Page 89 of Playing for the Hat Trick
And that’s when it hits me.
I’ve got a new dream now.
One I never saw coming.
Her.
Ella Crawford, in my bed, under my skin, in my fucking bloodstream.
And I have no idea how the hell I’m supposed to keep her—how to make this real without scaring her off or screwing it up or watching her slip through my fingers like everything else I’ve ever wanted too much.
But for right now, she’s here.
Soft skin. Wrecked lips. Legs tangled with mine.
And I kiss her one more time, just to prove I can.
Just to keep her in this moment.
Even if I still don’t know how to make her stay with me forever. I have to pull off a miracle here. I just don’t know how.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Scottie
Don’t Confuse Bacon with Love
There’s absolutely no reason I should still be here.
I should’ve left three orgasms ago. That was the plan. A sensible, emotionally distant adult plan.
Instead, I’m in Jason Tate’s bed, wrapped in sheets that smell like him, and thinking about whether there are enoughcondoms in that magical drawer of his for one more round before I have to leave.
The water shuts off in the bathroom, followed by the soft thud of a cabinet. I hear him humming—off-key—and then his voice, a little too casual and way too tempting.
“Babe, you want to shower? I can wash you—and dirty you again.”
The answer should be no. There should be no more dirtying. We passed the legal limit on filth somewhere between his mouth on my thighs, and the moment he made me forget my name. I should be halfway out the door, fumbling for my bra, not lying here wet in places that should be recovering.
The bathroom door opens with a soft creak, and then he walks in, towel slung low on his hips, body still dripping. His hair is wet, curling slightly at the ends, and a single drop of water rolls down the line of his chest, tracking over abs that should come with a warning label. My entire mouth goes dry while the rest of me does the exact opposite.
It’s not just that he’s hot. That would be manageable. It’s the way he moves—completely at ease, completely aware of what he does to me. He’s not showing off, but he might as well be on a runway. The towel barely clings to his hips, and I find myself watching it like it’s about to reveal a spoiler I’m desperate to see again.
He catches my stare and grins. Not just any grin. No, this one’s slow, smug, and so fucking confident it should also come with a warning label. The one smile that usually makes me want to throw something at him—or throw myself at him, depending on the day.
Right now?
Right now, it’s lethal.
The bastard could get someone pregnant just by standing too close.
My thighs squeeze together under the covers on pure instinct, as if that’s going to do a damn thing to help the situation brewing between them. Spoiler alert: it does not.
He shifts toward the bed, slow and lazy, like he’s got all the time in the world to ruin me.
“I’d ask what you’re thinking . . .” His voice is a low scrape, full of amusement as he drifts closer, fingers absently rubbing a drop of water off his abs like he’s completely unaware he’s committing premeditated murder.
(He’s very fucking aware.)
