Page 53 of Playing for the Hat Trick
He shouldn’t be allowed to walk—okay, limp—into a room looking like a goddamn fallen sports god with that grin and those arms and those thighs and just . . . exist. And talk to me like that. Say things like, “You want to kiss me right now?” like he doesn’t know I’ve been dreaming about exactly that since the day he rolled in here with crutches and attitude.
It’s like my body’s been rewired around him.
My skin’s humming. My breasts ache. My thighs are practically vibrating with the need for release. There’s a pressure low in my belly that’s been building all damn morning, and now it’s full-on wildfire. I need something—someone—to put it out.
Spoiler: it’s not going to be anyone else but him.
And that’s the fucking problem.
I make it to the bathroom tucked behind my office, strip out of my leggings and sports bra in record time, and turn on the shower. Steam fills the space almost instantly, but I don’t wait. I step under the spray, scalding water, breath hitching as the heat rolls down my body.
My fingers are between my thighs before I’ve even reached for shampoo.
I need this.
I need him—but since that’s not happening right now, I’ll take the next best thing.
I close my eyes, lean back against the cool tile, and slip my hand lower. I’m already slick, the kind of wet that’s half arousal, half desperation. I drag my fingers through it, circling slowly, breathing shallow.
In my head, it’s Jason.
On his knees. Mouth open. Tongue out.
“You’re dripping for me, Scottie,” he says, voice thick, eyes hungry. “Can I taste you?”
God, yes. Fuck yes.
I slide one finger inside. Then two.
My other hand comes up to my breast, squeezing, tugging, thumb brushing over my nipple until it’s tight and aching. I press deeper, curling my fingers just right, letting the fantasy take over.
His mouth is everywhere in my mind.
Licking up my thighs, biting the curve of my hip, sucking on my nipple like he wants to leave his mark.
“Keep going,” he says. “I want to watch you come. Right here. Just for me.”
My hips move in time with the rhythm. Water pounding against my back. Fingers thrusting faster. The sound of slick movement blends with the steady slap of water and my breathy moans.
In my mind, he’s now got me pinned against this wall. One hand holding my wrists above my head. The other is between my legs, working me open. His cock hard against my stomach. His mouth on my neck, then my breasts, sucking like he’s starving.
I pump my fingers harder, chasing that edge. My thighs start to tremble, and everything in me winds tighter, like a spring about to snap.
“Jason . . .” I whisper, breathless.
He grins in my head. Wicked. Sure. Like he knows I’m falling apart because of him.
Then it hits.
Hard.
My orgasm crashes through me, fast and sharp, my back bowing, knees buckling, breath catching as I ride it out against my hand, the wall, the fantasy of the man I’m not supposed to want.
I stand there, panting, still twitching, water sluicing down my skin like it’s trying to rinse away the evidence of everything I just did.
It doesn’t work.
I towel off in record time. My skin flushed for reasons that have nothing to do with the water temperature and everything to do with a man whose hands haven’t even touched me.
