Page 131 of Coach
Already sweating from the day’s growing heat, I stripped off my shirt, not wanting to mess up good flannel, and tossed it onto the chair from which Stevie taunted me. She rarely came by on weekends, so I wasn’t worried about her mocking me for “takingher chair” with my nasty clothes.
By noon, I’d lost track of time. Sweat and sawdust coated my chest and shoulders, making me look like I’d just rolled on a sandy beach. Dark smudges where I’d wiped my brow, not realizing my hand was filthier than my face, streaked across my forehead and cheek. I was a complete mess, and I loved it.
It was only when my radio stopped blasting that I jarred out of my work-trance and looked up. Mateo stood in the doorway, a large brown bag cradled in his arms.
“Mateo?”
He smiled. Of course, he did.
“Hey. Sorry to interrupt. I was on this side of town, and, well, I knew you were working and wouldn’t stop for lunch, so I, um, kind of got us Chinese food. I hope it’s okay that I just showed up.”
I blinked a few times, trying to register him standing there. Had we talked about lunch? I didn’t think we had.
“Yeah, lunch is good,” was all my brain could manage. “It’s dusty here. Let’s go to the house.”
I blew sawdust off the piece I’d been working on, stood and returned my tools to their spot on the wall rack, and turned. Mateo hadn’t moved. I glanced down at my bare chest, at the layer of grime coating my body, and winced.
“I need to clean up.”
Mateo stared. “If we didn’t have Chinese to eat, I’d be crossing this shop and rubbing every part of you till you glistened.”
And damn, if my cock didn’t stand up and hear that.
“Food before . . . anything,” I said, not trusting myself to even discuss our bodies touching or lips meeting or the feel of him pressed against me . . . or me inside him . . .
Shit, I was hard as a rock and pulsing.
Mateo’s eyes trailed down my body, landing on my now very tight jeans. A playful grin twisted his lips, but he didn’t say a word, just spun and headed toward my house.
Every step I took rubbed my throbbing cock against my jeans and skin, making it even more thrilled there was a hot Italian leading me back into my lair. I wanted to get him inside, rip his clothes off, and teach him just how hard my wood could get.
But he had Chinese food, and I had a piece to finish.
Fucking insufferable man.
Mateo had just placed his hand on the doorknob when the sound of tires on gravel drew both our attention. A small blue Toyota something-or-other pulled into my driveway. The driver fumbled withsomething inside the cab, then climbed out holding a bubble pack.
The guy stood a little taller than Mateo, had broad shoulders and well-defined arms poking out of a far-too-small uniform shirt. He grinned and flicked back blond hair like a supermodel on a photo shoot. His face was unlined and smooth, making him look like a late teen, though I knew he had to be in his early to mid-twenties. I’d seen this guy a few times, as his daily route brought him to Shane’s place regularly.
“Morning, Jer,” I said.
The guy’s eyes brightened at my words.
“It is now.” He noticed Mateo and stared a moment before raising a hand in greeting. “I’m Jeremiah.”
Mateo mirrored his wave. “Mateo.”
“Ooh, in the mood for Italian, I see?” Jeremiah teased in my direction before realizing he might’ve just crossed a professional line. “Oh, uh, sorry. Got one for you. Can I get a signature?”
I grinned at his discomfort . . . on the inside . . . not on my face.
“Sure,” I said, grabbing the package and his tablet. One finger-signature later, Jeremiah’s fine ass was back in his car and driving away.
“What can Brown do for you, indeed,” Mateomused as he opened the door.
I grunted and followed.
“You called him Jer. Sounds like you know him.” A tinge of jealousy hid beneath Mateo’s words. Another inner smile curled in my chest.
