Page 69 of Playing for the Hat Trick
Because who says that?
Who says that and looks at you like he’s already imagining it—like he’s already got the angle worked out, the pace, the soundof your mouth wrapped around a fantasy he has every intention of making real?
I set my fork down. It lands with a soft clink that sounds far too civilized for what’s happening in my head.
Then I push the plate away like that’s going to save me. Like calories were the problem.
“I changed my mind,” I say, voice barely steady.
Jason’s brows lift, that maddening smirk flickering behind his eyes. “Because I cooked?”
“Because you’re being nice,” I snap. “This feels like a trap. Like a date wrapped in a fuck agreement. Like I’m being lured in with citrus and protein before you seduce me and ruin my life.”
His lips twitch.
He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t rush. He just rounds the island with the kind of slow, deliberate grace that should be illegal in sweatpants. He stops right in front of me—close but not touching. Not even brushing. Just there. Still. Unapologetic. The air between us buzzes.
There’s too much of him in the room. He’s not even touching me, and I feel invaded. My pulse jumps, thuds under my skin, and I hate that he knows it.
“I’m not trying to trick you,” he says quietly, voice pitched low, low enough to make my thighs tense. “I’m just feeding you. There’s nothing intimate about it, Scottie. Eat so I can eat your pussy right after.”
My breath catches.
No, gasps.
It’s not a shock—he’s already said worse. It’s the way he says it. Like it’s a favor. Like it’s a promise. Like this is step one in a plan he’s been curating since the first day he limped into my clinic and told me I had murder in my eyes.
I stare up at him, heart pounding like it’s trying to escape this body before I ruin it with one decision.
Jason doesn’t break eye contact. Doesn’t blink. His hands stay at his sides, fingers flexing like he’s giving me space to decide.
He’s waiting.
For me to bolt.
For me to say no.
Or maybe—for me to climb him like a jungle gym and ruin the rest of our clothes.
My thighs press together.
Not because I’m nervous.
Because I’m wet. So wet and achy, I need him to fix it, to fuck me.
I’m dangerously wet.
Slippery-under-silk wet.
One-touch-and-I’ll-fall-apart wet.
I lick my lips.
He tracks the motion like it’s foreplay.
“I shouldn’t want this,” I whisper.
“I know.”
