty grin.

  “Your underwear upgrade? Yeah, those are fucking hot,” I say. Those tight, red boxer briefs are snug enough to make your lover drop everything.

  “I decided I was done shopping for briefs at T.J. Maxx or Target. No more boring gray or black. Rafe Rodman all the way.”

  I gotta say, that designer knows what dudes who like dudes like to wear.

  “Not gonna lie. I can’t wait to take those off you later. They make me want to get you even more naked,” I say.

  “Then they’re working,” he says as he tugs on the gray gym shorts over them, his gaze traveling up and down my body. “Yup. I like you in my clothes. Go figure,” Grant says with a happy shrug. “Come check out my new couch. Bought it a few weeks ago.”

  “Are you showing me because you’re into home decor, because you want to give me a tour of your house and all your stuff, or is it a sex couch?”

  I arch a brow. “This is you and me we’re talking about. It’s damn well going to be a sex couch.”

  “Then I want to see it now.”

  We head downstairs to the living room where he grabs his tablet from a black coffee table, and we settle onto the world’s biggest couch. It’s a U-shaped thing, with big cushions and more space than the back of a truck.

  “Sex couch,” I declare, as he taps on the iPad. We pick a Vietnamese place, ordering enough food to feed an army. As we curl up on the bigger-than-Alaska couch, I reach for his left calf, wrapping my hand around it. “Noticed this ink while I was inside you.”

  With a laugh, Grant wiggles a brow. “Did you now?”

  “Well, your legs were in the perfect position for me to check out your calves. Kind of fitting.”

  “I’d say there’s no more perfect time for you to spot it.”

  “Your equals sign,” I say, admiring the smallest tattoo on his body. It’s less than a centimeter, right above his ankle, precisely drawn and deceptively simple. Two black lines. Equal rights. Equal love.

  “Got this when I started doing even more work with the Alliance,” he says, his shoulders straightening. “I did a video series for them, all sorts of speaking engagements, talking to teens. I wear so many of my other mantras, and it seemed the right time to add this statement on my body.” Grant stretches forward, rubs his thumb over the ink on his leg. “And this is everything to me. This is why I do what I do. This is what I’ve always wanted. Not just for me. For everyone.”

  A glow spreads from deep inside me, like a fire in a hearth warms a house. “I love this,” I say, stroking the lines on his calf, his heart on his skin. “I love what you do. I love how you put yourself out there.” I bend my face, brush a gentle kiss across the black ink, then sigh contentedly. “I started doing some volunteer work in New York after I saw you at the agency party.”

  “Yeah?” He sounds delighted as he lies back on the couch, stretching his legs across my thighs. I snap a mental picture of this moment—him relaxing on me, us hanging out together on a Friday night as the world goes by and all that matters is happening inside these walls. Everything feels so right, as right as the sex we have, like this could be us in a month, a year, five years.

  “I helped out with some events in the city,” I say, answering him. “A game night type of thing, board games and trivia, at a couple local high schools.”

  Grant’s smile is electric. “I bet they loved having you.”

  “I loved doing it,” I say softly, then add, “You kind of inspired me.”

  Grant sits, his eyes intense. He takes my hand, wraps it around his wrist, covering his compass tattoo. “That means the world to me. Do you want to know why?” His tone takes on a new fervor.

  “I do,” I answer with the same seriousness.

  “I wasn’t even supposed to be here,” he says on a rough swallow.

  I wrap my hand tighter around his wrist, sensing he needs the touch. “What do you mean by that?”

  He draws a deep breath. “My parents didn’t want me. They wanted to have an abortion. They were going to.”

  My heart craters, pain slicing through me. “Oh, Grant,” I say, sliding my fingers down to his hand and clasping it.

  “When I was fourteen, I overheard them fighting. That wasn’t new. They always fucked and fought. This time, after they screwed, they argued about whether she was on the pill, which turned into arguing about how the condom broke when she got pregnant with me,” Grant says, biting out each word, hurt laced in his tone.

  I hold his hand tighter, refusing to let go.

