Page 84 of Coach
I’d imagined this moment more times than I cared to admit.
But the real thing?
That rough, calloused hand brushing down my chest, warm and steady—it short-circuited my brain.
For a heartbeat, the heavier things between us still lingered.
His mother. The silence. His fear.
But I shoved them aside.
Not because they didn’t matter—but because this mattered, too.
This moment. This man.
And I wasn’t going to let the past ruin the fact that I was about to see Shane Douglas without his damn shirt.
I’d earned this.
And if my skin was tingling like it had ideas of its own, well—who was I to argue?
He finished the last button and eased the shirt off my shoulders, letting it slip away like it was too sacred to crumple.
His gaze dropped.
Then his jaw did.
“Holy shit,” he whispered.
My abs weren’t anything special. I was lean, toned enough to stay in coaching shape, but I didn’t have the sculpted, lumberjack mountain-man aesthetic he carried around like an afterthought.
I chuckled. “Not quite the steel-cut statue you are.”
Before I could say more, his hands were on either side of my face, his mouth on mine.
Hot. Firm. Certain.
I sank into it like gravity didn’t apply anymore.
When he pulled back, his forehead touching mine, his voice dropped to a husky whisper. “You don’t get it, do you?”
“Get what?” I managed.
“You’re perfect.”
“Shane—”
“I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you right now.”
Well, damn, damn,damn.
Every nerve ending in my body fired at once.
My mouth moved, but nothing came out.
I blinked so rapidly he might’ve thought I’d been kidnapped and was blinking out Morse code to my rescuers.
“Stand up,” he said, the gentleness in his voice belied by a command I hadn’t heard from the beast before.
