Page 79 of Playing for the Hat Trick
I do not got this.
“Let me take care of the condom, and I’ll be right back to help you get in the shower.”
Before I can protest, he’s already off the bed like a normally functioning human, while I attempt to avoid re-enacting the scene from The Exorcist, just trying to swing my legs off the edge. He disappears into the bathroom, and I take a moment to evaluate my life.
“You don’t have to do that. I can walk.”
When he returns, he gives me one look and shakes his head.
“I didn’t ask.” He strides over and scoops me up without a single grunt of effort. As if I’m not human but a very needy, very sweaty throw pillow.
“Jason.” I squeak. Squeak.
Kill me now . . . what the fuck am I doing with my life? What’s next? Go all giddy because he says a bad joke?
“Jason—put me down,” I insist.
“Nope. You’re officially in post-fuck-jelly mode. In terms you understand, you pulled a full hamstring on that last grind.”
“Did not.”
“Babe,” he says, pushing open the bathroom door with his shoulder, “I saw your eyes roll back before you screamed and then went boneless. I thought I broke you.”
He kicks open the bathroom door like some kind of bedroom-action firefighter, setting me down with exaggerated care. His hands are big, warm, and slow as they slide down my back, guiding me to the tile like he’s placing a crown jewel in its velvet box.
My knees dip.
His arms catch me. Again.
The worst part is that I hate how much I love it.
“Mmmhmm,” he hums smugly. “That’s what I thought.”
“You’re dead to me.”
“Somehow, I think I just made it to the top favorite people . . .” He grins. “And for that, I might give you another well-deserved orgasm.”
My stomach flips. The good kind. The reckless kind. The kind that makes you flirt with terrible decisions and morning-after regrets that barely register as regrets.
“Fuck off,” I mutter, but my voice comes out more breathless—needy—than bitchy. Not a great argument to persuade that whatever happened in his bed meant nothing.
Nothing.
Zero.
I’m perfectly fine.
Look at me post-coitus, feeling like I’m the owner of my orgasm, not him. Jason fucking Tate has nothing to do with my afterglow. Nope.
He turns on the water, checks the temperature like it’s a science experiment, and then gestures for me to get in first. I step under the spray, too sore and floaty to argue. The water hits my skin—hot, perfect—and I sigh so hard it’s practically a moan.
Jason steps in behind me, and I expect him to crowd me. Pin me against the wall, maybe go for round two while I’m still jelly-legged.
Instead . . .
He grabs the shampoo.
“What are you?—”
