Page 148 of The Play

“Make it anyway,” Deacon said.

“Yeah,” Grant finally said. “Yeah, I want to do that. I want to have a life, again. I’ve spent the last ten years working every single waking moment. I don’t have to do that anymore. I don’t even want to do that anymore. Not when . . .”

Deacon grinned. “Now that you’ve got me.”

“Exactly.”

It was hard to think when Deacon was touching him so intently, even though the trip to the Pirate’s Booty was hardly long enough for either of them to cash in on the promises he was making. Still, Grant was hardly a quitter.

“You like the sound of that?” Grant asked. He already knew the answer, but it wasn’t ever going to get old to hear it.

The look in Deacon’s dark eyes was intense. “Yes,” he said.

Deacon’s fingers closed around his wrist, and Grant wasn’t sure if he pulled him, or he leaned over, but a moment later, they were kissing.

“God,” Deacon ground out as his hands gripped Grant’s waist.

Grant could feel the power of him, and it was the most intoxicating feeling to know all of that was his.

He’d told himself they wouldn’t get carried away—after all, the bar wasn’t that far away—but when Deacon touched him with all that leashed strength, he lost his mind.

He lost it tonight.

He was about a thirty seconds of intense kissing away from suggesting that Deacon lay him down on this seat and do whatever he wanted to him when the car pulled up and Richard beeped across the intercom, letting know they were here.

“Shit,” Grant said, scrambling away from Deacon’s warm body, trying to right his clothes, and fix his hair.

“Here, let me help you,” Deacon said. Clearly unconcerned if he looked mussed, like Grant hadn’t been able to get enough of him, even on the short car ride over.

And that’s true, isn’t it?

Grant froze, fingers trying to rearrange his hair back into his normal style. Then he lowered them. “No,” he said firmly. “I’m good.”

He shrugged out of his suit jacket, unbuttoned another button of his shirt at the neck, and shot the other cuff link through, tucking both of them into his pocket, before rolling up his shirt sleeves.

“Hot,” Deacon said, his voice sounding darkly amused.

“It’s a bar, not a board meeting,” Grant said. He was going to have to find other clothes than suits and the old, ratty sweatpants he liked to wear around his place late at night. Especially if he was really serious about having this real life—a real life with Deacon.

Deacon wore t-shirts and jeans. Casual clothes. Went to places like the shrimp shack, without worrying about his image.

“We’re good,” Grant informed Richard, after pushing the intercom.

After Grant’s nod, Deacon opened the door and after sliding out of the car, held it open for Grant.

The Pirate’s Booty was as unassuming as it had been the first time Grant had visited. The second time, too, when Deacon had gotten into that fight that changed everything between them forever.

“You’re sure about this?” Deacon asked as they headed towards the door.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Grant wondered, even though he knew perfectly well why he was asking. This wasn’t just a casual run-in. They were arriving together, in enough disarray that nobody was going to be wondering what they’d done on the ride over. And then there was Deacon’s hand, resting firmly on the small of his back, warm through the fabric of his shirt, as they walked into the bar.

A quick perusal of the inside by the long bar told Grant that a lot of the team had come out tonight. No, the win today was not a guarantee of their playoff berth—but if they did win again, they’d be locked in.

“Just checking,” Deacon said. “You want a drink? Gin and tonic, right?”

“Doesn’t the bartender decide that?” Grant asked.

“True, true,” Deacon said with a smile. “Come on, then. I see Carter. Let’s get his teasing out of the way first.”

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