All this kissing lights me up.

  Arouses me even more.

  Fireworks explode as I ride him hard.

  We fuck each other relentlessly with words, hands, and bodies. We use everything we have, every time.

  Every stroke of his dick in me sends me spinning higher and hotter. I reach for my shaft, autopilot kicking in, driven by the desire to come.

  But when I grip myself, he swats my hand away, then grabs hold of my hips, stopping me. “My turn, baby. I want it all with you too.”

  With a plaintive groan, I ease off Grant, about to ask how he wants me . . . when he shows me.

  He lies flat on his stomach, then lifts his ass. “Fuck me nice and slow,” Grant begs.

  “Oh yes, babe. I fucking love this,” I say as I stretch out on top of him, feeling his whole body underneath mine as I angle him just so.

  Seconds later, I’m all the way in, his body hugging my cock so fantastically that it’s a Christmas miracle I don’t shoot right now.

  I stave off the tempting hit of bliss so I can cover him completely, my chest on his back. I brace on my forearms, thrusting my hips, going deep and deeper still as my man writhes and moans under me. Like this, I’ve got him entirely. His body is mine. His neck is there for me, and I bury my face in that spot that ignites my senses and draw long, fevered hits of his scent.

  It goes to my head.

  “Don’t think I can go slow, rookie,” I warn, desire hitting in hard, punishing waves.

  “Then get me off. Wanna come together,” he groans as I snap my hips. I’m high on this body that belongs to me. The man that I alone can have. The heart and the soul that are my companions.

  The pleasure that I alone get to give.

  Yanking him up on all fours, I slink a hand under him, reaching for his shaft, and curl my palm around it.

  Closing my eyes, I drive into him, stroking and moaning and loving. We gasp for air, trembling and breaking apart.

  Soon, he’s jerking in my hand, his body shaking as he reaches his climax, as the bliss of fucking my fiancé for the first time takes me under too.

  I let go, chasing the edge, jumping off the cliff right there with him.

  * * *

  ***

  * * *

  When I wake the next morning, I can’t stop looking at my ring. Grant can’t stop staring at his either.

  I officially have the best life ever.

  36

  River

  A few weeks later

  I would never fault my friend for his good fortune.

  Still.

  What kind of justice is there in the world of hot men, hookups, and relationships?

  With an exaggerated sigh, I shake my head as I straighten up The Lazy Hammock bar while Declan and Grant bestow smooches, endless freaking smooches, all over each other. Owen is next to them, kicking back with a scotch, laughing at their romantic shenanigans.

  Because . . . what else can you do?

  “Please, please, please tell me, oh sexy god of love and gorgeous, captivating men,” I plead. “Of all the hotties in San Francisco, why is it fair for Grant Blackwood”—I gesture dramatically to my business partner—“to land a hot baseball player on literally his first time at the plate?”

  They crack up like only the most adorable, disgustingly in love couples can, with hands and arms all wrapped around each other.

  “I have good taste,” Grant says with a cocky shrug.

  Declan lifts his iced tea. “I’ll drink to that. And I’ll drink to the god of whoever made the Cougars pick you in the baseball draft way back when, so you’d wind up on my team,” he says to his fiancé.

  Owen arches a brow and points to Grant, then Declan. “Wait. You two were involved when you were on the same side?”

  Grant brings his finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  “Your secret is safe with me,” Owen says, then shoots me a demanding stare. “But, River, why didn’t you tell me that?”

  I roll my eyes. “Because you didn’t need to know.”

  “But I definitely would have wanted to know,” he says.

  I pour Grant a Diet Coke, then continue on my rant. “As I was saying, you two found each other, and meanwhile, I meet, like, literally all the out, queer men in San Francisco and I am still single,” I say, staring at them like my romantic diet is all their fault.

  Well, it feels like someone’s fault.

  Hell, I’d like to find out who’s responsible for the drought in my love life.

