Page 126 of The Play

Grant kissed him, and it was a blessing and a relief to fall back into this familiar pattern. To know, with Grant’s mouth moving confidently and surely against his own, that they loved and wanted each other. That they had each other’s backs, no matter what.

That nothing the world said about them, that no matter what they announced—or didn’t announce—to the world, would change a goddamn thing.

“Hey, hey,” Deacon said as Grant tried to tug him towards the bedroom. “Where you goin’?”

“Bedroom,” Grant panted into his mouth.

And yeah, it had gotten hot and heavy fast, like it always did with them.

All of Deacon’s self-control evaporated pretty much the moment he touched Grant—or in this case, the moment today he’d started thinking about touching Grant.

“No, here,” Deacon said and pushed Grant up against the kitchen island as he went to his knees.

Grant was still wearing one of those flawlessly cut and tailored suits, this one a dark green with a tiny white and gray stripe, and the pants hugged every slim, gorgeous line of his legs.

Deacon just sat there, rocking back on his heels, as he admired the view. Especially admired the hard line of Grant’s cock as it pressed against the zipper.

“Yeah?” Grant said breathlessly, one of his hands gripping the edge of the counter and the other tangling in Deacon’s still damp hair. “You gonna get on with it, or just sit there and look?”

“I don’t know, the view’s pretty goddamn amazing,” Deacon said, his tone going dark and rough, guttural almost, as he reached up and unbuttoned Grant’s pants, letting them slide down after he’d taken care of the zipper.

“How’s that one?” Grant teased.

Deacon leaned in and enjoyed the way Grant’s cock twitched at just the feel of his warm breath through the cotton of his briefs.

“Even better,” Deacon said.

Grant almost stopped him.

Almost told him, get up and let’s go to the bedroom.

Almost apologized, again.

He hoped the lingering guilt that Deacon had caught him and confronted him in a lie of omission might be permanently extinguished if he did.

But then Deacon shuffled a few inches closer and tugged down his briefs, one of those big calloused hands closing around his thigh, holding him in place, and the other curling around his cock, and the pleasure whited out his mind.

Maybe what he needed to banish the guilt wasn’t another apology but just this.

Deacon and him, together. The way they were meant to be.

“I know you want it,” Deacon said.

“I know you want to give it to me,” Grant teased back, straining against Deacon’s hold. He didn’t have a hope or a prayer of touching Deacon’s physical strength and also yet, Grant knew he held every card, every bit of power. The instant Deacon didn’t think he was as into this as he was, he’d stop.

There was nothing surer—nothing truer—than Deacon’s heart.

He’d said it, Grant realized. If you don’t want me anymore, you’re going to have to be the one to tell me to go.

It had been easy enough to think it, to accept it, to take it as a given, but it was another to believe.

Glancing down, watching as Deacon’s tongue flicked out, his expression morphing from sweet and playful to worshipful, Grant thought for the first time that he might actually believe it.

Funny thing about guilt—it went hand in hand with fear—and it felt as though every pulse of bone-melting pleasure that surged through him as Deacon’s tongue trailed up his length, curled around the head, banished both of them.

Deacon’s hand holding his hip dipped lower, to his ass, cupping it, kneading it, and then slipped in between his cheeks, pressing against his hole, and Grant groaned.

“Yeah, baby, I know what you like,” Deacon said, between long, leisurely sucks. It felt like he was barely breaking a sweat, but he was still demolishing Grant one bit at a time, reducing him to a writhing mass of pleasure and overwhelming need.

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