Page 114 of Coach
“Good.” He smirked, turning back to grab the syrup, giving the most amazing view of the morning’s moon rise.
And so I sat, watching him move around the kitchen surrounded by everything he’d built with his own two hands, naked ass bouncing about, cock trying desperately to escape its cloak. It was surreal—and one of the best shows I’d ever attended.
Damn, that man was fine, and there was no doubt he knew what he did to me. Why else would he prance about letting the goods jiggle and bounce? Unless . . . he walked around naked all the time.
God, that made my heart race even faster.
What the hell was it about that man that drove me so nuts?
“Apartment beige with two Splenda, sir,” he said, presenting a cup on a saucer before me.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said, continuing the waiter role play. “I might spill. I’m so clumsy. Mind if I take that towel, just in case?”
He didn’t blink, didn’t smile, didn’t smirk. The infuriating man didn’t so much as flinch.
He simply reached down, plucked the dish towel off his junk, and tossed it onto the table.
“Anything for a customer,” and he turned away.
For the hundredth time in twenty-four hours, I was speechless—and staring at the most perfect butt God ever made, its vertical smile grinning back at me.
Shane sat, and we ate and made small talk.
He never dressed.
To say I’d grown accustomed to his nakedness would have been an overstatement of the case. There was no growing used to Arnold Schwarzenegger sitting across from you, pecs and pee-pee exposed to the world. No amount of banter or chatting about the weather could distract from perky nipples and bowling-ball arms. But I tried to focus, to keep my eyes locked onto his, to avoid letting them slip down and daydream about licking and teasing and biting and—
“I think we should date.”
My fork fell out of my hand, clattering onto the plate. Pancake slathered in syrup made a break for freedom, flying off and landing midway between us. My mind raced, yet no thoughts formed into coherent sentences. All I could do was blink.
Shane cocked his head, the perfect golden retrievermove. His mouth was a thin line, his eyes placid, giving nothing away.
“Date?” I asked, as though he’d spoken in Farsi.
He waved his fork,hispancake still attached. “You know, go out. Do dinner, movies, that sort of thing. Get to know each other.”
“Okay. Yeah. I like that idea.”
“Why do you sound so unsure?” he asked.
I reached up and ran a hand through my hair. He hadn’t had product for me last night, and my fingers got tangled.
“Well, it’s just . . . I don’t know. I guess I thought we were already doing those things,” I said. “I mean, we’ve been out to dinner. You came to trivia night. Those were dates, right?”
Then Shane Douglas did the last thing I ever expected. He reached across the table, cupped my cheek, and held my gaze.
“I like you, Mateo, a lot, more than I’ve liked anyone in a long time. I can’t stop thinking about you, especially when I’m alone in my shop. Every piece of wood reminds me of that sideboard I made for you, makes me wish you were there with me, chattering away about something unimportant but making it sound sexy as hell with your accent.” He stroked my skin with his thumb. I thought I might die right there. “I don’t do feelings very well. You probablynoticed, but I feel things for you, Mateo, and I want to keep feeling those things. Will you date me?”
An irrational part of my brain saw him drop to one knee with his pancake proposal. The whole monologue was so sweet and thoughtful and romantic—andnotthe Shane I knew. And yet, every word he’d spoken, every thought, were words and thoughts I hoped I might one day hear from him.
I just never expected to.
My eyes blinked, and my mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“Can you pass the syrup?” he asked, releasing my face as he shoved a bite into his mouth as though he’d not just pseudo-declared his affection. “Eggs are a little runny. Want me to cook them some more?”
I blinked again.
