Page 260 of Coach
Shane
Iwas wrecked. Spent and sweaty, my muscles trembled with the kind of exhaustion that came after a three-day woodworking marathon.
But this?
This was different.
I lay sprawled across Mateo on the couch, my chest against his, our skin slick with sweat, the weight of me pressing him deep into the worn leather cushions, and my heartbeat hammering against ribs that still hadn’t figured out how to slow the hell down.
He was breathing hard, too, one hand buried in my hair, the other splayed low on my back. His legs tangled with mine, holding me there like he wasn’t in any hurry to move.
Neither was I.
Or at least, that’s what I told myself.
Except now my brain was starting to catch upwith what we’d just done . . . and with all the shit I’d said.
“Give yourself to me.”
“You’re mine.”
“I’m claiming you.”
Christ.
Who said those things? A creature claiming his mate? What kind of porn-starved romance novel shifter had I become?
I squeezed my eyes shut, heat flooding my face. I couldn’t have said that. It wasn’t me. I was the guy who couldn’t finish a conversation about his childhood without wanting to bolt, not some sex-crazed beast marking his territory with fancy words and grumbling declarations.
What the actual fuck?
I kept my head down, my forehead resting against Mateo’s shoulder, too cowardly to look at him. He hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t stiffened. In fact, he felt at ease, still rubbing slow, lazy circles into the small of my back, humming something low and satisfied.
But . . . what was he thinking?
Did he hate it?
Was he freaked out?
Would he think I’d just proposed on some primal mating ritual level?
God, I should say something.
Or maybe not.
Maybe if I stayed very still and silent, we could just . . . pretend it never happened.
Except it did. The spent condom crumpled on a years-old edition of some magazine on my coffee table offered more than enough evidence.
And now those words—words growled in the heat of pleasure, while my cock pulsed inside this man, clouding all thought or judgement or good sense—echoed in my head like they were carved in stone.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to breathe, hoping like hell that Mateo wasn’t lying there wondering when I’d lost my damn mind.
“You’re talky during sex,” Mateo crooned, a smile threading his words.
I wanted to shrivel up and die. Instead, I grunted, like a feral idiot.
His chuckle reverberated through my chest.
