Page 54 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Officially.
I slide into a fresh pair of leggings, a sports bra, and a T-shirt. My hair’s twisted into a clip, face dewy, post-orgasm glow completely impossible to hide. I should try some makeup, but I didn’t bring any, not even face moisturizer.
It’s okay, Scottie. It’s going to be fine. Just take a deep breath.
I open the door to my office, and I find Reese sitting in my chair with a manila folder, legs crossed, eyes narrowed, lips curled into a smirk like she knows exactly what just happened. She doesn’t . . . probably.
“Huh. You took a shower after a session.” Her smile grows. “Girl, you worked him hard. I knew you’d straddle him and show him who’s the fucking boss in this building.”
“Not helping,” I mumble.
Because what I don’t need right now is a commentary about my sex-voiced, glute-groaning patient who spent the last forty-five minutes flirting like it was foreplay and I was his main event. Neither the image of me straddling cowboy girl while . . . and there I go, diverting my thoughts to where I shouldn’t.
I do not need Reese implying that Jason Tate and I were eye-fucking each other during an official, medically-documented session. That I didn’t just emotionally combust on the mat beside a six-foot-two sex complication in recovery.
She glances up, eyes raking over me. “You look like you fought a war and lost.”
I collapse into my chair, limbs loose, still shaky from the stress relief portion of my shower. Both hands cover my face. “I need a lobotomy.”
Her brows lift. “Was it Jason?”
I peek between my fingers. “Reese.”
“Oh my God,” she gasps, slamming her laptop shut like this is a code red. “It was him. Tell me everything.”
“I prefer not to discuss my private sessions with clients.” I try for professional. I really do. But my voice cracks halfway through.
“Sure. I’ll document that nothing happened,” she deadpans, then rises to close my door like we’re about to enter a war room. “But now you have to tell me. What happened?”
“Nothing . . . kind of, yeah, nothing at all.”
I drop my hands with a sigh that’s supposed to summon maturity.
Spoiler: it does not.
“Oh, but I have the feeling that a lot happened,” Reese insists.
“He was all . . . smolder-y and sweaty. Making these sounds during glute bridges like we were filming a rehab-themed porno. Mature audiences only, of course.”
Reese grins. “Was it like—good production value? Or low-budget student film energy?”
“I wanted to punch him and lick him at the same time.”
Her brows jump. “Well, that escalated quickly.”
“You don’t get it.” I slump forward, forehead nearly hitting the desk. “He was Jason-ing at full volume.”
She blinks. “Jason-ing?”
“Grumpy. Flirty. Brooding with the precision of a man who’s probably ruined someone with just his mouth. Maybe a little combustive. Or destructive? I don’t know. He looked like sex on a stick and sounded like one, too.”
Reese pretends to take notes. “So . . . all of the above.”
“Plus bonus cocky mouth,” I say, gesturing wildly like that explains anything. “And then he flirted. Like, actually flirted. Not just teasing. Not push-pull banter. It was like?—”
“Foreplay with words?”
“Verbal edging,” I whisper, defeated. “And I almost let him. I wanted to let him. Which is a terrible idea because Jason Tate is a no-go. I’ve known this forever.”
