Page 111 of Coach
I choked back the thousands of questions beggingto be asked and nodded. “Starving.”
“Why don’t I make us breakfast? How do you like your coffee?”
I smiled. “I’m Italian. I like my coffee like I like my men: black and deep inside me.”
His eyes popped wide, and I lost my composure, a waterfall of laughter flowing out of my mouth.
Shane shoved my shoulder, and I caught a hint of a smile turning the corners of his eyes upward.
“Asshole,” he said with no heat. “I’ll get started. Take your time. There’s an extra toothbrush in the top drawer, if you’d like to freshen up a bit.”
My brows rose.
“What?”
“Did the mountain man just ask me if I wanted to freshen up?”
He shoved me again. “You’re lippy this morning.”
I bared my teeth. “What are you going to do about it?”
He choked out a laugh and shook his head. “Make breakfast. Get your lippy mouth in order and meet me in the kitchen. Just follow the smell if you can’t remember where it is.”
“Yes, sir, rustic commander, sir.”
With a meaty paw on each shoulder, he pressed me into his mattress, then leaned down and planted a kiss on my lips. It was soft, gentle, unlike thepassionate, ravenous kisses from the night before. It was . . . intimate.
When he lifted off, his eyes lingered. My heart clawed its way into my throat as he stared.
“I’m glad you’re here,” was all he said before rising, naked, and vanishing into the hallway.
Damn, his ass is fine, I thought as he padded away, not giving his nakedness a second thought.
I laid there in his bed, staring up at the ceiling and grinning like the Cheshire Cat, as images of his Adonis-like body ravaged me over and over in my mind. I’d slept with handsome men. I was a decent-enough-looking guy to earn my share.
But Shane . . .
He was another level of hotness.
His face was rugged, with sharp lines and chiseled angles. He wasn’t classically handsome, but he was hot in a way rough men were when they wanted to fuck your brains out. I liked his face, more than I should, but his body . . .
Dear Peter, Paul, and all the other Beatles, his body would put an Olympian to shame.
And his confidence? Jesus. He was hotter than hell but didn’t act like it, didn’t parade around in a tank top to show off his physique, didn’t strip off his shirt and strut like some rainbow-covered peacock.
No, that wasn’t Shane.
There was humility to his hotness—humility in his confidence.
That was different.
It was strange.
It made me want him inside me over and over again, with his fingers dug so far into my scalp and hair I’d feel him for days after. Made me want . . .
The aroma of sizzling bacon brought me back to the present.
Shane was making breakfast.
