After a pause, Declan speaks again, his voice low. “Do you see the problem?”
The tension in me twists even higher. “I honestly don’t know,” I say, holding my hands out wide.
He rubs his palm along the back of his neck, then his eyes laser in on mine. He holds my gaze, and electricity crackles between us—a hot, sizzling charge. He parks his elbows on the table, parts his lips.
“I’m already jealous of the possibility of you fucking someone else,” he says, a plain admission that scorches me.
Declan’s jealousy sets me on fire. Every square inch of me burns for him. “You are?”
“I am.” His voice is smoke in the desert night. “And what you said this morning?” he prompts, like I didn’t remember it perfectly.
“Yeah?” I ask, letting him lead this conversation wherever he’s taking it.
“Grant,” he says, his tone shifting, full of vulnerability and heat. “It’s driving me absolutely crazy.”
I don’t move. I don’t breathe. I don’t say a word. A haze envelops me as anticipation builds higher and higher, wrapping me in its naked grip.
He grabs a napkin from the napkin holder, balls it up, rips it. Then he meets my eyes once again, leveling me with a stare that’s more dangerous than any he’s flashed my way before.
But his words are the true risk as he says, “You and me fucking would be the worst idea ever. And yet I can’t get it out of my head.”
My throat is dry. I can’t swallow. I am an electrical wire. I want to remember those words for the rest of my life.
I want to remember this feeling forever. I’ve never been this aroused, this turned on.
This . . . alive.
Especially when I answer him with the easiest words I’ve ever spoken. “Same here.”
12
Declan
Those two words—same here.
They echo in my skull, pushing me, prodding me.
Tension lines my body, as want wars with my better judgment.
I shouldn’t talk to him like this.
Shouldn’t put my cards on the table.
But Grant Blackwood is under my skin.
He’s the sexiest man I’ve ever met, and it’s not just his body, his face, or his eyes. It’s . . . him.
Who he is. How he is.
Maybe talking this out will eject the desire from my head. Maybe acknowledging the white-hot sparks between us is all we need to move the hell on.
Put our lust through its paces. Laugh at it. Remind ourselves why giving in would be the worst idea ever.
“But you’re my teammate,” I say, presenting it as a logical argument. “We work together, and this wouldn’t be some office fuck where we screw in the mailroom and go to separate floors. We share a locker room. We’ll share a team plane. We’ll share a field. TV networks carry the Cougars. Sponsors endorse us.”
I grab another napkin, start shredding it.
“That’s all true,” he says, taking his time with each word.
“We have a manager. Fisher would not be happy if two of his guys were screwing. Not to mention, we have other teammates,” I say, my jaw clenching in between words. “Crosby, Chance, Sullivan.” I go around the horn and name the rest of the team to remind myself. Hell, maybe saying their names will free me from this lust as I rip this napkin to pieces. “They depend on us. All of them do.”
I link the fingers on both my hands together and hold them up, demonstrating my point. “We are a bond—nine guys on a field. We can’t give in.” I implore him, my voice tight as I do everything to convince him.
But it’s not Grant I’m trying to convince.
It’s me.
Because the way this man looks at me, with sex in his eyes, dirty deeds on his lips, makes it nearly impossible for me to resist.
“I know we can’t, Deck.”
That. Right there. His boy-next-door voice. That’s part of why I want him so much. I shake my head and laugh futilely. “Even that gets me going. The way you say my nickname.”
A smile curves his lips. “Deck.” He’s all gravelly and raspy, enjoying knowing what it does to me, and it does the trick.
“Mmm. Like I said . . .”
Grant jerks his chair closer to the table, licks the corner of his lips, and murmurs, “The way you call me rookie . . .”
My neck heats. My blood incinerates. “You like that?” I take a beat, lingering on his gorgeous face, the blue flames in his eyes flickering higher. “Rookie?”
He shudders, nodding. “Yeah. Makes me hard.”
“Jesus . . . fuuuuck.” I am broiling. “Do you get what I mean? Do you see the problem?”
“I do, Deck. I do.”
A bolt of heat slides down my spine. “I’m trying to tell you all the reasons why this is a bad idea, and now all I can think about is your cock.”
He shifts in his seat and swallows visibly, his Adam’s apple bobbing. I want to lick it. “Pretty much all I’m aware of too,” he whispers. “Safe to say all the blood in my body went straight to my dick when you said you were thinking of us fucking.”
I groan.
He shudders at the sound, his lips parting, his shoulders rising and falling.
“Dear God, I am going to climb across the table right now,” I warn.
“I think you know I won’t stop you,” Grant says.
And that is my reminder—I have to be the strong one. I have to be strong for both of us. I’ve got to look out for the rookie.
I let out a long exhale and lean back in my chair, searching for something else to focus on, when the man from the bar arrives. Ink crawls down one arm, and his smile is bright.
“Can I get you two a drink?” His voice is cheery, and it helps break me out of the haze.
“Iced tea for me, please,” I say.
The man shifts his gaze to my companion. “And you?”
“Diet Coke, please,” Grant answers.
“Great. Can I interest you in any food? Our Sonoran sandwich is pretty darn good, if I do say so myself. The barbecue sauce is to die for.”
“I’m not sure yet,” I say, and the guy nods, then glances once more at Grant, his gaze snagging on the bands on Grant’s biceps that look like water.
The man’s smile deepens, his eyes flickering with recognition. “Oh, wait. You’re Grant, aren’t you? My sister mentioned you to me. I’m River. Welcome to Arizona.”
“Thanks. Good to be here.”
River’s eyes return to Grant’s arm. “I heard you were a regular at Ink Lore. My dad did that one, right?”
Grant smiles and taps his arm. “Yeah, he did the bands a couple years back. Echo did my newest one a month ago, and I love it.”
“She’s a rock star of tattoo artists, but she works all the time. I keep telling her to get out of the shop and get some vitamin D. Go for a hike, Echo! She’s like a ghost, that girl,” he says with a laugh.
“All that time in the chair, though, is working for her. She’s super talented,” Grant says. For a second, I wonder if he’ll lift his shirt, show his arrow to this guy.
I grit my teeth. He better not.