Page 85 of Coach
So I did.
His fingers shot to the button on my jeans, and I thought my heart might explode right there, spilling tiny bits of Mateo love all over the couch, my den, and the hunk before me.
His grip was sure. His fingers lithe.
My jeans never stood a chance.
“Shimmy out,” he instructed as his fingers gripped the fabric.
My cock flopped free.
“Free ballin’?” He smirked up.
I tried to suppress a blush—it beamed so bright the neighbors probably saw red through my curtained windows. I looked away.
The warm moisture of his tongue circling the tip of my dick shocked my whole system. My gaze snapped down to find Shane’s hands still tugging my jeans down, while his mouth enveloped the length of me.
My entire length.
Down his throat.
I wobbled and would’ve tipped over had his bear’s paw of a hand not flown to my back to hold me upright. His mouth never stopped moving.
My skin never stopped tingling.
I leaked into him.
“Oh, shit, Shane,” I sputtered. “I kind of . . . I leak a lot.”
He pulled back, running his tongue up my shaft, around my mushroom head, then across my opening, ensuring nary a drop remained.
“Fucking delicious,” he said.
I nearly passed out.
He took me into him again, his face burying itself into my pubes, my jeans now pooled around my feet. I let my hands fall to his head, fingers digging into his hair, clawing his scalp. I wanted to have this man, to possess him, to be owned by him. I wanted him to ravage me in every way possible, to hold me, to love me.
Whoa!
A brain cell woke up.
No using the L word anytime soon, Papa John, a voice in my head insisted.
And it was right. I hadn’t meant it. My circuits were overloaded, and my cock was throbbing, and Shane’s tongue was . . .
“Oh, shit, Shane—” was all I could get out.
“Foot.” He tapped my leg, and I lifted my foot out of my jeans. Then he repeated, casting my pants aside once I lifted my other foot. I stood before him,my dick in his mouth, wearing nothing but a goofy grin and white athletic socks.
And Shane was focused.
His hands crawled up my stomach, across my chest, until each gripped a peck, claiming it like a prospector seizing land. All the while, his head bobbed, my cock sliding effortlessly down his throat, probably striking his appendix or a lung or some other important part.
What did I know? I couldn’t think.
“Shane . . .” I wheezed. “Fuck, Shane. Your shirt . . .”
In one smooth, magical motion, he released my cock, gripped the bottom of his shirt, and did that crossed-arm-over-the-head thing I’d only seen in movies, leaving a shit ton of bare skin, abs, and pecs that looked like they’d been willed to him by a Greek god—or one of those massive adult gorillas in Dian Fossey’s world.
