Page 262 of Coach
“Hands up,” he murmured.
His hands gripped my wrists and lifted them above my head. I opened my mouth to argue—a reflex—but I stopped when I felt his fingers lathering soap, slow and sure, working it across my shoulders and chest.
He was gentle, so damn gentle, his fingers slick with soap barely grazing the skin, as he explored me even more thoroughly than he had on the couch.
Mateo was patient.
No, he wasreverent.
Every swipe sent shivers down my spine, and before long I wasn’t thinking about what I’d said anymore.
I wasn’t thinking at all.
I was just feeling.
His hands moved lower, slow and purposeful, soap slicking across my chest, down my abs. My breath hitched—part anticipation, part helpless reaction. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d let anyone touch me like this, not without some wall thrown up between us.
And then he brushed lower.
Farlower.
My body betrayed me, hardening, and if I thought I still had any pride left, it evaporated the moment I heard the soft, knowing chuckle he gave in response.
“Somebody’s sensitive,” he teased, his voice a low purr.
I swore under my breath. I was about to grab for him, pull him closer, do something—anything—but before I could so much as blink, he sank to his knees, water cascading over both of us.
“Someone’s happy to see me again.”
When had I gotten hard again? So soon after—
“Mateo—” I started, but the words died in my throat when his mouth wrapped around me.
The world tilted.
Every muscle locked, my hands flying to the walls of the shower for balance as waves of sensation ripped through me, fast, hot, impossible to fight.
I wanted to take over, to spin him around and pin him to the tile, to again show him how undone he’d made me—but when I tried to move, his grip tightened on my hips.
His dark eyes flicked up, locking with mine, full of wicked promise.
“You’re mine now,” he whispered again, and I forgot how to speak.
There wasn’t a damn thing I could do but surrender.
God, I wanted to surrender.
To his touch.
To his mouth.
To him.
His lips closed around my head, and I forgot what I was thinking, forgot how to think. All I could do was feel and shiver and shake with pleasure, to consume his warmth and wetness as he devoured me.
His palm pressed against my abs, then fingers dugin, feeling the ridges, the definition, the hard-won evidence of a lifetime of workouts and clean meals. But I couldn’t think about that—any of it. All I could think—could feel—was Mateo and his damn near-perfect mouth.
His other hand gripped my balls, cupping them, pulling them down to force the skin of my shaft to tighten further.
