Page 47 of Playing for the Hat Trick
My free hand cups my breast, pinching the nipple hard enough to make me gasp. My hips twitch up. I press harder with the vibrator, panting now, breath-catching.
And then I slide it lower.
Just a little at first. Teasing the back entrance, too. It’s too intense, but I focus on him, his fingers stretching me, opening me up. The toy slides inside easily—wet and warm and pulsing.
I imagine how he’d react if he saw me doing this, watching my legs spread, fucking myself while he palms his cock.
“Yeah, baby. Push it deeper,” he’d say.
I do.
I add more pressure to my clit, the dual stimulation making my legs shake. I’m close. So fucking close. But it’s not enough.
I twist the vibrator in deeper, angling just right—and reach behind with my other hand. One finger, slow, careful. A forbidden touch I don’t let myself chase often, but tonight?
Tonight, I need it.
I push past the first resistance, moaning as the stretch burns and then settles into something wicked and good. Full. Everywhere.
I imagine Jason pinning me down. Thumb on my clit. Mouth on my tit. His cock inside me, thick and hard and filling me while one finger slides behind, teasing, pressing, driving me insane.
“You’re so greedy for it, aren’t you?” he’d murmur into my skin. “You want to feel me in every place, don’t you?”
Yes. God, yes.
I rock my hips, grinding against the vibrator. My body coils tight. Breath snagging. Nerves snapping.
And then it hits.
The orgasm rips through me in a pulse that leaves me gasping, clenching, riding it out like a girl possessed. I bite into the inside of my wrist to keep from crying out loud enough to get noise complaints.
I pant into the dark, chest rising and falling like I just ran a damn mile, spent, dazed, still twitching.
Jason fucking Tate.
I hate him for not being here, for not doing what I need right now.
I hate him more for making me want him in ways I shouldn’t, but maybe after tonight, I won’t think about him again.
Chapter Sixteen
Jason
The Accidental (Totally on Purpose) Inner Touch
The room is too warm.
Not just temperature warm—nerve-ending warm. The buzz-under-your-skin kind that makes your whole body hyperaware before anyone’s even laid a finger on you. And for someone like me—with barely suppressed lust and a very active imagination—it’s fucking cruel.
Oh, fuck me. She’s wearing leggings again.
We should have a professional discussion about her attire. Fewer leggings. More shorts. Or, hell, just commit to nothing. Nothing works. Nothing is efficient. Nothing gives me zero distractions.
Jesus, Tate. Get it together.
I’m mentally yelling at myself like that’s going to work. Like that has ever worked.
You promised to keep it professional, remember? Right after the shower where you jerked off so hard that the tiles might file for custody of your unborn children. That was supposed to be the last time. The final finale. Post-nut clarity and everything.
