Page 286 of Coach
Mateo’s eyes trailed down my body, landing on my now very tight jeans. A playful grin twisted his lips, but he didn’t say a word, just spun and headed toward my house.
Every step I took rubbed my throbbing cock against my jeans and skin, making it even more thrilled there was a hot Italian leading me back into my lair. I wanted to get him inside, rip his clothes off, and teach him just how hard my wood could get.
But he had Chinese food, and I had a piece to finish.
Fucking insufferable man.
Mateo had just placed his hand on the doorknob when the sound of tires on gravel drew both our attention. A small blue Toyota something-or-other pulled into my driveway. The driver fumbled withsomething inside the cab, then climbed out holding a bubble pack.
The guy stood a little taller than Mateo, had broad shoulders and well-defined arms poking out of a far-too-small uniform shirt. He grinned and flicked back blond hair like a supermodel on a photo shoot. His face was unlined and smooth, making him look like a late teen, though I knew he had to be in his early to mid-twenties. I’d seen this guy a few times, as his daily route brought him to Shane’s place regularly.
“Morning, Jer,” I said.
The guy’s eyes brightened at my words.
“It is now.” He noticed Mateo and stared a moment before raising a hand in greeting. “I’m Jeremiah.”
Mateo mirrored his wave. “Mateo.”
“Ooh, in the mood for Italian, I see?” Jeremiah teased in my direction before realizing he might’ve just crossed a professional line. “Oh, uh, sorry. Got one for you. Can I get a signature?”
I grinned at his discomfort . . . on the inside . . . not on my face.
“Sure,” I said, grabbing the package and his tablet. One finger-signature later, Jeremiah’s fine ass was back in his car and driving away.
“What can Brown do for you, indeed,” Mateomused as he opened the door.
I grunted and followed.
“You called him Jer. Sounds like you know him.” A tinge of jealousy hid beneath Mateo’s words. Another inner smile curled in my chest.
“Jeremiah’s been my guy for over a year. He flirts a lot, but he’s harmless. Good guy. Dumb as a box of rocks, but pretty to look at.”
“Flirty didn’t cover what I just saw. He’sintoyou,” Mateo said. “I can’t blame him. You’re sexy. He’s hot. You’re both young. Well, you’re relatively young.”
“Fuck you,” I said, chuckling. “Jer really is a good guy, but I don’t think he’s the dating type. This is Atlanta, and he looks, well, like he looks. I can’t imagine he’d want to slow his roll long enough to get to know a guy. You know? Plus, I prefer my dates to be able to, well, talk like an adult. Jer is sweet, but—”
“So judgy,” Mateo teased. “When you describe him like that, he reminds me of you. And with arms like that, I’m surprised the men of Atlanta aren’t following him around like a line of baby ducks.”
“Right.” I nodded. “Hey . . . wait. He reminds you of me? What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He might be sweet with a heart of gold and be pining for his Prince Charming, his sawdust-covered Prince Charming, if I read the room right.”
“No!” I said a little too forcefully. “No. He’s offered. I mean, not in so many words, but he’s made it pretty clear that we could, you know. He was flirty, okay, but Jer’s . . . not my type.”
Mateo began emptying the Chinese, spreading little cartons all over my table.
“And whatisyour type, Shane Douglas?” he asked, a wry smile parting his lips.
“Let me get cleaned up, and I’ll answer that. Just know, I’m more a man of action than words.”
Mateo glanced up, teeth flashing. “Oh, I know.”
While Mateo finished laying out lunch, I cleaned off in the bathroom and changed into a worn T-shirt I’d had for years. It was soft, fit a little loose, and smelled clean, so I figured it would do despite the hole in the left armpit.
Lunch was subdued. My hard-on had faded, and Mateo didn’t do anything overtly sexy to make it reappear. We talked of nothing—and everything. Mateo asked question after question, never interrupting, nodding as I tried to hold back but failed. There was no refusing the man and his deep brown eyes. By the time the last egg roll vanished, I think I’d spoken more words than I had in the past month, and I was mentally drained.
“I love Chinese food,” Mateo said, sitting back and patting his belly.
