Page 240 of Coach
“Oh, shit, Shane,” I sputtered. “I kind of . . . I leak a lot.”
He pulled back, running his tongue up my shaft, around my mushroom head, then across my opening, ensuring nary a drop remained.
“Fucking delicious,” he said.
I nearly passed out.
He took me into him again, his face burying itself into my pubes, my jeans now pooled around my feet. I let my hands fall to his head, fingers digging into his hair, clawing his scalp. I wanted to have this man, to possess him, to be owned by him. I wanted him to ravage me in every way possible, to hold me, to love me.
Whoa!
A brain cell woke up.
No using the L word anytime soon, Papa John, a voice in my head insisted.
And it was right. I hadn’t meant it. My circuits were overloaded, and my cock was throbbing, and Shane’s tongue was . . .
“Oh, shit, Shane—” was all I could get out.
“Foot.” He tapped my leg, and I lifted my foot out of my jeans. Then he repeated, casting my pants aside once I lifted my other foot. I stood before him,my dick in his mouth, wearing nothing but a goofy grin and white athletic socks.
And Shane was focused.
His hands crawled up my stomach, across my chest, until each gripped a peck, claiming it like a prospector seizing land. All the while, his head bobbed, my cock sliding effortlessly down his throat, probably striking his appendix or a lung or some other important part.
What did I know? I couldn’t think.
“Shane . . .” I wheezed. “Fuck, Shane. Your shirt . . .”
In one smooth, magical motion, he released my cock, gripped the bottom of his shirt, and did that crossed-arm-over-the-head thing I’d only seen in movies, leaving a shit ton of bare skin, abs, and pecs that looked like they’d been willed to him by a Greek god—or one of those massive adult gorillas in Dian Fossey’s world.
And holy hell.
My brain might’ve shorted out.
He wasridiculous.
Broad shoulders, all muscle and quiet power. His chest was like something out of a woodworking calendar—smooth in some places, dusted with just the right amount of hair in others. His abs weren’t just defined; they were chiseled, like someone tooka plane and carved each one by hand. Even his obliques made an appearance, like the universe had gone out of its way to make me feel like a cartoon wolf.
I might’ve stared.
Okay. Idefinitelystared.
Shane stood there, watching me take him in, a slow, amused smile forming like he knew what I was thinking.
I cleared my throat. “You’re . . . unfair. Entirely unfair. You know that, right?”
He chuckled, low and deep. “Still think you’re not in my league?”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, because the only sound I could make was an involuntary whimper.
God help me—I was ruined.
Then he slid out of his pants, and the world stopped spinning on its axis.
Shane stood six-foot-six, a wall of muscle that commanded attention and respect. Still, every Achilles had his heel. For guys built like Shane, that came in the form of an undersized “down under.” It was skinny guys, all bones and no meat, who were blessed with a kickstand, right? Every guy knew this. Watch out for the toothpicks, for they pack a massive punch.
Oh, but Shane was content to prove conventional wisdom incorrect.