  I hand Grant the soda. He clears his throat and tilts his head toward Owen. “Hello! He’s out and cute.”

  “I’m more than cute,” Owen says, squaring his shoulders. “Matt Bomer, eat your heart out.”

  Owen’s not wrong. But . . . that’s beside the point. “Please. Owen and I are friends,” I tell Grant.

  Owen lifts his drink. “Friends don’t bang friends,” he seconds.

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, since you’re ‘friends,’” Grant adds, sketching air quotes, the devil that he is, “maybe you should do that Friendsgiving thing that Owen was just talking about.”

  My brow knits. “What?”

  Owen gives me an exasperated look. “I mentioned it before you went off about Grant’s luck at the man buffet.”

  “Right, I heard you. My what was more like Grant, why are you suggesting we go to Owen’s Friendsgiving together?”

  Declan’s eyes sparkle as he answers. “Because you’re friends. Isn’t that what Friendsgiving is for?”

  I turn my gaze to Owen, challenging him. “Well, you haven’t invited me.”

  Owen laughs, then leans closer on the bar. “I guess we’ll see if I do.”

  My longtime friend lifts his scotch, knocks some back, and sets down the glass.

  I spend the rest of the evening, wondering whether he’ll invite me. If he does, I’m pretty sure I’ll say yes.

  37

  Grant

  Next year

  We celebrate Christmas and the new year in Tokyo, like we planned, indulging in fish and noodles, singing karaoke, checking out teahouses and temples. We spend time with Cyndi and Tyler, as well as Tyler’s son, his wife, and their daughter.

  We don’t even miss Declan’s dad’s wedding because he never proposed to Tricia.

  Can’t say I’m surprised. Given what Declan’s told me about his father’s romantic history, as well as how he met Tricia, I wasn’t expecting much to come of Jon’s plans.

  But I am glad that my fiancé is managing his father just fine. Jon Steele is coming to our wedding next month, after all.

  We didn’t want to wait. Plain and simple. On the flight home from Hawaii, I asked Declan when he wanted to get hitched.

  “Tomorrow?” he’d said.

  And he was serious.

  Mostly.

  But a Vegas wedding isn’t for us. We both want family and friends around us. We picked February so we can tie the knot before baseball season.

  In early January, as we wander along the streets of Shibuya, the shortstop—my shortstop—squeezes my hand. “How does this ring thing work?” Declan asks, lifting my hand to show off the engagement ring he gave me, which looks just like a dude’s wedding band.

  “Huh. That’s a good point. Since we have them already.”

  “Do we get another band for the wedding? That seems weird.”

  “I bet there’s a website somewhere with the answer.”

  Declan sweeps out his free hand, like he’s lighting up a marquee, his voice booming like a carnival barker. “Get your gay wedding questions answered here. Step right up.”

  Then he downshifts to a more studious tone, humming thoughtfully. “Do we have two best men? Like Holden and River? Best women, like Reese and Emma? Also, who gives who away?”

  I rattle off my answers. “Same rings. What if we just have friends of the grooms in the wedding party? And how about we walk down the aisle together?”

  He stops in front of a pachinko parlor, yanks me against him, and drops a kiss to my lips. “Brains and beauty. Sold.”

  A month later, in a simple ceremony at an art gallery in the marina, that’s what we do, walking in, side by side.

  Our friends flank us as the justice of the peace reads the vows: Reese, Holden, River, Crosby, Chance, and Owen, as well as Declan’s buddies from New York—Emma, Fitz, and Dean.

  My grandparents are here, along with Cyndi and Tyler, and Declan’s father too. Other Cougars and Dragons fill out the guest list—Sullivan, Miguel, Gunnar, and Dante, as well as my college friends Tia and Layla.

  There’s no liquor served, and Cyndi promised to keep an eye on Declan’s dad to make sure he doesn’t cause trouble.

  But I’m not thinking of anyone but the man I’m marrying.

