Page 100 of Coach
I strode up to his truck and peered through his driver’s side window. He was staring at the wheel, his hands clutching it like a life preserver, his knuckles whiter than primer on a freshly painted wall. He was either nervous, having some sort of out-of-body experience, or regretting inviting me out. I was fairly certain it was nerves but wondered if this detour was part of some inner-serial-killer-rural-alcohol-bait plan.
Thatmade me chuckle.
Shane would never be a serial killer. He was definitely an “I’ll shoot if you come on my property” sort of guy, but he wouldn’t kidnap and—
My hand rose, fingers tapping on the glass of their own accord.
His head snapped up, eyes wide. He hesitated, then rolled down his window, yet another move that amused me on a night that seemed determined to get stranger every second.
After a brief, odd exchange, he hopped down from his truck like some cowboy dismounting from his horse and led me toward his front door.
The porch creaked beneath our feet, a pleasant, welcoming sound. Shane unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding the door for me like a gentleman—albeit a rugged, grumpy one with the emotional range of a brick wall.
The moment I stepped inside, I stilled.
It was like walking into Shane’s soul.
The place was, technically, a big cabin—but it wasn’t the kind you found in tourist brochures. It was large, with vaulted ceilings and exposed beams stained to a deep walnut sheen. A stacked stone fireplace dominated one wall, its mantle lined with mismatched carvings of animals, abstract forms, and a twisted hunk of wood that looked like a dragonmid-roar. Furniture dotted the space in a glorious, chaotic parade of styles. A Shaker-style armchair sat beside a Japanese-style coffee table. A Scandinavian-looking bench stared across the room at a rustic Appalachian hutch.
It was so varied, so eclectic; and yet, somehow, it all worked.
Every piece was handcrafted, every edge smooth, every joint tight, every detail carved like someone had poured love into it. It was Shane’s work. I would’ve bet my last cannoli on it.
He stepped past me, tossing his keys into a rough-hewn wooden bowl sitting atop a table that belonged in a gallery or museum.
“Sorry. I know . . . it’s kind of . . . a lot.”
I nearly staggered back at how sheepish he sounded. “Are you kidding? This is incredible. It’s like a gallery curated by a very sexy lumberjack.”
“Thanks,” he said, his head lowering as his ears turned red. “You want a beer?”
Something flared within me, something familiar and raw and blazing hot. I welcomed it, embraced it, and readied myself to douse him with it.
“No.”
“No?” His brows furrowed.
“No,” I repeated.
“Uh, okay.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Something else?”
My heart skipped a beat. “Definitely something else.”
Without waiting for my courage to fail, I stepped forward, grabbed him by the arms, and pressed my lips to his. It wasn’t smooth or a move anyone might write a song about. Both our lips were rough and dry, and neither of us had time to prepare or anything; but damn, it was hot. Before I could think, my tongue slipped past his teeth and found his. It knew the way. It had been there before. Still, this felt different—it felt like, I don’t know, more.
He only hesitated for a heartbeat before massive arms wrapped around me, steel hands pressing into my back as the rest of him melted into our embrace. He was so much bigger than me, so much taller and broader and thicker. I wasn’t huge or beefy, but I wasn’t used to being so . . . engulfed. It felt awkward at first, but I recognized a new sensation coursing through me as his arms tightened about my body: safety. Being held by this monstrous mountain of a man made me feel safe.
No one had ever made me feel that before.
I melted into his touch, into the thought of being possessed by him—of being protected by him—of knowing nothing in the world could harm me if only Shane were there, standing guard, holding me close.
A tiny part of my brain—okay, the common sense part—laughed at how Hallmark-ridiculous I was being in that moment. It chided me for turning into a Disney character because some hot, beefy, sexy man was tonguing his way to China via my throat.
I swatted that annoying voice away, shoving it down so far I hoped it would stay fucking quiet for at least a few hours. I wanted this. I wanted Shane . . . all of him . . . and I wanted it right then.
“I want you inside me,” flew out the moment our lips parted for breath. Apparently, there was more than one voice begging to sneak out of me, and the second one had very different ideas of what constituted “good judgment.”
Shane’s eyes flared, and he growled, a low rumble that had me wondering if he might shift into a bear or panther or wolf. Was it a full moon? Did that sort of thing happen out in the woods?
