But Grant’s not a fan like I am.
He doesn’t know Matheus has been married to the same woman for twelve years. That he’s devoted. Straight as a midfield line. That he’s been proudly showing me photos of his daughter in matching cleats, babbling about how she already understands angles.
We haven’t even touched the business yet.
But from the way Grant is glaring like Matheus just whispered something filthy in my ear, I doubt he knows that.
So, am I going to keep this up?
Am I going to keep brushing Matheus’s arm when I laugh? Keep tipping my glass slowly, eyes low-lidded, every movement calibrated just enough to hold Grant’s attention without being obvious?
Abso-fucking-lutely.
Because I have a damn good idea where Grant’s mind keeps going.
And if I’m right—and let’s be honest, I usually am—it’s straight to my cock.
I shift slightly in my seat as the memory from two days ago floods back, vivid and electric. The way he whispered my name—Dante—breathless and low, like it had been dragged from somewhere he didn’t want to admit still existed. Like it hurt just to say it.
His hand had been on my thigh. Then higher. The slight flex of his fingers when he brushed against me—like he wanted to wrap his whole palm around my shaft and hold on for dear life. Until he pulled away too fucking soon.
I told Eve, of course.
She asked for every detail.
And last night she played it out for me.
Let me close my eyes and walk her through it—all of it—while she wrapped her mouth around my dick and sucked me like she’d been born for it. But it wasn’t her mouth I was thinking about. Not really. Not when I came down her throat saying his fucking name.
So, when I glance up and catch Grant shifting in his seat—his arm dipping just slightly under the table—I know. I know.
He’s hard, just like I am.
And he’s trying to adjust himself without anyone noticing.
Too late,Lucciolina.
His jaw clenches. His gaze snaps away. And a moment later, he’s pushing back from the table like the linen’s caught fire beneath his fingertips. “Excuse me,” he mutters, the words stiff and uneven as he stands.
He walks too quickly.
Shoulders tense. Gait too clipped. That desperate kind of pace that’s trying so damn hard to seem normal, it screams everything but.
I wait and count to five.
Maybe six.
“You order our appetizers while I use the restroom.”
I rise, patting Matheus on the shoulder twice before walking away from the table.
Our families have been members of this club for decades. Grant and I were practically raised in its halls. Sunday brunches and pool days and tie-optional dinners where we’d sit across from each other. As we got older, we pretended we weren’t both wondering what it would feel like to fall out of step—just once—and touch.
Never in a million years did I think I’d be following Grant Harrow into the men’s room, hard as a fucking rock, with every intention of making him moan my name.
Grant doesn’t hear the door open.
He’s too busy bracing the counter, fingers splayed wide against the marble, head hung low like he’s trying to breathe through the storm.
