Page 102 of Coach
“You are a professional woodworker. I’d expect no less.”
Finally, another rare smile bloomed, sending my already weak knees into Jello-O territory. Thank God, his hands still gripped my shoulders, or I might’ve tipped over right there.
“Less talk, more naked,” he growled.
I started to reach for my jeans, but his paws were on the button faster than I could imagine. Strong fingers tore the button fly open, then yanked from the waist until denim pooled around my ankles. I lifted one foot to let him pull the pants free but nearly toppled over when his mouth drank down my entire cock.
“Oh, shit,” I said, as startled as I was turned on. “I guess you want to—”
“Shut up and let me suck the life out of you. If you don’t behave, I’ll have to gag you with something enormous.”
Please, Daddy, sang in my head, but I had enough wit left to keep my mouth shut and enjoy the sensationshow that had just started.
His hands found my chest, kneading the muscles with merciless fingers, almost too painfully to be pleasurable—almost. With each bob of his head, my dick grew harder, thicker, balls filling with anticipation they hadn’t known in some time. Then his fingers clamped onto my nipples, and I nearly leaped high enough to smack my head on his ceiling fan.
“Ow!” I barked.
He grinned up, my cock now flopping freely before him, as I rubbed my wounded titties.
“My nipples. Get over it.”
Claiming me, was he? That was another new thing . . . and damn, if it didn’t send my racing heart into overdrive. This man, this stunning, frustrating, awkward, beguiling man wanted to plant this flag—literally—in my territory.
“Turn around,” was all he said.
Unsure where this was going, I complied . . . slowly.
A calloused hand planted itself between my shoulder blades as its twin wrapped around and held my stomach. Then he shoved, bending me over. My arms flew out and braced against the back of the couch. “Uh, Shane—”
Whatever I was going to say choked out, as the hand gripping and pressing me vanished, only toappear a heartbeat later, spreading my cheeks apart.
“Oh, fuck—” was all I could say before Shane’s face was buried inside my butt, his tongue spearing with the force of a Spartan spear, swirling and licking and lapping and . . .
“Jesus fucking Christ,” whooshed out of me as his tongue somehow found Stephen Tyler proportions, tickling my lungs or some other organ accessible via the asshole.
His hands squeezed, fingers dug. I could feel the marks forming on my skin, knew they would linger long after this moment—and the thought of wearing his marks sent another uncontrollable shiver up my spine.
Then he sat back, the warmth of his tongue slipping away.
I heard him spit.
Then his tongue returned, hungry and teasing and determined . . .
As his hand, now coated in saliva, reached around and gripped my pulsing shaft.
“Oh, fuck, Shane.”
He stroked slowly, teasing my head, making sure it was coated thoroughly with his spit. Shock waves of pleasure drove through me as the stroking and spearing and teasing wrapped me in a host of sensations and clouded my rational mind.
Shane let go and stood. “Don’t turn around,” he ordered. “I’ll be right back.”
I stared out the crack in the curtains covering his living room window. There were no neighbors near enough to see or hear a thing. Glimpsing his front yard and the workshop barely visible in the corner of his property, I saw a thick forest bordered the far end of his land, and the nearest home was several acres away and separated by tall wooden privacy fencing. I realized we could dance naked in the field out back and there wouldn’t be another person within a mile to see it.
That thought, pleasant as it might’ve been, would have to wait, as Shane’s presence filled the space behind me. I made to turn, but his hand gripped the back of my head, forcing me to continue facing away.
“You’re mine, Mateo Ricci, all mine.”
“I like the sound of that.”
