Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 92095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92095 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
“Let alone figure out how to breathe when a dick is lodged in the back of your throat,” he teases.
That brings on a smile. I fucking love his sense of humor. It keeps me sharing, wanting to hear more of it. “Then I went to the minors and then here.”
“Have you . . . done anything?”
“You mean did I lie about being good at sucking?”
“Listen, rookie. Being good at giving head is something I can teach you if you want to learn,” he says, and my pulse spikes from the offer. “So, I don’t care if you said that to flirt with me. I’m asking because I want to know you.”
My heart thumps a little harder over his last few words. Funny that talking so honestly about sex makes my chest warm. “I’ve done the whole blow job and hand job thing plenty of times. Yes, I like sucking cock, and I think I’m good at it, but feel free to be the judge of that yourself,” I toss out, pretty pleased with my flirt game.
Declan laughs. “Nice way to say you want to suck my dick.”
“You know I do.”
He hums, low in his throat. “I want to see you on your knees taking my dick between those lips. Want to see you crawling up on the bed and settling between my thighs to swallow my cock,” he rumbles, and my dick springs to life again.
“That’s where I want to be,” I say. I’m not turning back now.
“I know. And you know I want that too.” He breathes out hard, taking his time. “And everything else.”
Which is a perfect entry point. Or reentry point, I should say.
“So,” I say, circling back to my original question, girding myself to put my loins on the line. “Will you let me? Do that and everything else?”
I brace myself for his answer.
16
Declan
Will I let him?
My God, I want Grant Blackwood with a ferocity I’ve never felt before. I want him more than anyone else. Ever.
But I’ve met regret. I’ve confronted it in the harsh light of day. I don’t want him to regret me when the sun comes up.
“Grant, you know how I said I regretted my first time?”
“Yeah. You think you’d regret me?” he asks quickly, anxiously.
This guy. He has the guts to show me his desire, then to ask the toughest questions.
Does he have any idea how endearing that is? How attractive he is on so many levels?
I close my eyes, squeezing them.
Is that part of my hesitation?
That he’ll be more endearing than I imagine?
I shake that off. Focus on the physical. Open my eyes. “No. Not a chance in hell I’d regret you, rookie. But I don’t want us to make a decision right now. And most of all, I don’t want you to regret me.” I turn to the digital clock. “It’s late. It’s well past midnight. You’ve got to work out with Sullivan in the morning. You’re not going to get much sleep at this rate. As much as I want to head upstairs to your room right now and show you exactly how much I want you, I also think you should sleep on this.”
“You’re worried I’m making this choice in the heat of the moment? Because we messed around tonight?”
“Somewhat. I don’t think that’s a bad reason to make it. All I’m saying is midnight is for regrets. If you want to make a choice this big, you should make it in the daylight. Does that make sense?”
“I want to say no. But I get it. I do.”
“For the record, I think it takes serious cojones to do what you did. To say what you said,” I tell Grant.
“You’ve seen my cojones. They’re very serious.”
I laugh hard. “That they are, my friend. That they are,” I say, when my mind jumps to tomorrow. “Hey, do you need someone to join you with Sullivan? You’ll want a hitter, right?”
“That’d be great.”
“You’ve got one then.”
“We’re meeting at seven-thirty.”
“I’ll be there,” I say.
“Night, Deck,” he says, soft and tender.
“Sleep well, rookie,” I say it back the same way.
I stride up to the plate, adjust my batting glove, nod at the catcher.
Grant’s mask is pushed up on his forehead, his hair sticking through the cage. His expression is all business. “Don’t go easy on him,” he says.
“Not in my nature,” I say.
“Good.” Grant pulls down his mask as he crouches behind the plate, glove between his legs.
I take a few practice swings outside the box, loosening up. The sun rises on the horizon, bright and bold.
The sky is blue and it’s a new day, full of new chances for baseball, for life.
And no regrets, I hope.
In a few hours, we’ll host the Texas Scoundrels for a game. Will Grant know by then if the daylight gives him the same answers as the nighttime?