Page 81 of The Play

And yeah, it was messy. But that there was an added benefit, Deacon decided as he got up and followed Grant to the bathroom, watched him as he flipped on the shower.

“Well, anytime you want me to fuck you, I’m not going to argue,” Deacon said, leaning against the long countertop.

“No?” Grant tapped his fingers against the glass of the shower. “What about if I want you to get in with me?”

“That was a given,” Deacon said.

Chapter 12

Grant had pulled a lot of all-nighters, but he’d never done it like this before.

His shower with Deacon had turned into a hot and lazy make-out session, his fingers buried into Deacon’s water-slick hair, and then that had turned into a blow job, his mouth finally getting to taste Deacon’s cock.

But before Grant could coax another orgasm out of him, he’d pulled out of Grant’s mouth and leaned him over the bed and fucked him slow and insistent, leaving Grant panting and sobbing against the comforter.

By the time Deacon had finally wrung his second orgasm out of him, he’d been desperate and hysterical, thrusting his cock against the soft fabric.

Now they were clean again, tucked up in Grant’s bed, Deacon’s eyes sleepy and satisfied, Grant’s own heart beating strong as Deacon slung an arm around him, tugging him flush against him.

Grant didn’t even know what time it was.

Late, probably.

And he didn’t give a shit.

Going to bed at a reasonable hour and not fucking twice in a few hours was overrated.

“Tomorrow’s gonna be tough for you,” Grant pointed out.

“I’ve gotten by on far less sleep,” Deacon said. “What about you? You gonna be able to walk tomorrow?”

He sure hoped so. Deacon hadn’t been rough exactly, but it had been a long time since he’d had more than his own fingers or his toy inside him, and Deacon was a lot bigger than that. “Guess we’re gonna find out.”

Deacon’s fingers tightened against his shoulder. “I’m sorry if I was thoughtless that last time. I . . .I kinda lost my mind again. Even though I swore to myself that I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah?” Grant liked the sound of that. He wanted to break Deacon down to just the parts of him that belonged to him. Wanted to imprint himself in the spaces between. So Deacon could never even dream of living without him.

And you thought you could live without doing this, ever.

Okay, that had been a very stupid assumption on his part.

“I want you so much, you make me lose my mind.” Deacon’s voice was a deep rumble. Grant couldn’t just hear it, he could feel it.

“I guess it was naive to imagine we wouldn’t ever cross this line,” Grant conceded. Because he felt the same. Out of control and unlike how he imagined the center of a hurricane felt, he was perfectly, insanely happy.

Like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

“I just wish it wasn’t because of Rex, ’cause that’s where they got the email, wasn’t it? Because you gave your hard drives to the NFL.”

“Yes,” Grant said. There was no point in lying. Deacon was too smart to lie to, and Grant didn’t even want to, anyway.

If they were doing this—and it was becoming increasingly clear there was no going back to before; no putting the milk back into the carton, now that it had spilled everywhere, all over Grant’s bed—then they were doing this, in this one hundred and ten percent, no turning back now.

Deacon made a dissatisfied noise.

“What?” Grant asked.

He knew Deacon well, but he couldn’t parse out this sound and what it meant.

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