Page 46 of Playing for the Hat Trick
(“Warning: May Cause Excessive Moaning, Permanent Fantasy Corruption, and Regret.”)
It’s been a long, high-anxiety-induced day. Yes, that’s what I’m calling this feral, pulsing urge to come, to release all the pent-up energy trapped inside me.
Anxiety.
That sounds better than saying:I’m so fucking horny I might combust.
You know what’s worse?
I’m thinking about him. Thinking about his mouth, his hands . . . that hard cock I could feel that makes my mouth water.
What is wrong with me?
I shouldn’t be thinking about Jason Tate. He’s a client—my brother’s friend. A walking complication I don’t need clogging up my already oversaturated brain.
And yet . . . here I am.
Lying on my bed, lights off, AC humming, legs twisted in the sheets like I’m trying to strangle the horniness out of myself and join a monastery. Also, wondering what it would feel like to kiss him. Really kiss him. Press my mouth to his and suck on his tongue like I’ve got something to prove.
Ugh. Fucking Jason Tate.
He’s not something I should be fantasizing about at all. The man is a walking bad decision wrapped in muscle and mouth. A mouth that looks like it’s been carved for sin. And that tongue?
God, I want it on me. Inside me. Between my legs, teasing slow, dragging along every inch until I forget my damn name. I want him licking up my thighs like I’m his last fucking meal. I want him groaning while I ride his face, hands gripping me like I belong to him.
I squeeze my eyes shut and try to breathe past the ache that started around nine in the morning—right after he walked into the clinic with that cocky grin and made mobility aids look like part of a fucking sex fantasy.
Grin. Brace. Swagger.
The whole package, and I wasn’t immune. Nope, I wanted him all.
How?
How is that fair?
And his hands—shit. Big, rough, probably perfect for shoving me up against a wall, holding my hips still while he fucks me slow and deep and just a little mean. I bet they’d feel incredible on my skin, spreading me open, fingers stroking, circling my clit, sliding inside me, fucking me . . . making me beg.
And then his mouth, that goddamn tongue again.
Yep. We’ve officially crossed into melt-me-down-and-turn-my-brain-to-mush territory.
As much as I’ve been fighting it, I can’t anymore. My hand slides beneath the waistband of my pajama shorts. Just a touch. A graze, and that’s when I realize that I’m not just a teeny-tiny-bit wet. Nope, I’m embarrassingly wet. My fingers glide through it like they’ve been waiting all damn day to be useful.
I let out a soft sound, something between a sigh and a curse. It’s not enough.
I push the shorts down, kick them to the floor, and reach blindly for my vibrator. It’s already there—in the second drawer on the right side. I don’t even have to look. I know the shape, the size, the way it fits perfectly in my hand—the perfect trifecta. I rub it in my juices since I don’t have time for lube. I need this now—all the pleasure.
The toy hums to life, low and steady, and I exhale like I just cracked open the first drink after a twelve-hour shift.
I press the tip between my thighs and moan, biting down on my lip to keep it quiet. The buzz against my clit sends a shock through my whole body.
In my head?
It’s Jason.
Not the toy.
It’s his mouth. That tongue. That wicked smirk right before he licks me long and slow and then sucks like he’s trying to keep me there forever.
