Page 52 of Playing for the Hat Trick
“You really wanna know?” I ask, low and level.
Her lashes flutter. “Try me.”
I exhale, slow and uneven. “I’d press you against that wall right now if you let me. Wrap your legs around me and make you forget this is a PT session. I’d kiss you until that attitude melts off your mouth, and you beg me to ruin you.”
Her breath catches, and her pupils blow wide. She opens her mouth . . . then someone knocks on the door.
We both jolt like teenagers caught dry-humping on a church pew.
Scottie straightens, practically bolts to the tablet, clicks the screen like it did something wrong.
“Come in,” she chirps, too bright.
A tech peeks in. “Hey, just grabbing the GSR monitor for Room C.”
Scottie waves him toward the shelf. I drop back onto the mat, trying not to look like I’m two seconds from spontaneous combustion.
The tech grabs the device and leaves.
The door clicks shut.
Silence.
Then she turns around—composed again. Mask back on. Like she didn’t just flirt with me like we’re two seconds from fucking on the floor.
“Let’s wrap for today,” she says, clipped.
I push up slowly, brace squeaking in protest. “You gonna pretend that didn’t happen?”
“I’m going to pretend this was a productive session.”
“So we’re lying now.”
She gives me a look that could cut glass. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I limp to my bag, every step a reminder that I’m hard and ruined and starving for someone who refuses to let go of the line she drew between us.
But here’s the thing about lines: they’re meant to be crossed, and I’m not done testing how far she’ll let me go.
Chapter Seventeen
Scottie
The Definitely Came in the Shower Maneuver
Listen, I didn’t run out of the therapy room, but . . . speed walking?
Yeah, that was absolutely part of my exit strategy.
I should probably head home and call in sick for the next few days until . . . what the fuck was that?
The flirting. The tension. Sure, let’s kiss, and while we’re at it, why don’t we just go ahead and fuck, right here, between a set of lateral steps and glute bridges?
Apparently, my professional boundaries evaporated the moment Jason Tate looked at me like I was the answer to every prayer his cock ever whispered.
Once I reach my office, I slam the door shut and lean back against it, heart pounding, mouth dry, panties soaked.
This man is not normal.
