Page 40 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

M y eyes pried open, a bit crusty from a night of sleep and a morning that had come too early.

I felt warm, somehow heavy, wrapped in something solid and safe.

For a moment, I didn’t quite know where I was.

The ceiling above me wasn’t my apartment’s, and the bed beneath me wasn’t mine either. It was far too big, too soft, too . . . finely crafted. I ran my fingers along the headboard, feeling smooth grooves, knots, and carved vines.

And then the steady rise and fall of Shane’s chest beneath my cheek brought everything back to my waking mind.

The couch.

The shower.

Now Shane’s bed.

In Shane’s arms .

He’d held me all night, never let go, not even once.

I blinked the sleep from my eyes, stretching a little, careful not to disturb my sleeping giant, as the early morning light filtered through thick curtains. The air was crisp and clean, filled with memories of clean linen and the sudsy froth of a hot bath.

And of him.

Shane’s breath was soft, slow, and even. He was still sound asleep with one arm wrapped around me, the other lying limp by his side. Our legs were tangled, the covers shoved down around our hips in a heap.

Carefully, slowly, I tipped my head back just enough to see him.

My God.

Even in sleep, he looked . . . rugged . .

. and beautiful in that carved-from-iron way of his, but softer now.

He was so relaxed, the faintest hint of a frown smoothing out his brow.

His lashes were darker in the dim sunlight, thick against his cheekbones, and his jaw had the start of stubble, the kind that made my fingers itch to trace it.

I let myself look, really look.

There was a scar along his collarbone—small, white, probably a childhood trophy.

I’d noticed it last night but hadn’t had the presence of mind to ask.

His chest rose in slow, measured breaths.

Beneath the faint sheen of morning warmth, the lines of solid muscle and sinew stood out in stark contrast.

I bit my lip, my heart thudding—not from arousal, though that was there, too, simmering beneath the surface.

No.

This was something else.

Something scarier.

Something with feeling .

My brain, traitorous thing that it was, replayed every moment from the night before.

In the heat of the moment, I’d barely paid his words much mind; but then, in the quiet of the morning, as he slumbered beside me, I struggled to wrap my mind around the words he’d said, the way he’d touched me, kissed me, claimed me.

And there I was, curled in his arms like I belonged there.

Did I? Did we belong . . .

God, what were we doing?

I should’ve felt weird or uncertain, maybe even a little trapped.

We’d moved fast— too fast, if I was honest. And yet, as I lay there, held tight in the strength of his arms, I didn’t feel any of that. I searched deep, sought that center within me that guided my thoughts and actions, that told me when I was doing something stupid (whether I listened or not).

It didn’t speak.

Didn’t object.

In fact, it didn’t say a fucking word.

It felt . . . at peace.

Safe.

Wanted.

I exhaled and let my fingers brush against his ribs, lightly tracing the curve there, the dip just beneath where his breath caught.

Where was this headed?

Where did I want it to go?

Did Shane even want anything more than a good screw and a night’s rest?

I didn’t know.

Couldn’t know.

Shane wasn’t Mr. Open Communication, and I wasn’t na?ve enough to think one incredible night erased years of walls and guarded hearts.

But I knew one thing, one thing that scared me more than all the rest.

I wanted to know.

I wanted more.

More moments like this.

More mornings waking up in his bed.

More of that low, rough voice telling me things he probably didn’t even realize he was brave enough to say.

And I wanted to be the one he said them to.

A small smile tugged at my lips as I nestled a little closer, content to soak in the warmth for just a little while longer, content to give myself to the man who’d claimed me, if only for the moment.

I must’ve dozed off, because some time later, my eyes fluttered open again to find Shane propped up on an elbow staring down at me. There was no expression on his face, none whatsoever.

Then he spoke one word, a rasp of smoke and grinding gears that made me want to jump atop him again.

“Morning.”

“Good morning,” I replied, bleariness blurring my words.

He reached down with his off-hand and moved a lock of hair from my forehead. I wondered if he knew how intimate the gesture felt . . . if he felt it, too.

“Hungry?” he asked.

I choked back the thousands of questions begging to be asked and nodded. “Starving.”

“Why don’t I make us breakfast? How do you like your coffee?”

I smiled. “I’m Italian. I like my coffee like I like my men: black and deep inside me.”

His eyes popped wide, and I lost my composure, a waterfall of laughter flowing out of my mouth.

Shane shoved my shoulder, and I caught a hint of a smile turning the corners of his eyes upward.

