“But you’re so . . . social. You’re outgoing. You love all that.” I flap my hand in the direction of the club. “The crowd, the people, being on display—it’s who you are.” I push past the discomfort because it’s a relief to say all these things that have been weighing on me. “And you’re so good at that. I love that you’re so bold.”
He stares at me, still worried. “But . . .?”
“Babe,” I say, clasping his shoulders. Grant needs touch—it centers him, reassures him, and he deserves that. “There is no but for me. I love you so much, and I also don’t want you to resent me down the road. I don’t want to rain on your parade.”
His arms slide around my waist, but we don’t embrace or fall into each other. “Don’t leave me,” he whispers, his voice shaking.
My heart craters. I grab him, curling a hand around the back of his head as I pull him against me. “Never,” I murmur, then kiss his forehead. I thread my hands through his hair, pressing another kiss to his cheek, then his lips. Grant is such a physical person, even more so than I am, and I want to speak his language—a sentence of gentle touches that translates as hope.
But this is also a time for us to talk, starting with me. “Is that what you thought? That I’d leave you?”
Grant shakes his head, then nods, then shakes it again. “I don’t know.” He lets go of my waist, his hands crawling up the front of my shirt to take hold of the material. “You freaked me out.”
“I just feel like such a boyfriend fail tonight.”
A soft laugh falls from his lips, then he lifts his chin. “Join the club.”
“I should have told you,” I say, stroking his cheek.
His expression softens into a sympathetic smile. “I should have realized it would trigger you.”
I wince, hating that word, but knowing he’s right. “I don’t want to be someone who’s triggered,” I mutter.
Grant wraps a fist more tightly around the top of my shirt. “You can move on from your past, you can be stronger because of it, but you can’t ever erase it. It’s okay if there are things you don’t want to do because they remind you of shitty times in your life. And I don’t want to put you in that position again.”
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. When I open them, I tug him close. “Thank you.” I take a beat, then push on. “Sometimes, I just want to be alone with you. I don’t always want our relationship to be a cause. I just want it to be just . . . ours.”
His lips curve into a slight grin. “You mean you don’t necessarily want to be a gay ambassador?”
I laugh lightly then tap his nose. “Exactly. I don’t mind the pics you post. I love going out with you. But sometimes, maybe most of the time, I just want it to be you and me.”
Grant looks me in the eye, a touch of hurt lingering. “Just tell me next time, okay?”
I nod, doing my best to agree, though there’s a part of me that fears I might be keeping him from the big, loud, vivacious life he wants to lead. But my man is looking at me with such love that I need to set those concerns aside. “I will. I promise,” I say.
“I’m not going to be upset, Deck,” he says. “I want to have fun with you. But it’s about both of us having a good time. So, next time, let’s talk first.”
With hindsight, I can see how the club could have gone differently. “If I told you from the start that I didn’t want to dance, I could have just, I dunno, had an iced tea at the bar and watched you.”
Grant gives me a you’ve-got-it smile. “That’s what I’m talking about. I’d have danced with my ladies and put on a show for you.”
“We can make going to a club work,” I say. “Together.”
“And if we can’t, we can have fun in other ways,” he says.
Oh yes, we can.
It’s time to focus on Grant—on the one thing I can give him that no one else can. I press my lips to his, kissing him gently at first, soft and tender, reassuring him with my mouth that I’m not ever leaving him.
How could I?
This man is the love of my life.
But I also want him to love his life with me.
I desperately want to be enough for him.
I let those thoughts slink out of my head as we kiss. My mind goes hazy, my body turns warm. Soon, his hands are pulling at my shirt. I break the kiss as Grant groans a low note of desire then yanks hard on the fabric, ripping off the buttons so they fly across the floor.