Page 74 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Her pulse is still racing under my tongue when I lift my head. Her legs are trembling around my shoulders, hands in my hair, chest heaving like I’ve just rewritten her biology. Her skin’s flushed. Damp. Her lips are parted and kiss-swollen, and if I weren’t already hard, this would be the moment that ruined me.
But I’ve been hard. For hours. Days. Fuck, maybe since prom.
And now?
Now, I need to be inside her.
“Jason.” Her voice is wrecked—half gasp, half accusation. “I can’t even feel my legs.”
I press a kiss to her inner thigh, slow and smug. “Then I’m doing something right.”
She groans, tries to sit up, and I reach for her—palming her ass as I lift her off the counter and into my arms. She’s still breathless, legs wrapping instinctively around my waist, arms around my neck like she doesn’t trust her body not to collapse.
Good. She shouldn’t.
I’m not done with her yet.
“Bedroom,” she says, her breath tickling my throat, her lips brushing my jaw like a taunt. “Now.”
I don’t answer. Just carry her through the apartment like I’ve done it a thousand times in my head for the last couple of days. Her skin is warm against mine, and my cock’s pressed tight against her center through my sweats, throbbing, leaking, barely restrained.
The second we hit the bedroom, I toss her onto the bed like I’ve got zero chill left. Which, fair—because I don’t.
She lands with a soft bounce, legs sprawled, hair fanned out like the mess she’s about to become. One bra strap slips off her shoulder, and her skirt is still hiked up around her waist like an invitation I didn’t need but will absolutely RSVP to.
Her eyes lock on mine, dark and wild, a challenge and a dare, and something a little bit dangerous.
I strip.
Fast? No. But not slow either. Let’s call it just enough time for her to lose her mind over it.
First, the hoodie—off with a shrug and a smirk.
Then the T-shirt—tugged over my head and tossed somewhere behind me, not that I’m looking. Her gaze drops like gravity’s in love with me. Like she’s starving, and I’m what’s on the menu. I push my sweats down, and, yeah—I’ve got nothing on underneath.
Didn’t bother.
Didn’t need to.
My cock bounces up the second I’m free, flushed and leaking, already slick with precum like it’s been waiting all fucking day for this.
Spoiler: it has.
Her breath catches. Her thighs twitch. She bites her lip like she’s trying not to pounce.
“Jason,” she mutters, voice wrecked. “You walk around like that all the time?”
I grin, cocky as hell, because I can’t help it. “Only when I’m planning to ruin someone as gorgeous as you.”
I crawl onto the bed over her. Knees on either side of her hips, dick brushing her stomach as I lean in, hands braced beside her shoulders. She makes a sound—somewhere between a moan and a whimper—and arches into me like she wants to feel everything.
She will.
She’s about to.
I drag my hand down, slow, fingers trailing along the swell of her breast, down her ribs, over her stomach. She shivers, hips bucking up against me.
“Still want the Tate Special?” I murmur, voice rough against her lips.
