Page 264 of Coach
I blinked the sleep from my eyes, stretching a little, careful not to disturb my sleeping giant, as the early morning light filtered through thick curtains. The air was crisp and clean, filled with memories of clean linen and the sudsy froth of a hot bath.
And of him.
Shane’s breath was soft, slow, and even. He was still sound asleep with one arm wrapped around me, the other lying limp by his side. Our legs were tangled, the covers shoved down around our hips in a heap.
Carefully, slowly, I tipped my head back just enough to see him.
My God.
Even in sleep, he looked . . . rugged . . . and beautiful in that carved-from-iron way of his, but softer now. He was so relaxed, the faintest hint of a frown smoothing out his brow. His lashes were darker in the dim sunlight, thick against his cheekbones, and his jaw had the start of stubble, the kind that made my fingers itch to trace it.
I let myself look, really look.
There was a scar along his collarbone—small, white, probably a childhood trophy. I’d noticed it last night but hadn’t had the presence of mind to ask. His chest rose in slow, measured breaths.Beneath the faint sheen of morning warmth, the lines of solid muscle and sinew stood out in stark contrast.
I bit my lip, my heart thudding—not from arousal, though that was there, too, simmering beneath the surface.
No.
This was something else.
Something scarier.
Something withfeeling.
My brain, traitorous thing that it was, replayed every moment from the night before. In the heat of the moment, I’d barely paid his words much mind; but then, in the quiet of the morning, as he slumbered beside me, I struggled to wrap my mind around the words he’d said, the way he’d touched me, kissed me,claimedme.
And there I was, curled in his arms like I belonged there.
Did I? Did we belong . . .
God, what were we doing?
I should’ve felt weird or uncertain, maybe even a little trapped.
We’d moved fast—toofast, if I was honest. And yet, as I lay there, held tight in the strength of his arms, I didn’t feel any of that. I searched deep, sought that center within me that guided my thoughts and actions, that told me when I was doingsomething stupid (whether I listened or not).
It didn’t speak.
Didn’t object.
In fact, it didn’t say a fucking word.
It felt . . . at peace.
Safe.
Wanted.
I exhaled and let my fingers brush against his ribs, lightly tracing the curve there, the dip just beneath where his breath caught.
Where was this headed?
Where did I want it to go?
Did Shane even want anything more than a good screw and a night’s rest?
I didn’t know.
