Page 112 of Playing for the Hat Trick
He said it like it was nothing. Like it was everything.
And now he’s just . . . there. Wide open. Completely unguarded. Waiting.
Panic and wonder clash hard inside me.
I could say something back.
I could absolutely fuck it all up.
Or—I could do the one thing I’m really good at when the ground starts wobbling beneath me: dive into the fire instead of running.
I push up onto my elbows, cocking a brow like I’m not two seconds away from bursting into emotional flames. I could run. I could freak out. But instead, I focus his attention on the now. Us . . . sex, even when he’s not right next to me.
“Your turn,” I say, voice low and wrecked. “Come for me, Tate.”
Jason’s groan practically rattles the bedframe. He shifts, angling the phone so I can see the way he’s palming himself through his briefs—thick, hard, straining.
“You’re a fucking menace,” he growls, stroking himself with rough, impatient pulls. “You know that, right?”
“Fuck, baby,” he pants, voice shredded and begging. “Say my name. Tell me you’re mine. Need to hear it—need to fucking hear it.”
“Jason,” I breathe, letting every ounce of my need bleed into the word. I shift my hips, dragging my hand lower again, slow and shameless. “I’m yours. Always yours.”
He groans like it physically hurts, his body tensing, trembling, desperate for release.
“Come for me,” I whisper, rough and needy. “Show me how bad you missed me. Show me who you belong to.”
That’s all it takes.
He breaks with a growl that sounds ripped from somewhere deep inside him, his body shuddering through every pulse of pleasure, his eyes locked on mine like I’m the only thing keeping him alive.
It’s his breaking point.
He groans my name again—wrecked and raw—as his whole body tenses and then shudders, his hand clenching around himself as he comes, his face twisted up like it’s almost too much to survive.
Watching him fall apart for me—because of me—is enough to kickstart a second, smaller orgasm that leaves me breathless all over again.
For a long moment, we just lie there. Breathing. Reeling. Strung together across three thousand miles by something stupid and terrifying and real.
Finally, Jason drags his gaze back to me, a crooked, blissed-out grin pulling at his mouth.
“Best fucking FaceTime of my life,” he says hoarsely.
I laugh, wiping a shaky hand over my face. “You’re such a caveman.”
“Yeah,” he says, still smiling like he’s high off me. “But I’m your caveman.”
And, fuck, someone help me because I’m starting to think I might actually want him to be.
Jason props his chin on his forearm, blinking at me all slow and satisfied like he’s drunk on orgasms and dumb life choices.
“You’re dangerous, Crawford,” he mutters, voice rough and wrecked. “Should come with a fucking warning label.”
I huff out a laugh, tugging the sheet higher over my chest even though, yeah, that ship has definitely sailed.
“Please. You’d ignore the label and rip it open with your teeth.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, grinning lazily. “Probably while jerking off to you.”
