Page 51 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“You trying to punish me?” I step out of the stretch slowly, deliberately, knowing the way my abs flex when I rise. “Or is this your way of getting me to beg?”
Her eyes snap to mine.
And there it is again.
The flicker.
The moment.
The almost.
She shoves the clipboard into my hands. “Next stretch. Adductor series.”
Ah, yes. The spread-your-legs-on-the-floor-and-try-not-to-make-it-sexual stretch.
Cruel woman.
I sit, legs apart, and lean forward, reaching for my toes. My hamstrings curse me—my dick pouts. My pride hangs in the balance.
Scottie crouches in front of me again. She presses against my knee, gently coaxing it down, helping with the stretch.
I hiss—half pain, half fuck-her-hand-is-on-my-inner-thigh-again.
“Relax,” she says.
“Impossible.”
She tilts her head. “Why?”
“Because you smell like sex and citrus, and your hand is way too close to things. I don’t trust myself to keep quiet.”
She doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch.
Instead, her thumb grazes up—just a little.
Just enough.
My hips twitch.
Her gaze snaps up.
We lock eyes.
Neither of us speaks.
Then, because I’m an idiot—or maybe because I can’t not—I say, “You keep touching me like that, and I’m gonna embarrass myself in a very real, very physical way.”
She leans in just enough to drop her voice. “Is that a threat or a promise?”
Holy. Shit.
Scottie Crawford just flirted back.
Really flirted. Not the dismissive barbs she usually throws like dodgeballs. Not the professional shutdowns.
This one had teeth. And tongue.
And I think I stopped breathing.
