Page 48 of The Play

He’d done it in the bathroom too—ironically, right before he’d made it impossible for Deacon to ever get over this—but Deacon could only remember one piece of advice now.

Blaring loudly in his brain.

Fight for him.

He didn’t think any more.

He’d done way too much thinking. Both of them had.

He was off the desk in a second, and in the next, his arms were around Grant. He was more solid than Deacon had imagined. Not just unbreakable in mind, but unbreakable in body, too. And after winding his fingers around his shoulders, around his waist, he leaned down and kissed him, the way he should’ve kissed him in the bathroom.

Grant melted into him like he was a fire, and immediately, instantaneously, this kiss was different.

The kiss in the bathroom had been hesitant and regretful—but not this one.

Deacon poured all his need into it, all the want he’d never been able to forget, and one of them—Deacon thought it might be him—groaned as he pressed them into the desk. Grant’s hands dug into his hair, into his scalp, tilting his mouth at a better angle as his tongue slipped into it.

Grant’s clear and obvious desire was all it took for him to be hard as a rock.

It was one thing to know Grant wanted him, and another entirely to feel Grant’s fingertips digging into his shoulders, his tongue brushing eagerly into Deacon’s mouth, the way his body plastered against Deacon’s own.

He hadn’t thought past, fight for Grant and you need to kiss him now, like you mean it this time, and now he couldn’t think at all.

Deacon’s hands slid down his back, reveling in the feel of him. He didn’t even hesitate, he gripped Grant’s hip with one hand and his surprisingly curvy ass with the other and pressed him even closer against the desk. In this moment, Grant wasn’t his team’s owner. He wasn’t even his statistics tutor. He was just a man, same as Deacon.

Grant mumbled against his mouth. Deacon wasn’t sure what he said. Hoped it was, more, now, please. He could do more. He could do it now. And Grant didn’t even have to ask—though begging could be fun.

“I’m going to need to start coming in here with a bullhorn, aren’t I?”

Deacon sprang back at the sound of the amused voice.

Grant was panting hard, eyes dilated and hair even messier than it had been a moment ago.

Shit.

There was nothing Deacon wanted more than to dive back in.

Without interruptions.

He glanced up at Darcy, who didn’t look offended or perturbed, only amused.

“Yes, definitely a bullhorn,” she repeated, tilting her head as she looked at them.

“I . . .ah . . .” Words were never Deacon’s strong suit. Exactly why he’d just relied on action.

But Darcy just laughed. “Are you two done?”

Grant cleared his throat. Gave Deacon a look that said, we need to talk about this, but not now, definitely not now. “Yes,” he said firmly. “I’m going to get dressed and . . .” He waved in Deacon’s direction. “I’m sure you have . . .uh . . .somewhere you need to be.”

He did have somewhere he needed to be. In a bed, with Grant wrapped around him. Naked.

“Um, yeah, sure. Yes.”

“Do I need to give you two a moment?” Darcy was still laughing.

“No,” Grant said, and Deacon watched as he pulled himself together the rest of the way, managing to look dignified even with hair messed up from Deacon’s hands, lips red and wet from kissing, and an obvious hard-on in his sweatpants.

“Alright,” Darcy said. “I’ll just be in my office. Call me when you’re ready for the day, Grant.”

---