Page 107 of Coach
“Come on,” I muttered, voice rough. “Bathroom’s this way.”
I led him out the living room, down the short hallway, and into my bedroom. Mateo slowed, looking around, and I saw the space through his eyes.
The room was big, built like the rest of my oversized cabin. There were exposed beams overhead and wide-planked floors. The bed was massive, its frame hand-carved, a twisting lattice of branches and knots. The headboard reached nearly to the ceiling, a piece I’d made on a dare (and likely a joke) from Stevie.
As in the living room, nothing in the bedroom matched. Every dresser, nightstand, and bench was different, though each piece fit: the stained walnut chest by the window, the maple armoire with iron handles, even the live-edge oak shelf stacked with books and old records.
It shouldn’t have worked.
But somehow it did. It felt as though the whole room had grown up around me, piece by piece, until it had become something that felt . . . like home.
Mateo’s gaze lingered on the bed, and I coughed, hyper-aware of how naked we still were.
“Shower,” I said, steering him through the open archway into the bathroom.
The space was warm and simple, with stone tile, copper fixtures, and a walk-in shower big enough for two—because apparently some part of me knew this day might come.
I turned on the water, adjusting the heat until steam curled in the air. “You go first,” I offered.
Mateo smiled, that wicked, knowing look of his.
“Not a chance. Get in.” He left no room to argue or refuse.
I started to protest, but he stepped in close, pressed a kiss to my jaw, and tugged me under the spray. Hot water hit my back, and I groaned, my head tipping forward against the tile.
Then his hands were on me.
“Hands up,” he murmured.
His hands gripped my wrists and lifted them above my head. I opened my mouth to argue—a reflex—but I stopped when I felt his fingers lathering soap, slow and sure, working it across my shoulders and chest.
He was gentle, so damn gentle, his fingers slick with soap barely grazing the skin, as he explored me even more thoroughly than he had on the couch.
Mateo was patient.
No, he wasreverent.
Every swipe sent shivers down my spine, and before long I wasn’t thinking about what I’d said anymore.
I wasn’t thinking at all.
I was just feeling.
His hands moved lower, slow and purposeful, soap slicking across my chest, down my abs. My breath hitched—part anticipation, part helpless reaction. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d let anyone touch me like this, not without some wall thrown up between us.
And then he brushed lower.
Farlower.
My body betrayed me, hardening, and if I thought I still had any pride left, it evaporated the moment I heard the soft, knowing chuckle he gave in response.
“Somebody’s sensitive,” he teased, his voice a low purr.
I swore under my breath. I was about to grab for him, pull him closer, do something—anything—but before I could so much as blink, he sank to his knees, water cascading over both of us.
“Someone’s happy to see me again.”
When had I gotten hard again? So soon after—
