Page 39 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Shane

I was wrecked. Spent and sweaty, my muscles trembled with the kind of exhaustion that came after a three-day woodworking marathon.

But this?

This was different.

I lay sprawled across Mateo on the couch, my chest against his, our skin slick with sweat, the weight of me pressing him deep into the worn leather cushions, and my heartbeat hammering against ribs that still hadn’t figured out how to slow the hell down.

He was breathing hard, too, one hand buried in my hair, the other splayed low on my back. His legs tangled with mine, holding me there like he wasn’t in any hurry to move.

Neither was I.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself.

Except now my brain was starting to catch up with what we’d just done . . . and with all the shit I’d said.

“Give yourself to me.”

“You’re mine.”

“I’m claiming you.”

Christ.

Who said those things? A creature claiming his mate? What kind of porn-starved romance novel shifter had I become?

I squeezed my eyes shut, heat flooding my face. I couldn’t have said that. It wasn’t me. I was the guy who couldn’t finish a conversation about his childhood without wanting to bolt, not some sex-crazed beast marking his territory with fancy words and grumbling declarations.

What the actual fuck?

I kept my head down, my forehead resting against Mateo’s shoulder, too cowardly to look at him. He hadn’t pulled away, hadn’t stiffened. In fact, he felt at ease, still rubbing slow, lazy circles into the small of my back, humming something low and satisfied.

But . . . what was he thinking?

Did he hate it?

Was he freaked out?

Would he think I’d just proposed on some primal mating ritual level?

God, I should say something .

Or maybe not.

Maybe if I stayed very still and silent, we could just . . . pretend it never happened.

Except it did. The spent condom crumpled on a years-old edition of some magazine on my coffee table offered more than enough evidence.

And now those words—words growled in the heat of pleasure, while my cock pulsed inside this man, clouding all thought or judgement or good sense—echoed in my head like they were carved in stone.

I swallowed hard and forced myself to breathe, hoping like hell that Mateo wasn’t lying there wondering when I’d lost my damn mind.

“You’re talky during sex,” Mateo crooned, a smile threading his words.

I wanted to shrivel up and die. Instead, I grunted, like a feral idiot.

His chuckle reverberated through my chest.

“I guess I should get cleaned up and let you get some sleep. You’re still working on that big project, right?”

The project. Shit. I was so close to finished; and yet, every day—every piece completed—the client called and asked for another, pushing my timeline back another day or week, depending on the new request. It was good for business.

This was a well-funded, quick-paying client.

Still, the work consumed my life just as I might want to find time for other pursuits.

Other pursuits? Who talks like that? And why would—

“You’re thinking.” Mateo’s hand, the one not teasing my back, reached up and traced down my cheek. “It worries me when you think.”

A tiny laugh slipped out. I couldn’t stop it.

Mateo’s grin warmed, causing my chest to do the same.

Damn him and his fucking accent.

“Sorry,” was all I could think to say.

His palm pressed against the side of my face. “Shower?”

“Uh, yeah, right,” I stammered, pressing myself up by pressing fists into the couch on either side of him. Before I could push off, he gripped me, his eyes roaming from my face to my chest, then lower.

“What?” I asked.

“Just looking,” he said, his smile twisting. “Your body is ridiculous.”

I knew I had a good body, was packed with muscle atop muscle. It had been a point of pride since my high school days. Still, hearing him say it, hearing the awe—or whatever it was—filling his voice? That sent a thrill of pride through me unlike any I’d known before.

“Thanks,” I said.

He chuckled. “Now, get off me so we can clean up, you big brute.”

I pushed off, then reached a hand down to help him up. He stared at it for only a heartbeat, another smile tugging at his lips, before taking it and letting me haul him upright.

“Come on,” I muttered, voice rough. “Bathroom’s this way.”

I led him out the living room, down the short hallway, and into my bedroom. Mateo slowed, looking around, and I saw the space through his eyes.

The room was big, built like the rest of my oversized cabin.

There were exposed beams overhead and wide-planked floors.

The bed was massive, its frame hand-carved, a twisting lattice of branches and knots.

The headboard reached nearly to the ceiling, a piece I’d made on a dare (and likely a joke) from Stevie.

