Page 125 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Here.
His pace stutters when I clench around him, my body trembling on the edge, every nerve stretched thin and sparking. He drops his forehead to my shoulder, a low, guttural curse breaking against my skin as he thrusts harder, deeper, chasing the inevitable.
“Touch yourself,” Jason orders, voice rough and barely holding on.
My hand slides between us, fingers finding the slick, aching place where I need him most. I rub tight, desperate circles, hips rocking to meet each thrust as heat coils low and brutal inside me.
“Come for me, Scottie,” he growls, his voice cracking beautifully on my name. “Let go, baby. I’ve got you.”
And I do.
I shatter around him with a sob, body clenching tight, pleasure tearing through me so hard it leaves me gasping, mindless, wrecked in the best way. I don’t know where I end, and he begins—just that I never want it to stop.
Jason groans, driving into me once, twice more before he follows with a rough, broken sound, his body seizing, trembling, emptying into me like he’s been holding it back for years.
For a long moment, we stay there, crushed together against the door, panting and shaking, clinging like idiots who don’t know how to let go even if they tried.
Slowly, Jason shifts, his hands sliding down to cradle my thighs more gently as if remembering I’m something precious after how desperate we just were. He presses a kiss to my shoulder, then another softer kiss to the corner of my mouth—quiet, reverent, like he’s apologizing for every second we lost.
“You good?” he whispers, brushing his nose against mine.
I nod, blinking up at him, throat too raw for real words. Everything in me feels stretched thin like I’m still caught between the aftershocks of what just happened and the dizzy wonder that he’s actually here.
Jason smiles—that lazy, crooked smile that wrecked me the first time I ever saw it and clearly hasn’t lost a single ounce of its power—and leans his forehead against mine.
“We’ll talk later,” he murmurs, voice warm and low, a teasing rasp threaded through the tenderness. “First, I’m feeding you, baby. You’re not walking after what we just did.”
“Later,” I whisper, smiling so hard it aches.
He presses a kiss to my forehead, another to the tip of my nose, and then he wraps me up in his arms like he has no plans to let go—like we finally stopped pretending we could live without this.
Without us.
Chapter Forty-Six
Scottie
The Talk That Matters
The cartons are scattered across the bed between us. Jason is propped up against the headboard in nothing but a pair of joggers. His hair is still a mess from my fingers, and his smile is lazy and loose like he just won the Stanley Cup and the lottery simultaneously.
I’m wearing his shirt.
It’s too big, sliding off one shoulder, brushing the tops of my thighs in a way that keeps dragging his eyes down to me. Greedy and soft all at once, like he still can’t believe I’m real. Maybe he’s afraid he’ll blink, and I’ll disappear, taking the shrimp from his fried rice with me.
“You gonna leave me anything, Crawford?” he grumbles around a mouthful, fake-scowling when I swipe another piece off his plate with my chopsticks.
“Nope,” I say sweetly, popping it into my mouth. “Survival of the fittest, Tate.”
He snorts, reaching out to snag a carton before I can rob him blind. His hand brushes my bare thigh under the shirt, and I try to act like it doesn’t send a full-body shiver straight to my toes.
Jason notices. Of course, he does. He smirks around his chopsticks like the cocky, beautiful bastard he is.
“I let you win tonight,” he says casually, flipping open the container like we didn’t just combust against the door not long ago.
I arch a brow, amused. “Pretty sure you scored three goals without my help.”
“I meant this,” he says, waving a hand between us. “Me, shirtless. You, stealing my food, wearing my clothes. It’s a win for you, not me.”
