Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Scottie
The Eat, Pray, Fuck Agreement
The second I knock on his door, I regret everything.
Every. Damn. Fucking. Thing.
Because this isn’t just a knock. It’s not some hey-let’s-bang tap-tap. It’s a war drum. I’m in front of Jason fucking Tate’s door. And I’m the idiot who sexted herself into a binding oral contract. Pun intended.
When the door swings open, he automatically leans against the frame like he’s been rehearsing the pose.
Hoodie sleeves shoved up to the elbows. Gray sweatpants hanging low enough that I’m actively avoiding looking down.
Barefoot. Which shouldn’t be sexy, but somehow it is, because of course it is.
His hair’s damp like he just got out of the shower, and his smirk is primed for damage.
“I was beginning to wonder if you were going to ditch me,” he says, tone casual, cocky, criminal. “But deep down, I knew you’d want to come.”
I blink once. Twice. Refuse to react to the double entendre, even though it lands in my pelvis like a sucker punch.
“Don’t say that,” I mutter, pushing past him into the apartment before I combust on his welcome mat. “Too soon—or are you just used to coming prematurely?”
He snorts. “Wow. I’m already having an effect on you, and I haven’t even touched you yet.”
“And let’s keep it that way until I’ve had some actual hydration.” I toss my jacket over the back of a chair that definitely costs more than my monthly rent.
His place is exactly what I should’ve expected—clean, expensive, masculine. All cool colors, high ceilings, and architectural lighting. But then there’s a scent—a soft, warm, completely unexpected aroma floating in the air.
Garlic. Butter. Lemon.
No. Nope. Absolutely not.
I turn on my heel. “Did you cook?”
Jason shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You said we start tonight. I figured we’d need energy.”
I cross my arms. “It’s just sex. Meals should not be included.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just walks toward the kitchen with his easy, self-assured stride. “Relax, Crawford. It’s chicken piccata. Not a marriage proposal.” He waves me forward like this is normal. “Sit. Eat. Get your protein. You’re gonna need it.”
My brain short-circuits. I drag both hands down my face because, goddammit, it smells really good in here, and now my stomach is confused, and so is my vagina.
“You realize this makes it feel . . . intimate, right?” I say, already edging toward the kitchen despite my objections. “This is not a date.”
He doesn’t even look at me when he answers. “Only if you let it.”
I narrow my eyes. “I’m not here to date you.”
I briefly consider walking right back out that door and never speaking to him again.
Instead, I sit.
Very intentionally. Like a sane person. Like someone not imagining climbing onto the kitchen island, dragging him by the hoodie, and kissing him until one of us passes out from lack of oxygen.
The bar stool is tall, cool under my legs, and completely ineffective at stopping the heat, which is still crawling up the back of my neck.
I focus on the granite countertop. It’s flawless.
Glossy. Black veined with gold, which feels metaphorical somehow.
Like this entire night—polished and expensive and asking for trouble.
Jason pulls two glasses from the cabinet and pours wine with casual precision as if this is a Tuesday and not the prelude to something that might ruin me.
He slides a glass across the island, and I grab it like it’s armor.
Like a sip of wine will be enough to distract me from the way his sweatpants hug his hips. It’s not.
I pick up a fork, twirl it once like I’m brandishing a weapon, and point it at him. “You’re infuriating.”
He turns, holding two plates, looking far too pleased with himself. “I’m effective.”
“And cocky.”
“Only when I’ve got the follow-through to back it up.” He sets my plate down gently, then steps back just enough to give me air—but not distance. His eyes drag across the neckline of my sweater, slow and deliberate, like he’s reading something etched there.
I take a bite before I say something stupid.
The second the food hits my tongue, I regret that too.
Because it’s good. Like, stupidly good. The kind of good that makes you sigh without meaning to.
The kind that makes your toes curl inside your boots because buttery lemon sauce shouldn’t be allowed to taste like foreplay.
It melts in my mouth—tender chicken, soft garlic, that citrus zing that tastes like he knew exactly what I needed before I did.
I moan quietly.
Barely audible.
But Jason fucking hears it.
He leans on the counter across from me, arms folded, that look in his eyes sharp enough to make my spine straighten. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches me chew like he’s picturing my mouth doing something far less innocent.
