Chapter 25
Chapter Twenty-Five
Scottie
When You Officially Reach the Post-Fuck-Jelly Mode
My legs and arms are made out of rubber. They don’t work.
Like, at all.
My thighs are trembling like I just ran suicides in cleats and a weighted vest. My core’s wrecked.
My knees wobble, and I’m not even standing.
I’m sweaty, used, glowing, and Jason . .
. Jason leans on one elbow, watching me with this cocky, satisfied smirk like he just solved world peace by rearranging my insides.
“You okay?”
I clear my throat. “Peachy.”
Totally a lie. I’m approximately one breath away from dissolving into a puddle. I flash him a thumbs-up like I’m in a toothpaste commercial and not currently post-orgasmic roadkill.
Jason cocks an eyebrow. “You sure about that? ‘Cause you look like a baby deer trying to remember how limbs work.”
I glare. “Don’t you dare compare me to Bambi.”
But I’m gripping the sheets, and the mattress is like everything around me: quicksand or, better yet, as if I’ve forgotten how gravity works. My body’s pulsing from the inside out, and my brain’s doing that thing where it short-circuits every time I remember the sounds I made.
He cackles. Full-body, abs-flexing laugh that makes me want to punch him and kiss him at the same time. “You want help getting up?”
“No, I’m fine,” I mutter, trying to find the dignity I left somewhere around orgasm number three. “I’ve got this.”
I do not got this.
“Let me take care of the condom, and I’ll be right back to help you get in the shower.”
Before I can protest, he’s already off the bed like a normally functioning human, while I attempt to avoid re-enacting the scene from The Exorcist, just trying to swing my legs off the edge. He disappears into the bathroom, and I take a moment to evaluate my life.
“You don’t have to do that. I can walk.”
When he returns, he gives me one look and shakes his head.
“I didn’t ask.” He strides over and scoops me up without a single grunt of effort. As if I’m not human but a very needy, very sweaty throw pillow.
“Jason.” I squeak. Squeak.
Kill me now . . . what the fuck am I doing with my life? What’s next? Go all giddy because he says a bad joke?
“Jason—put me down,” I insist.
“Nope. You’re officially in post-fuck-jelly mode. In terms you understand, you pulled a full hamstring on that last grind.”
“Did not.”
“Babe,” he says, pushing open the bathroom door with his shoulder, “I saw your eyes roll back before you screamed and then went boneless. I thought I broke you.”
He kicks open the bathroom door like some kind of bedroom-action firefighter, setting me down with exaggerated care. His hands are big, warm, and slow as they slide down my back, guiding me to the tile like he’s placing a crown jewel in its velvet box.
My knees dip.
His arms catch me. Again.
The worst part is that I hate how much I love it.
“Mmmhmm,” he hums smugly. “That’s what I thought.”
“You’re dead to me.”
“Somehow, I think I just made it to the top favorite people . . .” He grins. “And for that, I might give you another well-deserved orgasm.”
My stomach flips. The good kind. The reckless kind. The kind that makes you flirt with terrible decisions and morning-after regrets that barely register as regrets.
“Fuck off,” I mutter, but my voice comes out more breathless—needy—than bitchy. Not a great argument to persuade that whatever happened in his bed meant nothing.
Nothing.
Zero.
I’m perfectly fine.
Look at me post-coitus, feeling like I’m the owner of my orgasm, not him. Jason fucking Tate has nothing to do with my afterglow. Nope.
He turns on the water, checks the temperature like it’s a science experiment, and then gestures for me to get in first. I step under the spray, too sore and floaty to argue. The water hits my skin—hot, perfect—and I sigh so hard it’s practically a moan.
Jason steps in behind me, and I expect him to crowd me. Pin me against the wall, maybe go for round two while I’m still jelly-legged.
Instead . . .
He grabs the shampoo.
“What are you?—”
“Close your eyes,” he says, all commanding like he suddenly runs the place. I open my mouth to argue, but the second his fingers touch my scalp, whatever I was about to say slips right out of my head.
“Let me take care of you, baby.”
I hesitate.
His fingers move through my hair, slow and careful, lathering shampoo like I’m something he doesn’t want to break.
No one’s ever done this for me before.
Not a boyfriend. Not a one-night stand. Not even a best friend-with-benefits situation. This? This is intimate. This is something else. Something I have to reject before?—
“I can wash my hair,” I mumble, not even pretending to move.
“I know.”
His thumbs find that spot just behind my ears, and I melt—completely, embarrassingly melt—like a popsicle abandoned on a July sidewalk.
“But you don’t have to. That’s not part of our . . .” We had an agreement, right? It should make me pull away. It should spark some inner alarm.
Instead, something inside me goes quiet. Like he reached into my chest, took the storm I’ve been carrying, and smoothed it flat with a single touch.
Then picks up the body wash.
I open my mouth to protest—again—but he just murmurs, “Let me,” like it’s nothing—like it’s everything.
And I let him.
Because his hands are so damn careful.
Because I’m exhausted.
Because maybe—for just a second—I want to pretend I’m his.
Even if I know better.
He runs soapy palms down my back, over my hips, and between my thighs with care, not heat. He’s not trying to get me going again—he’s just being . . . kind.
And it fucks me up more than anything else.
I flinch when his fingers graze a sensitive spot, and he pulls back instantly.
“You okay?” he asks, voice softer now.
“Yeah.” I force a breath. “Just . . . not used to this.”
“To what?”
“Being taken care of . . .” Like ever, I don’t say because that usually shows weakness, and I’m not going to let anyone see me as less just because I enjoy moments like this.
