Page 31 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

S hane’s fingers moved slowly.

At first I thought he was adjusting something, fidgeting maybe, but then he touched the first button of my shirt—just brushed it with a thumb—and I felt it all the way down my spine.

My heart skipped, then pounded, then forgot how to function.

One button popped loose.

Then the next.

His eyes never left mine.

He wasn’t rushed. He wasn’t hungry, not yet. He was careful. This massive, muscular man who could’ve snapped me in two like a twig was being more gentle than I could’ve dreamed, like I was something worth unwrapping, not tearing into.

My breath hitched.

He reached the third button and paused, as if asking permission without saying a word.

I nodded—barely.

God, I’d wanted this since the antique fair—since he rose from behind that sideboard and asked if I saw something I liked.

I’d imagined this moment more times than I cared to admit.

But the real thing?

That rough, calloused hand brushing down my chest, warm and steady—it short-circuited my brain.

For a heartbeat, the heavier things between us still lingered.

His mother. The silence. His fear.

But I shoved them aside.

Not because they didn’t matter—but because this mattered, too.

This moment. This man.

And I wasn’t going to let the past ruin the fact that I was about to see Shane Douglas without his damn shirt.

I’d earned this.

And if my skin was tingling like it had ideas of its own, well—who was I to argue?

He finished the last button and eased the shirt off my shoulders, letting it slip away like it was too sacred to crumple .

His gaze dropped.

Then his jaw did.

“Holy shit,” he whispered.

My abs weren’t anything special. I was lean, toned enough to stay in coaching shape, but I didn’t have the sculpted, lumberjack mountain-man aesthetic he carried around like an afterthought.

I chuckled. “Not quite the steel-cut statue you are.”

Before I could say more, his hands were on either side of my face, his mouth on mine.

Hot. Firm. Certain.

I sank into it like gravity didn’t apply anymore.

When he pulled back, his forehead touching mine, his voice dropped to a husky whisper. “You don’t get it, do you?”

“Get what?” I managed.

“You’re perfect.”

“Shane—”

“I’ve never wanted anything the way I want you right now.”

Well, damn, damn, damn .

Every nerve ending in my body fired at once.

My mouth moved, but nothing came out.

I blinked so rapidly he might’ve thought I’d been kidnapped and was blinking out Morse code to my rescuers .

“Stand up,” he said, the gentleness in his voice belied by a command I hadn’t heard from the beast before.

So I did.

His fingers shot to the button on my jeans, and I thought my heart might explode right there, spilling tiny bits of Mateo love all over the couch, my den, and the hunk before me.

His grip was sure. His fingers lithe.

My jeans never stood a chance.

“Shimmy out,” he instructed as his fingers gripped the fabric.

My cock flopped free.

“Free ballin’?” He smirked up.

I tried to suppress a blush—it beamed so bright the neighbors probably saw red through my curtained windows. I looked away.

The warm moisture of his tongue circling the tip of my dick shocked my whole system. My gaze snapped down to find Shane’s hands still tugging my jeans down, while his mouth enveloped the length of me.

My entire length.

Down his throat.

I wobbled and would’ve tipped over had his bear’s paw of a hand not flown to my back to hold me upright. His mouth never stopped moving .

My skin never stopped tingling.

I leaked into him.

“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 was ridiculous .

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 took a 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. I definitely stared.

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.

As his shorts slipped free, I learned two very important things.

First, Shane liked underwear about as much as I did, which was to say, not at all.

And second, defying all odds, his cock was the size of a softball bat—and we’re not talking the ones made for kids under five. We’re talking a beast of a bat that could wreck someone’s world without breaking a sweat.

“ Santa madre di mozzarella! ”

His cock twitched. “You know your accent drives me wild, right?”

“If I switch to Italian, can you just stay naked forever?”

His chest rumbled as laughter, deep and rich, slipped free. It might’ve been the most amazing sound I’d ever heard.

It was the first such laugh he’d shared with me.

“I . . . haven’t done this in a long time,” he admitted again, his head falling as childlike insecurities reared their heads.

I stood, my head barely reaching his chin, and pressed my body into his.

“God, you’re hard as a rock.”

His arms wrapped around me as he said, “What can I say? You got me all hot and bothered.”

“I didn’t mean that.” I slapped his back playfully. “I mean your whole body. Is there a single muscle I could press a finger to and it would give? Even a little?”

He squeezed me tight against him. “Why don’t you go exploring? See for yourself.”

And damn, if I didn’t feel myself leak again.