“You made this?” I ask like that’ll cut the tension.
He nods, eyes glittering. “Would’ve made dessert, but I figured you’d rather skip to the part where I fuck you senseless.”
I choke on a caper. Cough. Swallow too hard. His expression doesn’t change—except for the slow, smug curl of his mouth.
“Shit, Tate.”
He grins like I just handed him the win. “Ah, yes, say my name, baby.”
“You’re the worst,” I mutter, grabbing my wine and taking a very non-sexy gulp. I glance between the plate and him. My eyes narrow. “Did you poison it?”
“Just a dash of arsenic,” he says dryly, lifting his glass. “Enough to keep it spicy.”
I bite the inside of my cheek hard, but the laugh still escapes. It’s small, reluctant, and he notices. His eyes soften just enough to make my breath hitch, but only for a second. Then he’s back to being a smug, sexed-up nightmare in a hoodie.
“Fine,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “But only because I skipped lunch.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. Not the awkward kind.
The kind that stretches humming under the city lights pouring in from the window.
The kind that lets you feel everything—the click of forks on plates, the way his foot brushes mine under the stool and doesn’t move.
The knowledge that we’re doing something we can’t undo.
The food is maddeningly good.
I stab another bite of chicken and shove it into my mouth like maybe it’ll absorb the tension. It doesn’t. It just tastes divine—savory, lemony, buttery heaven. Another quiet moan escapes me before I can swallow it.
Jason catches it.
Of course, he does.
His brow lifts. Slow. Satisfied.
“Wow,” he murmurs, sipping his wine. “And I thought I had to touch you to get that sound.”
I freeze mid-chew. “Don’t.”
His grin widens. “Can’t help it. You sound hot when you eat.”
I set my fork down. “Do not turn this into a kink.”
“Baby, I can turn anything into a kink.”
“You’re impossible,” I growl, stabbing my chicken again, harder this time.
He watches. Just watches. His eyes drop to my mouth, then back up to mine, and I can feel his restraint for a moment. Barely there. Taut. Dangerous.
Everything suddenly clicks. He wants to pounce.
Wants to rip the fork out of my hand, shove the plate aside, and drag me across this island.
Wants to drop to his knees or lift me onto the counter, or maybe both.
His jaw flexes. His chest rises just a little faster.
And there’s something in his expression now—heat, yes, but also hunger. A glint of something he’s not saying.
He’s waiting for me to drop the act, waiting for me to admit I want it just as bad.
Fuck, do I want it.
He shrugs, wiping his mouth with a napkin. A real cloth napkin. Who is this man?
“I’m just saying,” he adds, “if you sound like that over food, I can’t wait to hear what you sound like when I?—”
“Do not finish that sentence.”
His eyes sparkle with challenge. “What? You gonna punish me?”
“I will staple your mouth shut.”
Jason leans across the island, close enough to fog the surface with his breath, close enough for me to smell the lemon on his skin and the challenge in his voice.
His tone drops, smooth and unreasonably calm.
“Do it,” he murmurs. “Go ahead and stop. I’ll just make you rip the staples out with your teeth. ”
My brain short-circuits.
It fries, sputters, and collapses into a pile of hormonal ash and bad ideas.
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 sound of 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.”
“It’s reckless.”
“Good thing I’ve been injured before. I can take a hit.”
“This doesn’t fix anything.”
He leans in just an inch. “No. I’ll make you forget what’s broken, Scottie. Just come undone for me.”
I break first.
Because of course I do.
Because he’s standing there with patience on his face and sin in his eyes, I’ve never been good at resisting anything wrapped in the shape of a bad idea I desperately want to touch.
I stand up slowly, bracing myself on the counter.
His breath catches. Only slightly. Just enough for me to know I’m not the only one unraveling.
Then I step into him.
Close enough to press my chest to his.
Close enough to feel the heat radiating off his skin and the hard ridge already forming beneath the thin cotton of his sweatpants.
“Don’t you dare go gentle,” I murmur, fingers curling in the hem of his hoodie.
Jason’s grin is slow. Filthy. Honest.
“Baby,” he says, already lifting me onto the counter, “I wouldn’t know how.”