Page 268 of Coach
Cut fruit arranged like a magazine shoot.
Fresh coffee already poured into two heavy, hand-crafted mugs that I’d bet anything he’d made himself.
Even homemade bread sat on a wooden board, steam still rising from it.
I blinked.
“How long was I in there?” I asked, voice softening without meaning to.
“Long enough.” Shane shrugged, still casual, still maddeningly gorgeous even wearing a dish towel for dick-cover. “Figured I’d give you something decent after last night.”
Something squeezed tighter in my chest.
He didn’t have to do this, didn’t owe me a damn thing, certainly not a Michelin-level breakfast.
And yet—he had.
Because . . . he wanted to. Hechoseto.
I pushed off the doorframe, moving closer, unsure what to do with my hands. “You didn’t have to go to all this trouble.”
Shane met my gaze, no hint of hesitation. “All good.” His voice dropped, steady and sure. “You need to keep up your strength.”
“Oh?” My mouth quirked as my bushy brows rose.
Shane didn’t miss a beat. “By the time I’m done with you, you’re gonna walk funny and need an IV to recover. Now, come on before this gets cold. How do you like your coffee?”
And just like that, every ounce of nervous flutterin my stomach turned molten.
“Uh . . . right . . . coffee . . . cream so it looks like a cheap apartment wall and two Splendas.” I swallowed hard, sliding onto one of the stools at the island, trying not to stare too openly. “You’re gonna ruin me, you know.”
“Good.” He smirked, turning back to grab the syrup, giving the most amazing view of the morning’s moon rise.
And so I sat, watching him move around the kitchen surrounded by everything he’d built with his own two hands, naked ass bouncing about, cock trying desperately to escape its cloak. It was surreal—and one of the best shows I’d ever attended.
Damn, that man was fine, and there was no doubt he knew what he did to me. Why else would he prance about letting the goods jiggle and bounce? Unless . . . he walked around naked all the time.
God, that made my heart race even faster.
What the hell was it about that man that drove me so nuts?
“Apartment beige with two Splenda, sir,” he said, presenting a cup on a saucer before me.
“Excuse me, sir,” I said, continuing the waiter role play. “I might spill. I’m so clumsy. Mind if I take that towel, just in case?”
He didn’t blink, didn’t smile, didn’t smirk. The infuriating man didn’t so much as flinch.
He simply reached down, plucked the dish towel off his junk, and tossed it onto the table.
“Anything for a customer,” and he turned away.
For the hundredth time in twenty-four hours, I was speechless—and staring at the most perfect butt God ever made, its vertical smile grinning back at me.
Shane sat, and we ate and made small talk.
He never dressed.
To say I’d grown accustomed to his nakedness would have been an overstatement of the case. There was no growing used to Arnold Schwarzenegger sitting across from you, pecs and pee-pee exposed to the world. No amount of banter or chatting about the weather could distract from perky nipples and bowling-ball arms. But I tried to focus, to keep my eyes locked onto his, to avoid letting them slip down and daydream about licking and teasing and biting and—
