Page 272 of Coach
That’s when realization struck Sisi.
“You’re taking Shane to see Matt Rife? Withmyticket?” Sisi squealed and giggled with glee.
I nodded. “You said you couldn’t go, and none of the others could make it either. We had an extra ticket, and, well, I thought it would be fun.”
“To take your new boyfriend—”
“He’s not my boyfriend!”
She ignored me, turning toMike instead. “You have to sit in the front row. Trust me. Just make it happen.” Then she turned to me, the light of every star ever to soar in the heavens sparkling in her evil, twisted eyes. “Oh . . . my . . . gawd! This is going to be epic!”
Chapter 37
Shane
I’d told myself I wasn’t going to be weird about this. It was just a night out, riding together like normal people.
Except nothing about this was normal.
I pulled into Mateo’s driveway right on time, parked, and tried to look casual when he opened the door and bounded toward my truck.
He looked . . .
God.
Way too good.
Fitted jeans hugged in all the right places, a simple black T-shirt somehow made his shoulders look broader, and his damn hair—black waves fell just loose enough to make my fingers twitch.
I was so distracted that I nearly forgot the plan until he leaned into my rolled-down window. “You’re riding with me, remember? I already mapped parking.”
“Right. Yeah. Good plan.” Real smooth, Shane, totally smooth.
I locked up the truck and climbed into his car. His scent—warm spice like cinnamon and something I couldn’t name—wrapped around me the second I buckled in. Was he trying a new cologne while baking cookies?
He shot me a grin. “Ready?”
“Sure.” My voice came out rougher than I meant.
The drive started easy enough, Mateo humming along as he pulled out of the neighborhood. He cranked the stereo up, some indie rock playlist already running.
I didn’t say anything.
I didn’t hate it but didn’t really hear it, either.
Mostly, I was too busy staring out the window and trying not to glance at him too much.
But God—he looked good tonight.
Every time he shifted gears, that flex of his forearm, the way his shirt tugged across his chest—I was losing my damn mind. When his fingers tapped the steering wheel to the beat? Forget it. All I could think about was those fingers tapping against my chest, digging into the meat of my muscle, begging me to dive deeper inside him.
I wanted to reach over, just slide my hand over his, maybe lace our fingers.
Nothing crazy, just a simple human connection, the kind only craved with my wood carvings. Wanting that, wanting to touch and be touched, was so far outside my normal orbit that I barely knew how to ask for it.
And I wanted to ask. If I took it—and I knew Mateo would let me; his reaction to me overeager sexual appetite proved that—it wouldn’t be the same. It would be a conquest or something. No, if we touched that way, I wanted him to want it, too . . . to give me permission . . . to maybe even ask for it.
Except I didn’t know if I should suggest something so intimate, so personal. Hell, I wasn’t even sure I knew how to ask for such a thing.
