Page 62 of Playing for the Hat Trick
I drag a hand over my face, the heel of my palm catching on damp skin. My forehead’s sweating, pulse thudding just beneath the surface, like I’ve been benched during overtime. My body doesn’t know whether to get off or pass out. And my cock? Still hard. Still pressed against the front of my shorts like it missed the memo that this wasn’t supposed to happen yet.
I drop onto the couch, spine slamming into expensive cool leather that doesn’t make a damn difference. My head tips back, my breath rough, everything inside me running too hot to think. The ice pack I tossed earlier is still on the cushion beside me. I grab it and slap it across my knee like that will solve anything. It doesn’t. Nothing’s cooling down, least of all the part of me still throbbing with every mental image of her on her knees.
Her voice lives in my head now. Low. Controlled. Fucking lethal. “Imagine me kneeling between your legs right now . . . just dragging my mouth over your cock, slow and mean.”
I groan, hand dropping to my thigh. I don’t even touch myself. I don’t have to. The memory alone is a handjob to my brain, and my body’s responding like we’re skipping the prelude and going straight to the part where I bury myself in her and forget how words work.
My cock pulses beneath my shorts. My palm twitches. I don’t move.
I don’t trust myself to.
Because jerking off again won’t help. Not when she’s already in my bloodstream. Not when she’s the high and the withdrawal all at once.
I said yes.
I agreed to casual. No feelings. No strings. Just sex.
On paper, it sounds perfect. We both need the release. We’re probably due for some kind of wellness check. She framed it like science. Like recovery. Like an orgasm a day might keep the rehab setbacks away. And I bought it. Hook, line, and cock-first.
But the second I sat still, the second the high wore off, I realized the truth.
This isn’t about just wanting sex.
It’s about wanting her.
Scottie is not casual. She’s not temporary. She’s not someone I can fuck on a Thursday and forget by Saturday. I’ve known that since prom.
Since the Olympics. Since she handed me a Gatorade and called me a dick, and I knew right then I’d let her destroy me with nothing more than a raised brow and a well-aimed insult.
Now I have permission to touch her again?
To taste her?
To slide inside her and hear the sounds she makes when she falls apart?
I’m going to ruin this.
Because I’m not wired to be casual with Scottie. Not when she’s the only woman who’s ever looked at me and seen the man underneath all the bruises and bravado. She’s smart, cutting, stubborn, and completely fucking irresistible. I respect her. I want her. I trust her in ways I haven’t trusted anyone. And now, I’ve said yes to a situation where I get her body—but not her heart.
I rise again, restless, and walk to the window. The city stretches in front of me, glittering, taunting, indifferent. I lean my forearm against the glass and press my forehead there, hoping the cold will do something the ice pack couldn’t.
It doesn’t.
Because this isn’t just heat.
This is her.
And I want all of her.
Which means I’m fucked.
Utterly, completely, spectacularly fucked.
I know this view.
I’ve stood here after wins. After losses. After nights when my body was broken, and my ego was worse.
But tonight?
