Page 241 of Coach
As his shorts slipped free, I learned two very important things.
First, Shane liked underwear about as much as I did, which was to say, not at all.
And second, defying all odds, his cock was the size of a softball bat—and we’re not talking the ones made for kids under five. We’re talking a beast of a bat that could wreck someone’s world without breaking a sweat.
“Santa madre di mozzarella!”
His cock twitched. “You know your accent drives me wild, right?”
“If I switch to Italian, can you just stay naked forever?”
His chest rumbled as laughter, deep and rich, slipped free. It might’ve been the most amazing sound I’d ever heard.
It was the first such laugh he’d shared with me.
“I . . . haven’t done this in a long time,” he admitted again, his head falling as childlike insecurities reared their heads.
I stood, my head barely reaching his chin, and pressed my body into his.
“God, you’re hard as a rock.”
His arms wrapped around me as he said, “Whatcan I say? You got me all hot and bothered.”
“I didn’t mean that.” I slapped his back playfully. “I mean your whole body. Is there a single muscle I could press a finger to and it would give? Even a little?”
He squeezed me tight against him. “Why don’t you go exploring? See for yourself.”
And damn, if I didn’t feel myself leak again.
Chapter 28
Shane
Onions, celery, and carrots completed the holy trinity of Cajun cooking. Anyone with an ounce of culinary training knew this. However, when it came to woodworking, the scents of cedar, sawdust, and industrial glue were perfection incarnate.
God, I loved my shop in the mornings.
Journey blared through the speakers so loud that I half expected the neighbors to file noise complaints from the next county. “Stone in Love” vibrated through the rafters while I worked a plane across a slab of red oak, smoothing the surface into something worthy of finish.
But that morning, I wasn’t just listening to my favorite band.
Oh, no.
I wasn’t even simply humming along.
My voice was raised in a full-throated, off-keyrendition bad enough to offend even those who did not adhere to the teachings of the mighty Steve Perry. It was like bad shower singing without the water, the plastic curtain, and the walls of tiles to buffer the terrible tones from the outside world.
I should’ve been focused.
The project before me was custom, a curio cabinet with dragon-footed legs and inlaid panels, one of the most elaborate commissions I’d taken in months.
But my head was gone, fully ensconced in the clouds or wherever a goofily grinning man’s mind went when it wasn’t able to focus on anything productive.
I was lost—lost somewhere between sanding and sawing, my mind’s eye drifted into the haze of black curls and brown eyes. Mateo’s laugh, the way his voice dipped when he said something flirty, that tiny mole on the right side of his chest I hadn’t noticed until my mouth was nearly on it.
And the feel of him—dear God.
He felt warm and solid, yet trembled a little when I touched him—almost like he couldn’t believe we were naked, either. My fingers still remembered the line of his waist, the smooth dip between his ribs and hips.
