Page 130 of Coach
“Mm. Smells good,” he growled next to my ear in a way that made my cock twitch.
Damn it, I was cooking. I didn’t have time for random body parts to stand up and salute.
“Coffee’s over there.” I pointed to the opposite side of the kitchen where I’d set up an elaborate station with a coffee maker, espresso machine, and more pump bottles of flavored syrup than one might see at Starbucks.
Shane whistled. “You do love your java.”
His warmth evaporated as he padded across the kitchen. I listened to him sifting through his options before starting the Keurig. He pumped something a few times, then stirred, the spoon clanking against the ceramic mug.
There was nothing mind-bending about him making coffee.
But he was making it in my kitchen . . . while I cooked for him . . . after we’d slept so tangled together I was surprised we un-pretzeled ourselves when we woke.
I let out a contented sigh.
His lips startled me again, gently pressing into the back of my neck.
“I like sleeping next to you,” he said, his voice a low murmur. “Waking next to you. You feel good.”
Eggs done, I switched off the burner and whirled,not wasting a second before planting my lips on his.
“I really like you, Shane.” I reached up and toyed with his stubborn cowlick. “I like dating you a lot, even if you pee on my floor.”
His eyes popped wide, and I thought he was going to object, deny it, defend himself of my unwarranted accusation, but his mouth twisted upward at the corners, and a tiny chuckle slipped free.
“Guess I was kind of a mess last night,” was all he said before letting his forehead fall to my shoulder.
“Last night was the most fun I’ve had in a very long time . . . because of you.” I wrapped my arms around him and pulled him close. “And you looked so damn hot when you took your shirt off in front of everyone. I thought Matt Rife might leap down from the stage and lick you right there.”
He grinned again, something I was beginning to crave. “I got a pocketful of phone numbers from the bridesmaids.”
I slapped his chest, grabbed the pan of eggs, and walked around him to the table. “How dare you cheat on me with drunk bachelorettes!” I said, pouring all the mock offense I could into my voice. “Here I thought you’d claimed me,” I added with a wink.
He growled as his arms shot forward, firm hands gripping me and pulling me back into him. “I did . . . I still do. You’re mine, Mateo Ricci. You hear me?”
My logical brain knew better. It tried to object. It ranted and screamed and hooted.
So I slapped that bitch back into the eighties where it belonged.
Chapter 41
Shane
Idon’t know what it was about Mateo—his unwavering smile, his inky hair that fell across his forehead and begged to be pushed back, or the way he said my name like it was some relic to be cherished. Whatever it was, he’d wormed his way past all my defenses and taken up residence far too close to my core.
Just thinking about him, picturing him in my mind, made something bubble within me, made me feel like I was a twelve-year-old boy passing notes in class and trying not to get caught. There was nothing tawdry or clandestine about our dating, but the nervous, jittery feeling mixed with a growing affection—a deep-down caring for another person I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around—that was what terrified me. And excited me. Hell, it thrilled me—and made me want to run for the nearest mountain where no one could find me.
For a guy who prided himself on controlling his emotions, on experiencing as few as possible, my whole being was churning with the darn things, and I had no idea what to do with them all. I felt like someone had implanted a chaotic chorus of singers inside me, and their discordant melodies rose and fell, making my heart beat faster, then slow to a titter, then race again.
Fucked.
I was well and truly fucked.
After breakfast, I reluctantly left Mateo’s house and headed home. An evening date was one thing, but the project currently paying the bills wouldn’t stomach me shirking a good day’s work.
I got home around ten and went straight to my workshop. I breathed in the scents of sawdust and wood stain, holding the breath for a blissfully long moment. To anyone else, it would’ve been annoying, smells to be cleaned away and wiped from the shop. To me, they were the greeting of a thousand pieces artfully carved and lovingly crafted.
Those aromas were home.