As in the living room, nothing in the bedroom matched. Every dresser, nightstand, and bench was different, though each piece fit: the stained walnut chest by the window, the maple armoire with iron handles, even the live-edge oak shelf stacked with books and old records.

It shouldn’t have worked .

But somehow it did. It felt as though the whole room had grown up around me, piece by piece, until it had become something that felt . . . like home.

Mateo’s gaze lingered on the bed, and I coughed, hyper-aware of how naked we still were.

“Shower,” I said, steering him through the open archway into the bathroom.

The space was warm and simple, with stone tile, copper fixtures, and a walk-in shower big enough for two—because apparently some part of me knew this day might come.

I turned on the water, adjusting the heat until steam curled in the air. “You go first,” I offered.

Mateo smiled, that wicked, knowing look of his.

“Not a chance. Get in.” He left no room to argue or refuse.

I started to protest, but he stepped in close, pressed a kiss to my jaw, and tugged me under the spray. Hot water hit my back, and I groaned, my head tipping forward against the tile.

Then his hands were on me.

“Hands up,” he murmured.

His hands gripped my wrists and lifted them above my head. I opened my mouth to argue—a reflex—but I stopped when I felt his fingers lathering soap, slow and sure, working it across my shoulders and chest .

He was gentle, so damn gentle, his fingers slick with soap barely grazing the skin, as he explored me even more thoroughly than he had on the couch.

Mateo was patient.

No, he was reverent .

Every swipe sent shivers down my spine, and before long I wasn’t thinking about what I’d said anymore.

I wasn’t thinking at all.

I was just feeling.

His hands moved lower, slow and purposeful, soap slicking across my chest, down my abs. My breath hitched—part anticipation, part helpless reaction. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d let anyone touch me like this, not without some wall thrown up between us.

And then he brushed lower.

Far lower.

My body betrayed me, hardening, and if I thought I still had any pride left, it evaporated the moment I heard the soft, knowing chuckle he gave in response.

“Somebody’s sensitive,” he teased, his voice a low purr.

I swore under my breath. I was about to grab for him, pull him closer, do something—anything—but before I could so much as blink, he sank to his knees, water cascading over both of us .

“Someone’s happy to see me again.”

When had I gotten hard again? So soon after—

“Mateo—” I started, but the words died in my throat when his mouth wrapped around me.

The world tilted.

Every muscle locked, my hands flying to the walls of the shower for balance as waves of sensation ripped through me, fast, hot, impossible to fight.

I wanted to take over, to spin him around and pin him to the tile, to again show him how undone he’d made me—but when I tried to move, his grip tightened on my hips.

His dark eyes flicked up, locking with mine, full of wicked promise.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered again, and I forgot how to speak.

There wasn’t a damn thing I could do but surrender.

God, I wanted to surrender.

To his touch.

To his mouth.

To him.

His lips closed around my head, and I forgot what I was thinking, forgot how to think. All I could do was feel and shiver and shake with pleasure, to consume his warmth and wetness as he devoured me.

His palm pressed against my abs, then fingers dug in, feeling the ridges, the definition, the hard-won evidence of a lifetime of workouts and clean meals. But I couldn’t think about that—any of it. All I could think—could feel—was Mateo and his damn near-perfect mouth.

His other hand gripped my balls, cupping them, pulling them down to force the skin of my shaft to tighten further.

My whole body tensed.

Steam made the shower tiles slick, so I gripped his head, tangled my fingers in his hair, the only way I could think to take back some measure of control.

His mouth bobbed. His tongue swirled. He slurped and sucked and—

“Mateo, you’d better stop or—”

He quickened, his lips tightened, his tongue circled faster.

My body shook.

My abs clenched.

His hand rose and gripped my chest like he was trying to break me.

Pain and pleasure flared, mingled, wove together.

“Mateo!”

I tried to push him back, to push him off.

I was so damn close.

Still he held on, driving, willing me into him deeper with each rise and fall of his beautiful head .

Stars exploded across my eyes as release burst from me . . .

Into Mateo.

He drank me in.

Wave after wave, Mateo drank me in.

Until I slumped down onto the tiles beside him and let him hold me beneath the steaming water.