Page 238 of Coach
“I haven’t . . . I mean, I have . . . it’s been a while since . . . I mean . . . since there was another person . . . shit . . . other than my hand . . .”
“Dolce Gesù!” He ran a hand through his hair, letting an entire flock of curls fall across his forehead. “Can I get you naked or not?”
I swallowed back all my insecurities and doubts, met his eyes, and gave him the widest grin my cheeks would allow. “Only if I get to undress you first.”
Chapter 27
Mateo
Shane’s fingers moved slowly.
At first I thought he was adjusting something, fidgeting maybe, but then he touched the first button of my shirt—just brushed it with a thumb—and I felt it all the way down my spine.
My heart skipped, then pounded, then forgot how to function.
One button popped loose.
Then the next.
His eyes never left mine.
He wasn’t rushed. He wasn’t hungry, not yet. He was careful. This massive, muscular man who could’ve snapped me in two like a twig was being more gentle than I could’ve dreamed, like I was something worth unwrapping, not tearing into.
My breath hitched.
He reached the third button and paused, as ifasking permission without saying a word.
I nodded—barely.
God, I’d wanted this since the antique fair—since he rose from behind that sideboard and asked if I saw something I liked.
I’d imagined this moment more times than I cared to admit.
But the real thing?
That rough, calloused hand brushing down my chest, warm and steady—it short-circuited my brain.
For a heartbeat, the heavier things between us still lingered.
His mother. The silence. His fear.
But I shoved them aside.
Not because they didn’t matter—but because this mattered, too.
This moment. This man.
And I wasn’t going to let the past ruin the fact that I was about to see Shane Douglas without his damn shirt.
I’d earned this.
And if my skin was tingling like it had ideas of its own, well—who was I to argue?
He finished the last button and eased the shirt off my shoulders, letting it slip away like it was too sacred to crumple.
His gaze dropped.
Then his jaw did.