  The justice of the peace asks me, “Do you, Grant Blackwood, take this man to be your husband? Do you promise to love and cherish him in sickness and health, for as long as you both shall live?”

  Easiest question ever. “I do,” I say, looking into the soulful brown eyes of the man I adore. He looks back at me with love, passion, and vulnerability. That’s my guy.

  She turns to Declan next. “And do you, Declan Steele, take this man to be your husband? Do you promise to love and cherish him in sickness and health, for as long as you both shall live?”

  Declan grins at me like he’s won not just the husband lottery, but the life lottery too. “I do.”

  “You may kiss your groom.”

  We do, locking lips in front of all our friends, our family, and our teammates. It’s our first kiss as husbands, and somehow, it’s even better than that time in a car on the side of the road years ago.

  Later that night, at the reception at a nearby restaurant, the deejay plays Pearl Jam like I requested, and I stride up to my husband. “Want to dance to something your speed?”

  With a laugh, Declan takes my hand, and we slow dance. His arms loop around my waist, and mine move around his neck. “Now, this I can move to,” he says.

  “See? I know you.”

  “You sure do.”

  We slow dance to a few more tunes, and when a Lady Gaga number kicks on, he heads to the bar for a glass of water while I stay on the floor with Reese, Holden, River, and Owen. As I shake my hips, I wink at my husband, mouthing, told you I’d dance for you.

  Declan smiles and shoots me a sexy-as-hell look.

  At the end of the night, his father walks over to me and extends a hand. “Thank you, Grant,” Jon says. “You’ve made my son very happy.”

  “He makes me very happy,” I say.

  Jon leaves soon after. He didn’t make a scene. He didn’t cause trouble. Sometimes that’s all you can ask.

  As the wedding winds down, I snap a selfie of the two grooms looking sharp in our suits. “We look good, Deck.”

  “Post it on my socials, rookie.”

  I kiss his cheek and take his phone, posting the shot on both our feeds.

  When my husband and I go home that night—we’ll have our honeymoon in November in our new home in Hawaii—I take him to our bedroom and strip him naked. His tailored suit lands in a pile of expensive fabric on the chair in our room.

  Declan does the same to my clothes.

  We crash into each other, kissing and touching. But before we lose ourselves completely in our favorite activity, I clasp Declan’s face and say the thing I’ve always wanted to tell this man: “You’re my first and my last.”

  “Yes, I am,” he says with a satisfied grin.

  I’d say I’ve won the life lottery too.

  38

  Declan

  A week later

  Grant shakes me awake two days before pitchers and catchers report. “Dude, I need new ink.”

  Rubbing my eyes, I yawn. “Why the urgency?”

  “Because I’m married now. Duh.” He pulls on a T-shirt. “I need something to celebrate being a taken man.”

  I sit up in bed, dragging a hand through my messy hair. “My name in a heart? So cute.”

  He scoffs. “Love you, man. But no.”

  “How about I worship Number Eighteen?”

  Grant shakes his head. “Get up, get up. You’re coming with me. I know what I want.”

  “Mind if I shower first?”

  “Mind if I suck you off in the shower?”

  Tilting my head, I pretend to consider that offer. “Nope. Don’t mind at all.”

  Grant delivers, and twenty minutes later, we hop in the BMW and drive to Petaluma.

  Grant has his sights set on a bird.

  “Like a big bird of prey,” he says as we walk along the block to Ink Lore.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  “Can you picture it? Full back tat.” He reaches behind him and drags his fingertip down his spine. “An eagle, wings spread, being all badass.”

  “As eagles are,” I say.

  “I want to be covered in it.” We reach the shop, and when Grant sets his hand on the door, I cover it with mine and meet his eyes.

  “What are you really getting?”

  He winks. “You’ll see.”

  “Indeed, I will,” I say, then push open the door and follow my husband into the shop.

  A woman with purple hair waves to us.

  “If it isn’t Grant ‘Knows He’s Hot Shit’ Blackwood,” she says brightly, then shifts her gaze to me. “And hey there, Declan.”

