Page 37 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

S hane’s truck slowed, blinkers flashing as he turned into a gravel driveway flanked by tall trees and a mailbox that looked like it had survived a tornado or three. I followed, blinking at the unexpected detour.

He parked and . . . just sat there. I waited. Still, he didn’t move.

“Well, this is awkward,” I mumbled to myself, unhooking my seat belt and climbing out of my car.

I strode up to his truck and peered through his driver’s side window.

He was staring at the wheel, his hands clutching it like a life preserver, his knuckles whiter than primer on a freshly painted wall.

He was either nervous, having some sort of out-of-body experience, or regretting inviting me out.

I was fairly certain it was nerves but wondered if this detour was part of some inner-serial-killer-rural-alcohol-bait plan.

That made me chuckle.

Shane would never be a serial killer. He was definitely an “I’ll shoot if you come on my property” sort of guy, but he wouldn’t kidnap and—

My hand rose, fingers tapping on the glass of their own accord.

His head snapped up, eyes wide. He hesitated, then rolled down his window, yet another move that amused me on a night that seemed determined to get stranger every second.

After a brief, odd exchange, he hopped down from his truck like some cowboy dismounting from his horse and led me toward his front door.

The porch creaked beneath our feet, a pleasant, welcoming sound. Shane unlocked the door and stepped inside, holding the door for me like a gentleman—albeit a rugged, grumpy one with the emotional range of a brick wall.

The moment I stepped inside, I stilled.

It was like walking into Shane’s soul.

The place was, technically, a big cabin—but it wasn’t the kind you found in tourist brochures.

It was large, with vaulted ceilings and exposed beams stained to a deep walnut sheen.

A stacked stone fireplace dominated one wall, its mantle lined with mismatched carvings of animals, abstract forms, and a twisted hunk of wood that looked like a dragon mid-roar.

Furniture dotted the space in a glorious, chaotic parade of styles.

A Shaker-style armchair sat beside a Japanese-style coffee table.

A Scandinavian-looking bench stared across the room at a rustic Appalachian hutch.

It was so varied, so eclectic; and yet, somehow, it all worked.

Every piece was handcrafted, every edge smooth, every joint tight, every detail carved like someone had poured love into it. It was Shane’s work. I would’ve bet my last cannoli on it.

He stepped past me, tossing his keys into a rough-hewn wooden bowl sitting atop a table that belonged in a gallery or museum.

“Sorry. I know . . . it’s kind of . . . a lot.”

I nearly staggered back at how sheepish he sounded. “Are you kidding? This is incredible. It’s like a gallery curated by a very sexy lumberjack.”

“Thanks,” he said, his head lowering as his ears turned red. “You want a beer?”

Something flared within me, something familiar and raw and blazing hot. I welcomed it, embraced it, and readied myself to douse him with it.

“No.”

“No?” His brows furrowed.

“No,” I repeated.

“Uh, okay.” He ran a hand through his hair. “ Something else?”

My heart skipped a beat. “Definitely something else.”

Without waiting for my courage to fail, I stepped forward, grabbed him by the arms, and pressed my lips to his.

It wasn’t smooth or a move anyone might write a song about.

Both our lips were rough and dry, and neither of us had time to prepare or anything; but damn, it was hot.

Before I could think, my tongue slipped past his teeth and found his.

It knew the way. It had been there before.

Still, this felt different—it felt like, I don’t know, more.

He only hesitated for a heartbeat before massive arms wrapped around me, steel hands pressing into my back as the rest of him melted into our embrace.

He was so much bigger than me, so much taller and broader and thicker.

I wasn’t huge or beefy, but I wasn’t used to being so .

. . engulfed. It felt awkward at first, but I recognized a new sensation coursing through me as his arms tightened about my body: safety.

Being held by this monstrous mountain of a man made me feel safe.

No one had ever made me feel that before.

I melted into his touch, into the thought of being possessed by him—of being protected by him—of knowing nothing in the world could harm me if only Shane were there, standing guard, holding me close .

A tiny part of my brain—okay, the common sense part—laughed at how Hallmark-ridiculous I was being in that moment. It chided me for turning into a Disney character because some hot, beefy, sexy man was tonguing his way to China via my throat.

I swatted that annoying voice away, shoving it down so far I hoped it would stay fucking quiet for at least a few hours. I wanted this. I wanted Shane . . . all of him . . . and I wanted it right then.

