Page 108 of Coach
“Mateo—” I started, but the words died in my throat when his mouth wrapped around me.
The world tilted.
Every muscle locked, my hands flying to the walls of the shower for balance as waves of sensation ripped through me, fast, hot, impossible to fight.
I wanted to take over, to spin him around and pin him to the tile, to again show him how undone he’d made me—but when I tried to move, his grip tightened on my hips.
His dark eyes flicked up, locking with mine, full of wicked promise.
“You’re mine now,” he whispered again, and I forgot how to speak.
There wasn’t a damn thing I could do but surrender.
God, I wanted to surrender.
To his touch.
To his mouth.
To him.
His lips closed around my head, and I forgot what I was thinking, forgot how to think. All I could do was feel and shiver and shake with pleasure, to consume his warmth and wetness as he devoured me.
His palm pressed against my abs, then fingers dugin, feeling the ridges, the definition, the hard-won evidence of a lifetime of workouts and clean meals. But I couldn’t think about that—any of it. All I could think—could feel—was Mateo and his damn near-perfect mouth.
His other hand gripped my balls, cupping them, pulling them down to force the skin of my shaft to tighten further.
My whole body tensed.
Steam made the shower tiles slick, so I gripped his head, tangled my fingers in his hair, the only way I could think to take back some measure of control.
His mouth bobbed. His tongue swirled. He slurped and sucked and—
“Mateo, you’d better stop or—”
He quickened, his lips tightened, his tongue circled faster.
My body shook.
My abs clenched.
His hand rose and gripped my chest like he was trying to break me.
Pain and pleasure flared, mingled, wove together.
“Mateo!”
I tried to push him back, to push him off.
I was so damn close.
Still he held on, driving, willing me into him deeper with each rise and fall of his beautiful head.
Stars exploded across my eyes as release burst from me . . .
Into Mateo.
He drank me in.