  “Back then, twenty-seven years ago, my mother had an appointment at a clinic. She was all set to get an abortion. That’s what she wanted. And look, they were sixteen. I get that they were kids having kids. And I understand that some people consider an abortion and then are grateful they didn’t. But that’s not them. Most of my life, they treated me like I was a mistake. They treated Sierra the same way. Fourteen years after I was born, my mom still wished she’d gotten rid of me. That’s what she told my dad the day I overheard them, Deck,” he says, his voice wobbling painfully, “it was awful. They didn’t want me when she was pregnant, and they didn’t want me when I was a teenager either.”

  I ache for him in every cell in my body. I want to hold him tight and take all the hurt away. “I’m so sorry you heard that. I’m so sorry that happened. I wish you’d never had to go through that.”

  “Me too,” he says, but he soldiers on. “My grandma insisted on me—she made my mom keep me.”

  My throat tightens, clogging with more emotion than I think I’ve ever felt, and it’s like a dam breaking.

  “I love your grandma,” I blurt, when what I want to say is I love you so much. I love that you’re here, I love that she insisted on you, I love that you’re alive, and I love madly that you’re with me right now, because I’m pretty sure you’re the great love of my life.

  “I love her too.” Grant’s voice trembles, but he keeps going. “I went to Reese’s house that night and told her what I’d heard.”

  “What did she say?”

  “She hugged me. Told me she loved me. Reminded me of the other people who did too, like Sierra and my grandparents. Now, I don’t even talk to my mom or dad much. Sometimes they show up at games. Sometimes at Thanksgiving. I’m nice to them and all, but they’re not really my family. They didn’t want me, and they didn’t try to want me.” He shudders, then breathes out hard, squaring his shoulders, reaching for both my hands now. “But I really like being wanted.” He dips his head then raises it with a sheepish expression. “I think that’s why I like your jealous side.”

  A small laugh falls from my lips as I lace my fingers through his. “Want to hear a secret?”

  Grant smiles. “I do.”

  “I’ve never been the jealous type. It’s not my nature. But there’s just something about you. Always has been,” I say, shaking my head in amazement over this man and what he does to me. “I felt it that first night at The Lazy Hammock, and it never stopped.” I emphasize every important word that comes next. “I want you, Grant Blackwood. And it’s never been just physical. I want you all to myself. I want you immeasurably more than I’ve ever wanted anything. More than baseball. I want you so much the wanting is part of my fuc
king soul.”

  His lips twitch in a gentle grin. “Do you think it’s crazy that I need that? That kind of intensity?”

  I shake my head. “No. It’s not crazy.” My hand slides up his arm, travels to his sternum, my palm resting on top of his heart. “It’s what you need. And it’s what I want to give you.”

  Grant covers my hand with his, then closes his eyes and sighs contentedly. I shift positions, stretching alongside him, grateful his couch is big and cushy. I wrap my arms around him, feeling that calm rightness once again.

  I breathe him in, and my heart feels like it’s expanding with each breath like it’s unsure how to fit in my rib cage. But I’ll make room for it, this new heart size. Pretty sure it’s never returning to how it was.

  We stay like that, quiet and peaceful, as the sounds of the city wrap around Grant’s home—cars honking in the distance, music playing from the park, a trolley rolling along somewhere.

  From even farther away, I imagine I can hear the Pacific Ocean crashing against the sand, that kind of nighttime whoosh the waves make as they tug on the shore.

  Steady. Constant.

  The sun and the moon.

  I run my hand down his arm, savoring the moment.

  The doorbell buzzes, and a second later Grant’s stomach growls again.

  I laugh. “And I suspect the man you really want just arrived.”

  “Things you need to know about me—I require lots of feeding,” he says, vaulting up from the couch and practically running to the front door, where he thanks the DoorDash guy by name.

  Then we grab chopsticks and chow down.

  We eat and talk.

  “Listen,” Grant begins. “I know you said you’re willing to let me set the pace. But I think we should take things slow."

  “Sure. That makes sense,” I say, even though I wish there were a full-speed ahead option. But schedules simply don’t permit that.

  “You made yourself a promise. You gave yourself a year. I don’t think you’re rough around the edges like you said, but I also want you to do what you need to do.”

  “I need to do you,” I say in a low rumble.