Page 40 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Sure. Effective for something.
Her ponytail swings forward, brushing my arm, and I get a whiff of her shampoo—something citrusy and sinful—and I wonder if she’d let me pull that clip out with my teeth.
God, I want to see what she looks like when she lets go.
When she moans.
When she forgets the clipboard and control and just feels me.
I could have her on this mat. Right now. Pull those leggings down, shove them past her knees, bury my face between her thighs, and make her forget her fucking name.
Would she stay quiet? Or would she gasp?
Would she say my name like it means something again?
“Jason.” Her voice brings me back, but also . . . fuck, it’s just the way I want to hear her say my name when . . .shut up, Jason.
“What am I doing now?” I try to sound innocent and not like the horndog who wants to change the dynamic and pin her against the floor while I . . . and there I go again.
“You’re holding tension in your hip flexor. Relax, or you’ll compensate, and we’ll be back to square one.”
Right. Therapy. This is therapy, not some very X-rated movie where she’s the main character, and I just get to enjoy watching her . . .for the last time, focus, Tate.
I refocus and force my quad to fire. My leg lifts—barely—but it lifts.
Her hand stays close. Not touching. Just . . . hovering.
My cock twitches.
Do not make eye contact with your crotch.
Do not.
This is fine.
“See?” she says, cool and casual, like she doesn’t have front-row seats to the most embarrassing hard-on of my adult life. “You’ve still got control.”
Barely, I’m losing my shit.
I lower my leg, then glance at her. “If I fail this exercise, do I still get a gold star?”
“Nope,” she says, standing smoothly and offering me her hand.
I take it. Her grip is firm. Strong. It sends another jolt straight through me.
She pulls me to sitting.
I’m still hard.
Still fucking aching.
Still imagining what her mouth would feel like on mine—what she’d do if I pushed her back against the mirror, hiked one leg up, and told her to keep her eyes on me while I ruined her composure.
“Session’s over,” she says, grabbing the tablet again, voice tight.
Her ears are pink.
Interesting.
