Page 90 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“. . . but I’m pretty sure the look on your face says it all.”
I yank the sheet up over my chest like it’s chainmail, and I’m about to joust him.
“You’re dripping on your sheets,” I manage to choke out, aiming for nonchalant and landing somewhere around ‘hysterical virgin who’s never seen a shirtless man before.’
Jason cocks an eyebrow, reaching the edge of the bed and bracing his hand against the mattress like he’s about to pounce. His grin deepens, downright wicked now. “Good thing they’re already soaked,” he murmurs, gaze dropping to where the sheet is definitely not hiding the way my nipples have betrayed me.
I bury my face in the crook of my arm with a groan. “Stop being hot. It’s rude.”
He laughs, low and dirty, the sound curling around my toes and dragging heat right back into my bloodstream.
“I could be polite,” he says, voice all sinful promise. “Or I could make you come so hard you forget why you were ever mad about it.”
I peek at him from under my arm.
Mistake.
Big fucking mistake.
Because now he’s leaning in, the towel slipping just enough to threaten my sanity, his eyes locked on mine like he’s got every intention of following through.
“Jason, we had a deal,” I remind him, even though my voice is nowhere near convincing. “This was supposed to be causal.”
“I’m casually approaching you.” He leans closer, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead, his knuckles warm and gentle. “Very casual.”
I can’t breathe when he’s this close. Not properly.
“No emotions,” he murmurs. “No expectations. That was the agreement.”
I try to think of something witty, something that puts distance back between us. But then he moves just slightly, and the towel slips a little lower. There’s a promise in that shift—silent and devastating. My eyes betray me before I can stop them.
“You’re considering it,” he says, watching me watch him. “Trying to decide if your legs still work.”
“They don’t,” I admit, because lying right now is impossible. “Also, I want coffee before I leave. It’ll be irresponsible to head home half-tired.”
“I’ll make you coffee after,” he offers with a grin that should be illegal. “Right after I ruin you again.”
My thighs clench. He sees it.
My resolve? Already in pieces, and Jason? He watches me like I’m a little bunny rabbit, and he’s the big bad wolf about to eat me.
As much as I’d like to stay wrapped in these overpriced sheets, inhaling Jason’s stupidly intoxicating scent and pretending last night didn’t happen, I need to move. I need to stand up, put clothes on, and get my dignity back in something other than his T-shirt.
I swing my legs off the bed and start the search for my underwear, which appears to have made a break for freedom at some point during the night.
My skirt is wrinkled beyond repair, and my blouse looks like I lost a wrestling match with it. I tug it on anyway, buttoning slowly, trying to ignore the way his scent still clings to my skin. I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t still be in his space, breathing his air, contemplating whether I could sneak one more kiss without making this something.
There’s no next time.
Hypothetically—if I ever considered it, which I don’t—I’d bring backup clothes. But I’m not. So, I won’t.
I pad into the kitchen, barefoot, shirt untucked, hair all over the place—I so need a brush. I’m trying not to notice how much this feels like something I shouldn’t want.
Jason’s at the stove, barefoot, too, wearing gray joggers that ride low on his hips. He’s flipping bacon like a man who’s not currently shattering my life plans with breakfast. The muscles in his back shift when he moves, and the towel slung over his shoulder gives him an offensively domestic vibe that has no business being this attractive.
He turns slightly, offering a slight nod toward the counter.
“The coffee’s almost done,” he says, flipping another slice with infuriating ease. “I can make you a smoothie if that’s more your vibe.”