“I want you inside me,” flew out the moment our lips parted for breath. Apparently, there was more than one voice begging to sneak out of me, and the second one had very different ideas of what constituted “good judgment.”

Shane’s eyes flared, and he growled, a low rumble that had me wondering if he might shift into a bear or panther or wolf. Was it a full moon? Did that sort of thing happen out in the woods?

His mouth chased away my inner ridiculousness, pressing against mine harder and hungrier than before.

My fingers found the buttons of his shirt. Damn flannel. How many fucking buttons were there? And did they have to be three times the size of the little holes?

I fumbled . . . and fumbled.

Shane’s lips grinned against mine a heartbeat before he pulled us apart, a genuine grin parting his lips. “Need some help?”

I let my head fall into his chest. “Yes, please.”

He kissed my forehead. It should’ve felt weird or awkward, like a father kissing his child, but that gentle press against my skin gave me another, very different, sense of safety. He had me—he really had me—and it was going to be okay.

Then his first button came loose.

And the second.

And the third.

His glorious chest revealed itself, one tiny sliver of square-covered cloth at a time.

I couldn’t wait for him to finish. He moved too damn slowly. My lips found bare skin as I kissed my way behind his unbuttoning, inching my way south until the last one popped free, exposing the happiest trail ever to grace a man’s abs.

His fingers dug into my hair, entwining, gripping, massaging my scalp, as I kissed every inch of him I could reach.

“Does this mean you missed me?”

I stopped kissing and looked up. The smart-ass smirk glaring down was almost too much.

“Yeah, I did,” slipped out.

His grin twitched. It didn’t turn into a smile, but it twitched. I took that as a good sign .

“Your shirt is in the way,” he said.

I kissed his belly button, then looked up. “Not my problem.”

He growled, and that low rumble made my cock pulse. Damn, this man and his primal, feral, irresistible grunts and groans.

Meaty hands gripped my shoulders, hauling me upright. He was so strong I couldn’t have resisted if I’d wanted to—and I didn’t want to.

He didn’t tease or go slow like he had with his own shirt. In quick, precise motions, my polo flew over my head and sailed across to land on a sideboard or chair or some other piece I didn’t give a shit about in that moment.

Shane whistled.

I stiffened.

His gaze slid over me, and his lips twitched again.

“What?” I asked.

“You sure about this?”

I pressed my palm to his chest, and damn if it didn’t budge. “Very.”

He growled again, his eyes brightening with desire. “Good. I’m going to break you for any other man. You hear me?”

I think my butthole quivered.

Where had all this come from? I mean, I knew there was something between us.

Just the thought of Shane made my crotch tingle and stomach flip.

Still, he’d barely shown much overt interest beyond the awkward, what-the-hell-was-that forehead kiss he’d planted on my noggin.

I was beginning to wonder if it might not take months or years to get to second base; yet there we were, about to swing for the fences.

“You are a professional woodworker. I’d expect no less.”

Finally, another rare smile bloomed, sending my already weak knees into Jello-O territory. Thank God, his hands still gripped my shoulders, or I might’ve tipped over right there.

“Less talk, more naked,” he growled.

I started to reach for my jeans, but his paws were on the button faster than I could imagine.

Strong fingers tore the button fly open, then yanked from the waist until denim pooled around my ankles.

I lifted one foot to let him pull the pants free but nearly toppled over when his mouth drank down my entire cock.

“Oh, shit,” I said, as startled as I was turned on. “I guess you want to—”

“Shut up and let me suck the life out of you. If you don’t behave, I’ll have to gag you with something enormous.”

Please, Daddy , sang in my head, but I had enough wit left to keep my mouth shut and enjoy the sensation show that had just started.

His hands found my chest, kneading the muscles with merciless fingers, almost too painfully to be pleasurable—almost. With each bob of his head, my dick grew harder, thicker, balls filling with anticipation they hadn’t known in some time.

Then his fingers clamped onto my nipples, and I nearly leaped high enough to smack my head on his ceiling fan.

“Ow!” I barked.

He grinned up, my cock now flopping freely before him, as I rubbed my wounded titties.

“My nipples. Get over it.”

Claiming me, was he? That was another new thing . . . and damn, if it didn’t send my racing heart into overdrive. This man, this stunning, frustrating, awkward, beguiling man wanted to plant this flag—literally—in my territory.

“Turn around,” was all he said.