Page 45 of Playing for the Hat Trick
My hands skim up the curve of her waist, fingers sliding beneath the edge of that thin strip of fabric masquerading as a bra. My thumbs graze soft skin, then rise—slow, reverent—until I’m palming her completely. Warm, full, perfect. Her breath hitches when I tug the bra up and over, baring her to me.
My mouth waters.
Fuck, I’ve thought about this too many times. In the shower. In my bed. During workouts when I should’ve been focused on anything else.
I lower my head without a word, lips brushing across the swell of her breast before I take one into my mouth, slow and hungry. She gasps—sharp and needy—and her fingers shoot to my hair, tangling hard as I suck her deep.
“Fuck. Fuck,” I groan against her skin, tongue flicking over her nipple, tasting her. “You have no idea how long I’ve missed this. You—fuck, you’re unreal.”
She arches into me, hips pressing forward, breath catching in her throat. I switch sides, giving the other the same attention—kissing, licking, dragging my teeth across her in a way that makes her legs tremble.
“You were wearing that tiny little top the first day I showed up at the clinic,” I murmur between kisses. “Told myself I was here for rehab. Lied like a pro.”
She lets out a broken sound, part laugh, part moan, and rocks her hips against mine like she’s done pretending, too.
“You’re not supposed to be doing this,” she whispers, but her voice lacks conviction. Her hands stay on me. Her body chases more. “This is about healing you.”
“Guess I’m failing rehab,” I mutter, mouth still on her skin. “But I’m finally getting somewhere.”
Her skin’s soft and alive under my mouth, and I kiss her like I’m starving because I am.
She gasps again when I drag my tongue along her nipple and then suck her in hard—like I’m claiming her like this is mine, like I’ve earned it through every aching second of pretending not to want her.
Her nails bite into my shoulders as she presses against me. Every inch of her, bare and bold and completely wrecking me.
I pull back, breathing hard, forehead resting against her sternum. “Get on your knees,” I whisper, not a command—more like a plea.
Her breath stutters.
“I want to watch you,” I murmur, hands trailing down her sides, settling just above the waistband of those damn shorts. “I need to see your lips around my cock. I’ve dreamed of it—fuck, I am dreaming, aren’t I?”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares at me with something between a dare and a promise.
“If this isn’t real, let me stay in it. Just long enough to feel your mouth on me.” My fingers slide under the waistband, start to peel the shorts down inch by inch, revealing smooth thighs I want wrapped around my head.
“Let me have this,” I whisper, voice frayed. “Let me watch you take me in. Let me hear you moan while you’re on your knees for me. Just once. Please.”
Her eyes darken, lips parting as she sinks to the floor—slow, like she knows I’ll remember every second of this, even if it’s ripped away.
She reaches for my waistband. My hands tangle in her hair, guiding her. My heart is pounding so loud I barely register how she looks up at me like she wants it too.
Then . . . she’s fucking gone. I’m back in my bedroom, taken away from her, like paper tearing in the wind.
I’m gasping, sweat clinging to my skin, sheets twisted, hard as fucking steel, and absolutely wrecked. My hands clench the edge of the mattress. My throat’s dry. My cock’s pulsing. My whole body feels like it just ran a marathon through hell and liked it.
“Shit,” I mutter into the dark.
It was a dream.
Of course, it was.
But fuck if it didn’t feel real—so real that I can still taste her skin on my tongue, still feel the drag of her hair against my palm, still hear the sound of her breath right before she lowered herself in front of me.
Chapter Fifteen
Scottie
Night Shift: The Self-Service Spectacular
