Winning With Him (Men of Summer #2) by Lauren Blakely

I wrap my hand tighter around his dick.

And it’s like Declan loses his mind to bliss. He’s groaning, incoherent words of carnal bliss falling from his lips, till he gasps, “Yes, like that, do that.”

Pride surges in me, knowing how close he is, how much he wants to get off. How I can give him incomparable ecstasy, like he gives to me.

As my fist shuttles up and down his hot length, pleasure blasts through my body. It’s like a nuclear reactor inside me. I’m radioactive with desire, and I’m about to overheat. Declan unleashes the sexiest moan I’ve ever heard in my life, shooting all over my hand, hot jets of come landing on the sheets, on my palm, everywhere, as he gasps and pants.

My brain goes haywire, my own climax torpedoing through me, as my cock jerks hard inside his body and I fill him with my come.

I can’t even catch my breath, and I’m not sure I want to. I just want to bask in this ecstasy, in the aftershocks of our intimacy. I’m buzzing from the high, and I don’t want to leave my favorite place—Declan Steele.

But I ease out, wrap my arms around him, and I kiss him as I laugh softly.

I can’t help it. I’m just happy.

He laughs too. A blissful, post-sex high. The kind I’ve only ever wanted to enjoy with him. And enjoy we do, arms snaking around each other, lips sealing this second chance.

This is what it feels like to come back together.

It’s like being home.

“I’m so happy,” I whisper.

He reaches his arm back, clasping my head. “Me too.”

But there’s that matter of how messy barebacking can be. I drag my hand to the top of his ass, then along his crack, down his thighs. Dragging it through the mess I made of him.

I smirk, feeling kind of proud. “Shower with me?”

“I bet it’s the first of countless post-sex showers.”

He slides out of bed, and I smack his ass. “You can count on that.”





30





Declan





Here in the light, I have a great view of the canvas of my favorite work of art.

The pad of my thumb roams over the black ink on his hip, tracing the fine lines of the sun, then the moon. “Finally. I get to see this ink you promised to show me,” I say, as I explore his new tattoos with my fingers.

“You were a little distracted before. I get it,” he says as hot water beats down on us in Grant’s Shower Palace.

His title for it, and does it ever deserve the name. It’s a shower fit for a king, with a gleaming, black-tiled floor and walls, and fifty or so showerheads, it seems. Hot water is spraying me from every direction, and I love it.

I especially love the beads of water sliding down my man’s body. Like right there, over his hip. Home to his new ink. “Tell me about these,” I say.

“Well, one’s the sun. It brings light. The other’s the moon. It causes tides.”

“Smartass.” I run my fingers along the design. “Why? When? A tattoo is never just a tattoo for you. It’s a mantra.”

His lips curve into a grin. “That’s true.”

I curl my palm around his arm, gliding up his strong muscles, past the art near his wrist. “Like your compass. You told me it’s to help you find your way,” I say, repeating what he told me in spring training one night five years ago. “That’s what this represents to you. You had to do that since your parents said things that were difficult to hear.”

As he nods sharply, his jaw tightens, but his lips remain ruler straight, so I kiss the corner of them. “If you want to tell me someday, Grant, I’ll listen. You know that, right? I’ll listen to anything you want to say.”

His hands slide around my waist, his thumbs playing with the divots of my hips. “I do know that.”

“I can be a good listener. Just because I’m the messed up one doesn’t mean I can’t listen.”

Grant scoffs, jerks back, stares sharply at me. “We’re all messed up in our own way. Your messed-up doesn’t scare me. It never has.”

My heart jumps around, like there’s a monkey banging cymbals in there. “Good. Now stop distracting me. Sun and moon. Tell me everything because I want to know more of you.”

“I will, but let’s stop wasting water.” He lifts a finger. “Though, for the record, I did have this shower installed in an eco-friendly fashion.”

“With your fifty showerheads.”

“There are only five. Also, I get sore after games, so a long, hot shower helps.”

I hum, as he turns off the faucets. “I’ll rub you down after games.”

He wiggles a brow. “Don’t act like I won’t take you up on that.”

“Oh, I do want you to take me up on that. I definitely do,” I say as the water peters off.

He steps out, grabs a towel, then tosses one to me.

As we dry off, Grant gestures to his new ink. “I got this before spring training my second year. I went back to the same shop in Petaluma. Where my grandpa goes. I wanted it because I knew I needed to be strong going back there.”

“Strong on the field or off the field?” I ask carefully.

“Off. First time in Arizona after you,” he says, with a sad laugh, as he rubs the towel over his hair.

My chest twinges. “Was that hard? Being at the same place where we were? Same hotel?” I ask, flashing back to that time for me too. I’d dreaded walking into the complex in Florida, even though Grant had never been there. That was what stung—entering the baseball season, my favorite time of year, without as much joy in my heart because Grant was in the past.