“I’m going to California, Ry. This is all I’ve ever known.” He doesn’t release me, but he looks around the lake. No one is around us, but I hear the music coming from the shabby cabin our class rented for the weekend, and I can see the bonfire they’ve lit close to it.
“You’ll be great.”
His eyes meet mine, and I feel that familiar feeling stirring low in my belly. One I’ve been trying to ignore for years. One I’ve tried to drink away. I’ve tried my best to get lost in the girls in our class and out on the baseball field. I’ve thrown myself into everything else, trying like hell to ignore the one thing I know deep down I want.
Him.
“So will you.”
“Chances of going pro are slim,” I say lamely, my eyes transfixed on his full lips. No wonder he has such a reputation for being a good kisser. With lips like those, how could he not be?
Of course, that’s only with girls.
Every fucking girl in our school.
Grady is, no doubt, straight. And I . . . I have no idea what I am.
Lost.
That seems about right.
He cups the back of my neck with one of his hands and pulls me close, resting his forehead against mine in a gesture he’s done a lot when I’ve doubted myself. “Not for you. You’re Ryan fucking Bailey. You’re going to go far. You were destined for this.”
A shiver runs through me from the intensity of his eyes on mine. “You’re always so sure.”
“About you? Of course, I am.”
I want to lean in even closer. I breathe him in and hope like hell it’s not noticeable, but I can’t resist. He smells like whiskey and the lake from swimming earlier. And him. Just fucking him.
“Grady?” My voice is full of gravel as he pulls back enough to look into my eyes. His breathing seems rapid, but maybe it’s my imagination.
“Yeah?”
I swear his gaze drops to my lips, but I try to shake that thought away. I’ve wanted him for years, but there’s no way he feels the same. “I don’t know what I was going to say,” I admit.
“You think too much, Bailey. You always have.” His thumb on his free hand—the other is still cupping the back of my neck—runs over my bottom lip, and I think I stopped breathing.
When he leans closer to me, I’m almost certain I’m dreaming. Or maybe I fell into the lake and am drowning. Hell, maybe I’m dead.
But when his firm lips press against mine, I couldn’t give a fuck if I’m actually dead because this is my heaven.
His hand around the back of my neck grips me tighter and pulls me closer as a growl escapes my throat, and I don’t think . . . I just attack his mouth with mine. Taking everything I’ve wanted for so damn long.
My hands move to his thick, soft hair, threading my fingers through it and pulling him to me, not able to get close enough. His mouth opens for me as my tongue darts inside, tasting Grady. Finally.
God, he tastes good.
Our moans mingle as he shoves me onto my back on the dock, and I think this is it. This is when he’ll wake up from his drunken daze and punch me right in the face.
But he doesn’t.
Instead, his body covers mine, settling between my legs, and I know he can feel how hard I am. But what really fucking shocks me to my core, something I’ll never forget for as long as I live, is the erection that’s not mine. His hard dick is pressed against mine as our lips meet again, and we grind against each other. Groaning and moaning with need as we kiss and writhe on the old wooden dock. My body is larger than his—both in pure muscle mass and in height—but he has no problem taking control, grabbing both my hands and pinning them above my head as our clothed cocks rub against each other, and I’m about to lose my mind.
“Grady,” I gasp, close to coming in my jeans.
He pulls back enough to look down into my eyes, not releasing his hold on me. “Yeah?”
“What are we doing?”
I could kick myself for stopping this, but this is Grady. He doesn’t make out with guys. I can’t be a drunken mistake. Not to him.
“Celebrating?” His right eyebrow kicks up along with a cocky grin spreading on his too handsome face.
I’m shocked he isn’t flipping the fuck out. But again, this is Grady. He doesn’t freak out. He’s calm, cool, and collected. Always. It’s why he’s a fucking fantastic pitcher. Nothing rattles him. “Like this?” I rasp as I feel his body on top of mine while I pant and plead with him silently to come back to me.
The spell broken, he sits up, letting go of my wrists and kneeling between my legs. “Maybe not the best idea.”
It’s like a knife plunging into my heart, but deep down I know he’s right. There are so many things I want to say to him. I want to pull him back to me, kiss the fuck out of him, and tell him I’m an idiot for saying anything. To get lost with me.
But I don’t. Instead, I take his hand when he stands and then pulls me up, ruffling my hair in the casual, easy way that’s just Grady.
He isn’t freaking out that he kissed a guy. His thoughts aren’t swirling around in his head that’s moving far away while I’m staying in the same state where we grew up. He doesn’t worry about any of that.
“Come on, fucker. This is our last night before the real world comes calling and we make it our bitch.”
I follow, but it’s on shaky, uncertain legs.
Because now, I’ve had a fucking taste. And I have no idea how I’m going to come back from that.
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