Page 77 of Playing for the Hat Trick
She blinks down at me. Breathless. Flushed.
“What?”
“You heard me.” My voice dips, gravel and heat. “Put on a show, sweetheart. You’re already riding me like a fucking dream. Finish the picture.”
She moans, slow and drawn-out, like the idea alone almost tips her over.
Then she obeys.
Hands slide up her body, fingers cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing her nipples until she gasps and arches. I thrust up once, hard, and she cries out, legs shaking.
“Fuck, that’s it,” I groan, eyes locked on her. “Look at you. You’re perfect like this. My dirty little fantasy.”
I reach between us, fingers slipping where we’re joined—slick and hot and soaked from how badly she wants it.
And, fuck, she’s so wet I almost come on contact.
I find her clit and circle it.
Soft.
Then faster.
She shudders, her entire body trembling above me.
“Jason—” Her voice is a broken prayer now. “I can’t—oh my God, I’m?—”
“Come for me,” I growl, barely holding on. “Fuck, baby, come with me.”
She grinds harder, panting, body coiled so tight I can feel it. I rub tight, fast circles over her clit while she pinches her nipples, bouncing on my cock like she’s seconds from breaking?—
Then she shatters.
She screams my name as her body clamps down around me, spasming in waves so intense I see stars. Her nails dig into my chest. Her thighs quake. Her walls milk my cock like she’s trying to drag every last ounce of come out of me.
I fucking lose it.
I thrust up, once, twice—then I’m spilling inside her, hips jerking, growling her name like she’s oxygen and I’ve been drowning. The orgasm rips through me like a freight train, hot and violent and never-ending.
We lie there, sticky and tangled and completely fucking wrecked. Her skin’s still flushed, her breathing slow and uneven against my chest. My hand stays between her legs, fingers lazily tracing her slick folds—not for her this time, but for me. Because I’m not ready to let her go. Not even a little.
She smacks my chest—half-assed, adorable.
“Sadist.”
I grin, press a kiss to her temple. “Somehow, I think you love it.”
She hums. “I might.”
And that’s the moment it hits me.
Not like a sweet, romantic breeze or whatever bullshit poets write about. Nope. It punches me straight in the chest.
I’m fucked.
Not in the ‘wow, that orgasm changed my brain chemistry’ way—though, fair. It did. But in the ‘I’m in deeper than I planned and might not get out’ kind of way.
Because I don’t just want her again—I need her. Not just the sex, though fuck me, the sex is . . . next level.