I’m the lucky subscriber. Fingers slow and firm, he massages behind my ears, at the nape of my neck—tilting my head back with this reverence that should not be legal after what he just did to me ten minutes ago.
And then his hands slide lower.
Just a brush between my thighs. The lightest pass of his fingers over sensitive skin that’s still humming from the last round. He doesn’t go further. Doesn’t push for more. Just strokes once—intentional, knowing—then murmurs against the shell of my ear, “Next time.”
Next time.
Fuck, what is this man doing to me?
He continues like he didn’t just threaten my sanity, working the shampoo into my scalp like I’m not teetering on the edge of another orgasm from hair care alone. He rinses, conditions, and even combs through with his fingers, then kisses my shoulder as he shuts off the water.
I make a sound. Betrayal. Maybe mourning.
He ignores it.
The towel he wraps me in is warm. Like he heated it on a radiator or summoned it from a spa.
He tucks it around me with this maddening precision, double-checking the knot like it might come undone and ruin the dignity I barely have left.
Then he grabs another towel and drops it over my head, fingers ruffling through my hair like I’m something soft and breakable.
“Sit,” he says, patting the edge of the counter.
I squint at him. “Is this when you feed me grapes and brush my hair a hundred times like I’m Rapunzel?”
“No. This is when I towel-dry your hair and pretend I don’t want to bend you over the sink again.”
I hop onto the counter. With effort.
He steps between my legs, the towel moving over my scalp in gentle circles. The room is humid, quiet, thick with something I don’t want to name. His bare chest brushes my knees. His focus stays on my hair like it’s a fucking masterpiece.
“This part win me the Boyfriend of the Year trophy?” he asks, faux-casual.
I snort. “You think that’s up for grabs?”
“I’ve already got your vote. That orgasm where you whimpered like a Disney princess locked it down.”
“You’re the worst,” I mutter, slapping his hip.
“You argued when I said I’d shampoo you,” he counters, smug as hell. “You’ve officially kinked your brain.”
My cheeks go nuclear. I glare at the tile. “I’m not a rescue kitten.”
His hands still. The towel drapes over my head, warm and soft and blinding.
“I know you’re not,” he says, voice low. Not sexy-low. Real-low. “I’m not doing this because you need me to. I’m doing it because I like taking care of you.”
I don’t respond.
Not because I don’t want to.
But because my heart’s suddenly thudding like it wants to write a sonnet.
He gently pulls the towel off, sets it aside, then cups the back of my head and kisses my forehead like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like kissing me there means something. Like it always meant something.
By the time he disappears into the bedroom, I’m still sitting on the counter, blinking at my reflection like, Who even are you right now?
He comes back a beat later, holding out a T-shirt that’s clearly survived some shit. It’s vintage-soft, faded black, the Vancouver Mammoths logo half-flaking off the sleeve like it’s been through several laundry mishaps and possibly a breakup or two.
It smells like him—soap, skin, and a hint of arrogance. Like if smugness had a cologne.
He holds it out between us like a peace offering wrapped in threadbare affection.
“This one’s my favorite,” he says. “Wear it. Smell like me. Then ghost me tomorrow so I can spiral dramatically and send you angsty texts from my bathtub.”
I glare. “I’m not the one who ghosts after sex.”
He squints, like I just accused him of murder. “What do you mean by that? I’ve never ghosted anyone.”
“Oh, really?” My voice tilts toward amused disbelief. “You never leave without saying goodbye or leaving a note?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” he says too quickly.
“What about Tokyo?”
“I left a note.” He throws up a hand. “There was an origami swan involved!”
I stare at him, deadpan. “What?”
“Yeah. A swan. Very poetic. I even googled how to fold that shit. And then I waited for your call. A fucking text. Smoke signal. Anything. But nada.”
“You left,” I say, my voice quieter. “You just left. And you’re asking why I didn’t call?”
“Yes, I left. And I left a note.”
“Well, I never saw it.”
He looks genuinely offended. “You’re telling me you missed the swan?”
I want to laugh, but something tugs at the memory. An image, long buried—crease lines on a crumpled piece of paper tucked into the nightstand, forgotten in the flurry of checkouts and hurt feelings. Did I toss it? Did I even open it?
Back then, I would’ve bet my gold medal that he’d just vanished. No explanation. No care. But now . . .
Now he’s handing me a worn-out T-shirt like it’s stitched from apology. Or hope. Or whatever emotion makes a guy offer you his favorite thing and joke about getting his heart broken afterward.
I take it.
Slide it over my head without breaking eye contact.
It hits mid-thigh, clinging to my damp skin. The sleeves skim my elbows.
His eyes drag over me. Slowly.
“Maybe there was a swan but I was on my way out and I never saw a note.”
“So what you’re saying you shunned my gift of origami and poetry and then blamed me for it?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“Oh but I think that’s exactly what you’re saying. I think you owe me, Scottie.”
“What?”
“You. In my shirt. You look like you belong here.”
I snort. “I’m going home after this.”
He raises a brow. “Sure. Right after I make you tea and force you to pretend cuddling isn’t your love language.”
“I will riot.”
“You’ll sigh and nuzzle into my armpit like a koala on Ambien.”
I gape. “Jason?—”
“You came, Scottie. That makes this legally binding.”
“Multiple times,” I admit grudgingly.
He grins. “Exactly. You’ve officially signed up for full-service post-fuck hospitality.”
I shake my head, but the smile’s already breaking through. Then I’m laughing—really laughing.
And he’s just standing there, watching me like I’ve hung the stars. Like making me laugh was the whole point.
God help me—I think it was.