Page 68 of Playing for the Hat Trick
He grins like I just handed him the win. “Ah, yes, say my name, baby.”
“You’re the worst,” I mutter, grabbing my wine and taking a very non-sexy gulp. I glance between the plate and him. My eyes narrow. “Did you poison it?”
“Just a dash of arsenic,” he says dryly, lifting his glass. “Enough to keep it spicy.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard, but the laugh still escapes. It’s small, reluctant, and he notices. His eyes soften just enough to make my breath hitch, but only for a second. Then he’s back to being a smug, sexed-up nightmare in a hoodie.
“Fine,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “But only because I skipped lunch.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. Not the awkward kind. The kind that stretches humming under the city lights pouring in from the window. The kind that lets you feel everything—the click of forks on plates, the way his foot brushes mine under the stool and doesn’t move. The knowledge that we’re doing something we can’t undo.
The food is maddeningly good.
I stab another bite of chicken and shove it into my mouth like maybe it’ll absorb the tension. It doesn’t. It just tastes divine—savory, lemony, buttery heaven. Another quiet moan escapes me before I can swallow it.
Jason catches it.
Of course, he does.
His brow lifts. Slow. Satisfied.
“Wow,” he murmurs, sipping his wine. “And I thought I had to touch you to get that sound.”
I freeze mid-chew. “Don’t.”
His grin widens. “Can’t help it. You sound hot when you eat.”
I set my fork down. “Do not turn this into a kink.”
“Baby, I can turn anything into a kink.”
“You’re impossible,” I growl, stabbing my chicken again, harder this time.
He watches. Just watches. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up to mine, and I can feel his restraint for a moment. Barely there. Taut. Dangerous.
Everything suddenly clicks. He wants to pounce.
Wants to rip the fork out of my hand, shove the plate aside, and drag me across this island. Wants to drop to his knees or lift me onto the counter, or maybe both. His jaw flexes. His chest rises just a little faster. And there’s something in his expression now—heat, yes, but also hunger. A glint of something he’s not saying.
He’s waiting for me to drop the act, waiting for me to admit I want it just as bad.
Fuck, do I want it.
He shrugs, wiping his mouth with a napkin. A real cloth napkin. Who is this man?
“I’m just saying,” he adds, “if you sound like that over food, I can’t wait to hear what you sound like when I?—”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
His eyes sparkle with challenge. “What? You gonna punish me?”
“I will staple your mouth shut.”
Jason leans across the island, close enough to fog the surface with his breath, close enough for me to smell the lemon on his skin and the challenge in his voice. His tone drops, smooth and unreasonably calm. “Do it,” he murmurs. “Go ahead and stop. I’ll just make you rip the staples out with your teeth.”
My brain short-circuits.
It fries, sputters, and collapses into a pile of hormonal ash and bad ideas.
