Page 78 of Playing for the Hat Trick
It’s her.
The way she rolls her eyes at me one second and moans my name the next. The way she doesn’t just take control—she owns the room when she wants it. The way she smiled before she dropped her mouth to my cock like she knew she was about to ruin my life.
I want more.
I want her sprawled across my bed in the morning, stealing my hoodies and mocking my coffee order. I want her legs around my waist again before breakfast, not just because my cock’s hard, but because waking up beside her might actually make me a morning person.
Shit.
I trace slow circles on her hip, pretending I’m not thinking about round two already. Not for the sex, but because I want to see her face when I do it softer. Slower. Not to get her off—though let’s be real, that’s happening—but to memorize the way she looks when she falls apart just for me.
This was supposed to be casual.
One glorious, no-holds-barred, ruin-each-other-and-go-home kind of thing. But I already know I’m not going to let her go. After this is the shower, and then I’ll feed her and . . . I don’t know how I’m going to let her go.
“Hey,” she mumbles, sleepy now, fingers ghosting over my ribs.
“Yeah?”
Her lashes flutter, her smile lazy. “You’re still touching me.”
I shrug. “Just making sure you’re real.”
She laughs softly, already drifting, and I let my hand settle—possessive, gentle, right where it’s been. Right where it belongs.
Fuck, I need help.
I’m not done with her.
Not even close, but how do I convince her to give me a chance for more?
Chapter Twenty-Five
Scottie
When You Officially Reach the Post-Fuck-Jelly Mode
My legs and arms are made out of rubber. They don’t work.
Like, at all.
My thighs are trembling like I just ran suicides in cleats and a weighted vest. My core’s wrecked. My knees wobble, and I’m not even standing. I’m sweaty, used, glowing, and Jason . . . Jasonleans on one elbow, watching me with this cocky, satisfied smirk like he just solved world peace by rearranging my insides.
“You okay?”
I clear my throat. “Peachy.”
Totally a lie. I’m approximately one breath away from dissolving into a puddle. I flash him a thumbs-up like I’m in a toothpaste commercial and not currently post-orgasmic roadkill.
Jason cocks an eyebrow. “You sure about that? ‘Cause you look like a baby deer trying to remember how limbs work.”
I glare. “Don’t you dare compare me to Bambi.”
But I’m gripping the sheets, and the mattress is like everything around me: quicksand or, better yet, as if I’ve forgotten how gravity works. My body’s pulsing from the inside out, and my brain’s doing that thing where it short-circuits every time I remember the sounds I made.
He cackles. Full-body, abs-flexing laugh that makes me want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. “You want help getting up?”
“No, I’m fine,” I mutter, trying to find the dignity I left somewhere around orgasm number three. “I’ve got this.”