“Asshole,” he said with no heat. “I’ll get started. Take your time. There’s an extra toothbrush in the top drawer, if you’d like to freshen up a bit.”

My brows rose.

“What?”

“Did the mountain man just ask me if I wanted to freshen up?”

He shoved me again. “You’re lippy this morning.”

I bared my teeth. “What are you going to do about it?”

He choked out a laugh and shook his head. “Make breakfast. Get your lippy mouth in order and meet me in the kitchen. Just follow the smell if you can’t remember where it is.”

“Yes, sir, rustic commander, sir.”

With a meaty paw on each shoulder, he pressed me into his mattress, then leaned down and planted a kiss on my lips. It was soft, gentle, unlike the passionate, ravenous kisses from the night before. It was . . . intimate.

When he lifted off, his eyes lingered. My heart clawed its way into my throat as he stared.

“I’m glad you’re here,” was all he said before rising, naked, and vanishing into the hallway.

Damn, his ass is fine , I thought as he padded away, not giving his nakedness a second thought.

I laid there in his bed, staring up at the ceiling and grinning like the Cheshire Cat, as images of his Adonis-like body ravaged me over and over in my mind. I’d slept with handsome men. I was a decent-enough-looking guy to earn my share.

But Shane . . .

He was another level of hotness.

His face was rugged, with sharp lines and chiseled angles. He wasn’t classically handsome, but he was hot in a way rough men were when they wanted to fuck your brains out. I liked his face, more than I should, but his body . . .

Dear Peter, Paul, and all the other Beatles, his body would put an Olympian to shame.

And his confidence? Jesus. He was hotter than hell but didn’t act like it, didn’t parade around in a tank top to show off his physique, didn’t strip off his shirt and strut like some rainbow-covered peacock.

No, that wasn’t Shane .

There was humility to his hotness—humility in his confidence.

That was different.

It was strange.

It made me want him inside me over and over again, with his fingers dug so far into my scalp and hair I’d feel him for days after. Made me want . . .

The aroma of sizzling bacon brought me back to the present.

Shane was making breakfast.

That sentence alone baffled my sleep-deprived mind. I wondered if the man could cook. Then again, I’d also learned not to doubt him. He’d surprised me at every turn. Why wouldn’t his ability to excel in the kitchen do the same?

Reluctantly, I shoved myself up and off the bed, made my way into the bathroom, and indeed “freshened up.”

That made me giggle.

In the middle of my mountain man’s bathroom, I giggled.

Which made me giggle more.

Before I knew it, I was snort-laughing, stark naked, doubled over the sink trying to suck in air. The whole thing was ridiculous to the point of preposterous.

And I was loving every minute of it .

“Plating now!” Shane called from the far end of the house.

An image of Shane, all buffed up and naked, wearing nothing but a frilly apron had me gasping for breath. Of course, that wasn’t the case. The brawny man would never wear lace or frills. He’d probably never cook naked, either. He was far too practical for that.

But the mental image was sexy as hell.

“Coming!” I shouted back, immediately regretting my word choice and devolving into yet another fit of Italian-laced giggles.

By the time I left the bathroom, I realized the house had gone quiet.

Too quiet.

I padded barefoot into the hallway, every step pulling me farther from that steamy, dangerous place we’d left behind in the shower.

The house unfolded around me, warm and rich with morning light filtering through the big windows.

And as I walked, I noticed the pieces, most I’d spotted the night before, but a few I’d missed leaped out:

A narrow console table in the hallway, its legs carved like twisted branches.

A coatrack that looked like it had grown straight out of the floor.

Shelves stacked with books and hand-thrown pottery, each one mounted on a live-edge slab of walnut.

Everything here was built, touched, crafted with care.

Like him.

I slowed without meaning to, my fingertips brushing one curved chair back, a small wooden fox perched on the arm like a secret left just for him.

God. How long had it taken to make all of this?

How long had I been standing in the bathroom, laughing at myself, while this man—this stubborn, quiet, brilliant man—had made breakfast for me?

The thought squeezed at something deep in my chest.

And then I smelled it again.

Bacon.

Coffee.

Something warm and yeasty.

I followed the scent into the kitchen—and stopped dead in the doorway.

Shane stood at the stove, stark naked, plating the last of the bacon like this was a normal, not-at-all-soul-meltingly-sexy way to cook.

He wore no frills, no apron . . . no anything.

And his bacon was as firm and crisp as it got.

My mouth went dry.

And also . . . how long had I been in the bathroom?