Page 109 of Coach
Wave after wave, Mateo drank me in.
Until I slumped down onto the tiles beside him and let him hold me beneath the steaming water.
Chapter 35
Mateo
My eyes pried open, a bit crusty from a night of sleep and a morning that had come too early.
I felt warm, somehow heavy, wrapped in something solid and safe.
For a moment, I didn’t quite know where I was.
The ceiling above me wasn’t my apartment’s, and the bed beneath me wasn’t mine either. It was far too big, too soft, too . . . finely crafted. I ran my fingers along the headboard, feeling smooth grooves, knots, and carved vines.
And then the steady rise and fall of Shane’s chest beneath my cheek brought everything back to my waking mind.
The couch.
The shower.
Now Shane’s bed.
In Shane’s arms.
He’d held me all night, never let go, not even once.
I blinked the sleep from my eyes, stretching a little, careful not to disturb my sleeping giant, as the early morning light filtered through thick curtains. The air was crisp and clean, filled with memories of clean linen and the sudsy froth of a hot bath.
And of him.
Shane’s breath was soft, slow, and even. He was still sound asleep with one arm wrapped around me, the other lying limp by his side. Our legs were tangled, the covers shoved down around our hips in a heap.
Carefully, slowly, I tipped my head back just enough to see him.
My God.
Even in sleep, he looked . . . rugged . . . and beautiful in that carved-from-iron way of his, but softer now. He was so relaxed, the faintest hint of a frown smoothing out his brow. His lashes were darker in the dim sunlight, thick against his cheekbones, and his jaw had the start of stubble, the kind that made my fingers itch to trace it.
I let myself look, really look.
There was a scar along his collarbone—small, white, probably a childhood trophy. I’d noticed it last night but hadn’t had the presence of mind to ask. His chest rose in slow, measured breaths.Beneath the faint sheen of morning warmth, the lines of solid muscle and sinew stood out in stark contrast.
I bit my lip, my heart thudding—not from arousal, though that was there, too, simmering beneath the surface.
No.
This was something else.
Something scarier.
Something withfeeling.
My brain, traitorous thing that it was, replayed every moment from the night before. In the heat of the moment, I’d barely paid his words much mind; but then, in the quiet of the morning, as he slumbered beside me, I struggled to wrap my mind around the words he’d said, the way he’d touched me, kissed me,claimedme.
And there I was, curled in his arms like I belonged there.
Did I? Did we belong . . .