  I walk over to the artist and kiss her cheek. “Good to see you, Echo. How’s everything?”

  “Living the dream,” she says, gesturing to the store. “My dad gave me the shop when he retired.”

  “Congrats. That’s awesome.”

  She snaps on gloves, then turns to Grant. “I’ve got everything ready for you. I had the design already done. Are you good to go?”

  Grant whips off his T-shirt. “Absolutely.”

  “Is anyone going to tell me what’s on this work of art?” I ask again.

  Echo shrugs impishly. “Ask your man.”

  Grant mimes zipping his lips. So, I huff, then sit and wait.

  Thirty minutes later, I can’t stop staring at his left shoulder, utterly mesmerized. This is no big back tattoo. It’s a small but beautiful piece of art—a silhouette of a bird, its wings spread.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I whisper reverently, transfixed by the black ink on my husband’s body.

  Grant shifts his gaze to me. “You like?”

  “I love,” I say.

  “It kind of reminds me of you.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You wanted to be a bird. I like to think you flew to me.” He flashes me a goofy grin. “Maybe that’s cheesy, but I believe it.”

  A tingle swoops down my chest, warming me up, driving me on when an idea pokes at me insistently. “Any chance you can do another one?” I ask Echo.

  “On your hubs?”

  I’ve never had a tattoo before. But then, I’ve never seen one that felt so right, and this one means something to him and to me. It says something about who we are to each other and makes me feel like we’re always connected. “No. On me.”

  Grant’s eyes pop, all big and blue. “You’re going to get a matching tattoo?” He sounds shocked—maybe too shocked.

  I waggle my left hand. “We have matching rings. We share a house. Sometimes we share clothes. Is a tattoo your limit?”

  His grin is magnetic, telling me the shock in his eyes is the good kind. “Get one. Get it now. You’re going to look so hot with a bird on you.”

  With her eyes focused on Grant’s shoulder, Echo nods. “If you want the same design, I can fit you in.”

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m in the chair, with Echo inking a small silhouette of bird wings onto my chest.

  When we leave the shop, Grant wraps an arm around my shoulders. “You’re stuck with me now.”

  “Yes. Yes, I am.”

  Epilogue

  That fall and into the next few years

  * * *

  Declan

  * * *

  Some guys have all the luck.

  Like my husband. Grant wins another World Series in late October, catching the final pitch in an epic Fall Classic, battling the Chicago Sharks in a seven-game, extra-inning nail-biter.

  He hits two home runs, bats over four hundred, and collects five RBIs. He also catches every damn pitch.

  It’s no surprise he wins the MVP trophy.

  To say I am proud is to say the sky is blue. I am elated, and I kiss the hell out of him when, still wearing his chest protector, he runs over to me in the stands and pulls me onto the field.

  Two years later, Grant wins his third World Series.

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little jealous. But mostly, I’m so damn happy for him. My team comes close a few times, but we don’t win it all.

  Someday.

  But my somedays are getting shorter. The end of baseball looms closer for me. I’m thirty-four, and soon, I’ll have to start thinking about retirement.

  Not yet, though. I’m still healthy.

  Until I turn thirty-five. I twist my ankle on Opening Day—it knocks me out for a few weeks, I don’t feel one hundred percent when I return to the lineup, and my stats show it.

  It’s the first season where I’m disappointed with my performance, and I tell Grant as much when we’re in Hawaii in November, lounging in the sun.

  “Maybe it’s time to hang up my cleats,” I say, feeling more contemplative than usual as I stretch out on a lounge chair by our pool.

  Grant shakes his head. “Nope. You had one less than stellar season. You’re not retiring.”

  I don’t have his certainty, though. “Maybe it’s my time. Maybe the gods of baseball are telling me something.”

  “Your husband is telling you something. You’re not retiring early. You’re a future hall-of-famer, and you need to keep playing.”