Page 123 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“I’m hoping I’ll get the girl, too,” I murmur against her lips.
“You got the girl,” she whispers back, her hands fisting in my jacket like she’s grounding herself or maybe claiming me.
And just like that, the fragile grip I had on patience snaps clean in half.
I lift her off the ground without thinking, her laugh muffled against my mouth, and for the first time in forever, the future doesn’t feel like a game I’m losing. It feels like her. It feels like home.
Chapter Forty-Five
Scottie
Operation: Shut the Door, Drop the Guard
Jason fumbles blindly for the deadbolt behind me, but my hands get there first. I grab the front of his shirt and drag him down into me like I’ve been holding my breath for eight miserable weeks and finally, finally get to exhale.
Even when we texted.
Even when we called.
Even during the late nights when the talking got dirty, and the words turned into breathy gasps and whispered moans—I still missed him.
Nothing we said, nothing we did while miles apart, ever came close to touching this.
Touching him.
He grunts low in his throat when I crash into him, one hand slamming to the door beside my head, the other catching my hip and yanking me up against him so hard I feel the heat of him punch through every layer of clothing. It slides into my bones, leaves me shaking with it, and something wild snaps loose inside me.
“We have to talk,” I rasp, trying to scrape together a shred of clarity.
“Later.” His voice is rough and final, the word skimming across my skin. “We’ll talk later. Right now, I need your mouth.”
God, he’s right. I need his mouth, his hands, his body . . . and that cock I’ve been salivating over since the second I left.
His tie dangles, half-forgotten, around his neck. I grab it and yank him down, crashing my mouth into his without ceremony. Jason meets me halfway, teeth knocking, breaths tangling, the kiss rough and hot and so hungry it feels less like seduction and more like survival.
His hands slip under my jacket, bunching it awkwardly between us, but neither of us slows down enough to care. I shove it off my shoulders, hear it hit the floor behind me, and attack the buttons of his shirt like they personally insulted me.
He groans into my mouth when I pop the first one, a deep, guttural sound that vibrates through my whole body. I scrape my nails down his chest, feeling the way his muscles jump beneath my touch. His hands aren’t idle either—he drags them down my back, over my ribs, curving around my hips with a rough reverence that makes my knees wobble.
My head bumps the door as he kisses his way down my throat, open-mouthed and greedy. Every scrape of his teeth sends another bolt of heat straight between my legs. I gasp, threading my fingers into his damp curls and tugging just enough to make him growl low in his chest.
He retaliates by sliding one thigh between mine, lifting until I’m grinding against him without even realizing it.
“Fuck,” I pant, half-laughing at how fast I’m falling apart. “We have to?—”
“Later,” Jason mutters against my collarbone, fingers already tugging at the hem of my top. “We’ll talk later. I swear, babe.”
He peels my shirt up and over my head in one quick, rough motion, leaving me in nothing but my bra and jeans. The air hits my skin, and his gaze drops like he’s been starved for this, too. For a second, we just stare at each other, breathing hard, hanging by a thread.
Then he surges forward, mouth crashing back onto mine, hands everywhere, shameless and hungry. His fingers skim under the lace of my bra, thumb brushing over my nipple until I arch into him with a needy, broken sound.
I fumble with the buttons of his shirt, getting enough open to shove it down his arms. He shrugs it off blindly, too focused on dragging his mouth along my neck, finding the spot just below my ear that turns my bones into liquid.
The cool surface of the door barely registers when he presses me back harder, hands roaming, mapping every curve he can reach. I hook a leg around him, grinding down against the hard line of him until we’re both panting.
His hand finds the button of my jeans, popping it open with a roughness that has me gasping again. I shove at the denim, kicking it down my legs as he fumbles with his belt, both frantic and clumsy in our urgency.
His pants hit the floor with a heavy thud, and suddenly, there’s nothing between us but heat, skin, and the frantic slide of want.
