Page 73 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“And you’re soaking my countertop,” I mutter, like a prayer, dragging one finger up her folds—light, teasing, like the idea of contact rather than the real thing. She chokes on a sound, all hips and hunger. My finger circles her clit, barely grazing.
“Don’t be a tease.”
“I am a tease,” I say and press the tip of one finger right against her entrance. “But I’m also very, very good at making you come hard—if you don’t move.”
Then I push in.
Slow.
All the way.
Her gasp rips through the room. Her spine arches, heels digging into my back like I just lit her up from the inside. And then—oh, fuck me—she clenches around my finger like she’s trying to pull me deeper with sheer will.
“Jason, you’re—” she pants, voice cracking as her nails scrape down the edge of the counter. “You can’t just?—”
I curl my finger just right.
She shatters.
Not all the way. Not yet. But her body’s trembling like she’s about to fall apart from the promise of it.
“Still want me to go slow?” I ask, voice rough with need. I kiss her inner thigh—just a graze of lips against skin. “Or do you want the Tate Special extra filthy?”
She glares down at me like she might strangle me or sit on my face. Either option works.
“Both,” she grits out. “You smug bastard.”
I chuckle. “Smart girl.”
Then I devour her.
Tongue flat. Deep, greedy strokes like I’m starving. Because I am. Because she tastes like honey and sin and everything I’ve ever wanted. My finger pumps slowly, deliberately, dragging along every nerve inside her as I suck her clit into my mouth and hum.
Her entire body jerks. A strangled cry bursts from her lips.
“Fuck—Jason—fuck, don’t stop, don’t you fucking dare?—”
I don’t. I couldn’t if I tried.
I lap her up like she’s the only thing that’s ever mattered. I fuck her with my finger, slow and filthy, lips teasing her swollen clit, tongue flicking and dragging until she’s a trembling, gasping mess against my face.
Another finger joins the first.
Her thighs shake. Her moans become guttural. She fists my hair as if she’s both praying and dying at the same time, and holy shit, I want to tattoo this moment on my fucking soul.
She’s close. So, fucking close.
“C’mon, Scottie,” I murmur against her, tongue still working her clit as my fingers thrust harder, deeper. “Fall apart for me. Let me wreck you.”
And when she does—when her body bows, her cry breaks free, and she comes all over my mouth and hand?
It’s fucking everything.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Jason
It Starts in the Kitchen, Ends in Her Soul.
