He’s chatting with a customer—smiling too.
I wish Declan would smile.
We reach the table in the corner, and the host hands us drink menus, then a bar menu. Declan thanks him, and I do the same.
Once he’s gone, Declan breaks the silence at last. “How’d you hear about this place? Have you been here before?”
It’s a massive relief to be able to answer him rather than ask him dead-end questions. I slide a finger along the T-shirt fabric over my right pec. “The tattoo artist who did my arrow?”
He nods, letting me know he’s seen that mark on me.
“Her brother owns it. Runs it.”
Declan’s jaw ticks. He works the information over, then breathes out hard. “Did you date him?”
“What?” I jerk my head back. “No.”
“Did you fuck him?”
What the hell? I shake my head adamantly.
Declan has no idea how far off he is. And I’m honestly not sure if I want to tell him just now or if I’ll let loose that little secret at all. I don’t know how he’ll react, whether it’ll turn him off or turn him on.
The man sighs heavily, dragging his hand down his face, over his jaw, running it through that sexy stubble I want to feel against mine. I want him to rub his chin against my cheek. To slide his thumb along my face. To touch me . . . everywhere.
I am a tuning fork, vibrating with need, but a red-hot desire got me into this situation. I can’t keep acting on it—or voicing it.
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.