Page 110 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Scottie: Whoa. Settle down, Romeo.
Scottie: I’m sure you say that to all the girls who dirty talk you while wearing pajamas.
Jason: Only the ones who can make me hard from three thousand miles away.
Jason: Speaking of . . . ready for our video call?
My thumb hovers for a second—because, yes, there’s a good chance this is a Very Bad Idea. And yet here I was, doing it anyway. Of course, I hit the video call button before I can chicken out.
His face fills my screen almost instantly.
Disheveled hair. Bare shoulders. That grin that short-circuits my brain every damn time.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, voice low and rough like he’s been waiting hours just to say it to me.
“Hey, desperate,” I tease, shifting against the pillows.
He groans, long and shameless. “You have no fucking idea.”
His gaze drags over me—messy bun, tank top, bare face, tired eyes—and he looks like he’s staring at a fucking miracle. Like I’m everything.
“You’re dangerous,” he mutters, voice slipping deeper, rougher.
“You’re easy,” I shoot back, heat sparking under my skin.
“Only for you.”
He leans closer to the camera, eyes dark and hungry.
“Show me.”
My pulse skitters. “Show you what?” I say, pretending to play dumb even though we both damn well know. “My new table?”
“Yourself.” His voice drops to a growl that shreds straight through my self-control. “Show me how much you miss me. Be good, Crawford. Take your clothes off for me . . . slow. The way I like it.”
The command sends a bolt of heat spiraling through my belly.
God help me, I want to.
I hesitate, nerves flickering—but then I catch the way he’s looking at me. Like he’s starving. Like he needs this as badly as I do.
Slowly, deliberately, I peel my tank top over my head, tossing it aside. Left in nothing but thin, barely-there panties.
Jason’s breath hitches, sharp and ragged. “Fuck.” His voice is wrecked now, desperate and low. “You’re going to kill me.”
“You’re the one who wanted this,” I murmur, heat pooling deep inside me.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Best fucking decision of my life.”
I shift, propping my phone against a pillow so he can see me better—stretched out across the bed, flushed and aching, just for him.
His breathing turns ragged through the speakers like he’s fighting every caveman instinct not to break through the fucking screen.
“Touch yourself for me,” Jason says, voice low and sinful. “Nice and slow, baby. Let me watch you fall apart.”
My heart stumbles into a sprint. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive.
But the way he’s looking at me—like I’m his goddamn religion—strips away every last scrap of hesitation.
