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

They looked away when my mother ran down from the stands to help, embarrassed for her.

I was keenly, horrifically aware of every stare as I left the field with my parents. I longed, again, to be that bird arrowing away from here, swift and powerful.

And I hoped, then I hoped harder, that this would never happen to me again.





4





Grant





Present Day

The night before





* * *



After an hour of Xbox with the guys, I return to my room, ready to snag a good night’s sleep. Ready, too, for another epic game tomorrow. After I shower and dry off, I get into bed.

Naked.

Why bother with clothes? I’m alone and I’m going to jerk off to the brand-new beautiful, filthy, fantastic images roaming through my mind.

Last night with Declan Steele.

Another first.

Another incredible, amazing first when we fucked, and he set my body on fire. I shudder as I replay yesterday evening in his hotel, how my world turned hot and electric when his body hugged my cock for the first time. When he urged me on, drew me closer, whispered filthy words to me.

Like he’d done the night before when he fucked me.

With those twin memories, a jolt of wicked pleasure hits me like a strobe light. I am rock hard and ready to indulge in images of him and us.

My man just does it for me, in every single way.

My man.

I grin, savoring the knowledge that that’s who he is.

The guy I’ll be seeing in November.

But before I take a trip to Dirty Declan Land, I’ll just send him a note. Nothing too boyfriend-y, since I know fuck-all about being a boyfriend. Something simple. Something that’s focused on the thing we have most in common.

The game.

I tell him how I played tonight, then hit send.

Setting my phone down, I shut my eyes, take my cock in my hand, and imagine the next time I’ll see him.

How I want it to be when we’re together again.

No limits. No barriers. Everything on the table. Just him and me. Me and him. Skin to skin, touching, exploring, discovering more of each other.

I want him inside me again.

I want to be inside him again.

I want to taste him everywhere. Want him to fuck my mouth. Want him to come on me.

Shuddering, I stroke harder, faster.

Images flicker past my eyes.

He flips me over, fucks me hard, rides me to the edge. Then stops. Leaving me there, right there.

So I can get behind him, do the same, drive him crazy too.

Fuck him like I love him.

Let him fuck me the same damn way.

A charge races down my body, and it doesn’t take me long till I’m coming hard in my hand, picturing us.

I pant, breathe out hard, and let the filthy bliss of my release spread through my body.

Then it’s time to clean up.

After, I check my phone.

No reply, but that’s cool.

He’ll write back when he can, and I’m going to learn how to be the best damn long-distance boyfriend there is.

A stupid grin takes over my face as I get back into bed, and I think of him as I slide into slumber.

I swear I can still smell him on the pillow.

I clutch it closer and fall asleep.





I wake in the middle of the night to take a piss, then check my phone when I return to bed.

Ah, there’s a reply from him.

Bring it on.

What did my guy say? I bet it’s sexy. I bet it’s supportive. Just like him.

I click open the text.

Read it.

And blink.

Is this a joke?



* * *



Declan: This is killing me, Grant. You have to know. But making plans was a mistake. We can’t do this. Any of this, including November. Miami is a bad idea.



* * *



For a long stretch, I can’t move. I can’t think. I read it again, and the same awful words mock me.

Once more, and my head spins. A spike of adrenaline jolts my senses into high-def as the room whirls around me, and I set a hand against the wall for balance.

Is this real?

I heave a breath against the tightness of my ribs, but I’m swallowing sand. Shock and anger make a fist, viciously squeezing my heart until I think it might burst.

Declan broke up with me via text message.

Are you fucking kidding me?

I’ve never had a boyfriend. But I’m pretty sure you don’t break up with one over a text.

I want to believe it’s a mistake—a wrong number or a drunk text.

But Declan doesn’t drink. This note is meant for me and can only be from him because it’s about us. About the end of us.

With a death-grip on the offending phone, I read the message again, but the words are still on the screen in cruel black and white.

The man doesn’t even have the guts to call me and shatter my heart in real time.

Holy fuck. I can hardly keep hold of the cell. I’m shaking because I’m so fucking hurt. I’m trembling because I’m so fucking angry.

I shove my free hand through my hair.

This can’t be happening.

He didn’t mean this. No way this is real. I know Declan.

Better to check—to give him that much credit, at least. Better to follow up and find out.

Better to know.

I don’t care what time it is in Florida. I dial his number, jaw clenched, fists tight, and I swallow my pride as the phone rings and rings and rings.