Page 71 of Playing for the Hat Trick
She tastes like tangy sauce and recklessness—like poor decisions I want to make over and over again.
I kiss her like I’m starving, and she’s the last damn bite.
Her back hits the wall with a soft thud—because, yeah, apparently, I’m a caveman now. I brace one arm next to her head, the other sliding down to grip her hip, anchoring her to me as our mouths move together like we’ve done this a hundred times in dreams we were too afraid to talk about.
She moans. Low. Deep.
It punches through my gut like a low blow in the best way.
Her legs brush mine, and suddenly, I’m acutely aware of every inch of her—every soft curve and sharp inhale. And when her teeth catch my bottom lip, playful and daring?
I growl.
Actuallygrowl.
Fuck.
I stop. Just for a breath. Just long enough to debate if I should throw her over my shoulder and carry her to my bed like a man with no self-control and zero shame.
Instead, I lift her—hands gripping her thighs as I hoist her up and set her on the counter.
She gasps, her back arching instinctively, legs parting as I step closer.
Then she opens her eyes—wide, dazed, pupils blown. Her lips are kiss-swollen, her cheeks flushed. I don’t want to move. Not when she looks like that.
I want her right here.
Backlit by the glow of the stove, legs trembling, hair tousled.
We stare at each other like we just finished a race, even though we’ve barely started.
I press a hand to her chest, right over her heart. It’s pounding beneath my palm. Rapid and uneven. Matching mine.
“Don’t move,” I rasp, voice low, ragged from want. “Not yet.”
She blinks once, breath shuddering as I step between her legs and palm her thighs, still bare from earlier. Her skin is warm, damp from arousal and the heat of my mouth. I slide my hands upward slowly, from knee to mid-thigh, my thumbs tracing the crease where her leg meets her hip.
That’s when I see them.
Silky black panties.
Barely there. Just a whisper of fabric stretched over her, soft and clinging, like they were designed to frustrate me.
“Fuck, Scottie.” My voice cracks over her name.
Her lashes flutter, lips parting. “What?”
“These.” I run my knuckles up the inside of her thigh, brushing the edge of the lace. “You wore these knowing I’d be the one to take them off.”
She doesn’t answer.
She doesn’t need to.
But I do. I need every sound, every sigh, every breathy curse she’s ever saved just for me. I need to prove to her this isn’t just about sex—even if I have to fuck her senseless to say it.
Her hips shift, needy and unconscious, like her body’s already chasing the high she hasn’t had yet.
I grip the sides of her panties, my fingers hooking under the thin waistband, and slowly drag them down. Not rushed. Not frantic. Just pure, deliberate torture. I keep eye contact as I kneel in front of her again, watching the fabric slide over her thighs, past her knees, catching slightly at her calves before I ease them off her ankles.
