Page 104 of Coach
“Oh! Damn! I’m your boy! I’m your boy!”
I chanced a glance back to find the fucker grinning from ear to ear. His fingers gripped my hair, palm pressing against my scalp as he forced my eyes forward and slid back . . . then in again . . . then out andin again.
I surrendered to the pleasure, to the exquisite pain, to the mammoth-sized man tunneling his way into me, despite my logical brain still trying to puzzle out what he meant by me belonging to him, being his, being his boy.
He thrust again and again, and fuck, he filled every part of me. I could feel him in my legs and chest and stomach and . . .
“I’m going to pull out and turn you around now,” he said. “I want you to lie on your back on the couch.”
“Okay,” I said, feeling more empty than my body had ever felt when he pulled out.
Once repositioned on my back, Shane stepped around, propping himself on his knees and lifting my legs over his shoulders. I’d seen him shirtless. Hell, I’d seen him naked. Still, I wasn’t prepared for the wall of muscle and sweat staring down at me. He was stunning, seriously stunning, and the flame in his eyes, the single-minded intensity boring into me, made me wonder if he hadn’t meant the bit about claiming me.
“I want you inside me . . . please.” And damn, if I didn’t sound like I was begging.
He grinned, an expression that might’ve frightened anyone else, though I knew better.
With one hand, he guided his cock back inside me. I watched as his chest moved forward, abs bunched, brow scrunched. I saw that blaze flare as nerves fired and bliss grew.
I wanted to keep watching, to memorize his body and face and eyes and . . . everything . . . but my head fell back and eyes squeeze shut. My hands flew back, gripping the cushion behind me, stretching my torso before him. His own hand reached down and raked from my pecs to my abs.
Then I felt him lean over, careful to remain inside me, and warm lips pressed to mine.
The room spun.
My heart exploded.
His hands gripped the sides of my head, and he slowly—so slowly—drew back and slid in again, never releasing my lips, kissing me, passionately, in the way lovers do.
Lovers.
Not one-night stands.
He was making love.
The realization was almost more than I could handle. Something deep within cried out for me to push back, shove him aside, run for the door. I knew it was too soon, far too soon to have feelings or want to claim or take or give. Hell, I barely knew this guy. As much as I liked him, was insanely attracted tohim, we’d only known each other for weeks, and most of that was platonic client-woodworker shit. Nothing about what we’d done suggested anything more than—
“I’m so into you, Mateo. Your eyes and body and, damn, that fucking accent. You could just talk, and I’d want to tear your hole apart.”
Oh, wow.
What the fuck?
“I’m not a psycho,” he whispered between kisses, his thrusting reaching a comfortable rhythm that needed to be recorded and sold. “I don’t like most people, but I like you, want to know you, want to see you more.”
All right, that wasn’t bad. I could get into that. Maybe he wasn’t as nuts as—
He nibbled my earlobe, and I forgot what I’d been thinking.
“What do you like?” he breathed in my ear.
“I . . . uh . . . that.” He arched up and hit a sensitive spot. “Right there, damn it!”
He held himself up and shoved deeper. My whole body jerked, and I had to fight the urge to writhe beneath him. Again and again, he pounded that spot, that place inside me that made me forget my own name.
“Shane, God, Shane,” I wheezed.
He growled.
