Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
Scottie
How to Accidentally Say “I Love You” Naked
The thing about missing Jason Tate is that it sneaks up on you.
One minute you’re killing it—emails answered, problems solved, managing your empire like a goddamn boss.
The next minute? You’re lying in bed at midnight, phone clutched in hand, wishing he could reach through the screen and absolutely wreck you.
And the worst part?
He knows it.
That cocky, sinful bastard fucking knows it.
The first text buzzes just after eight, right as I’m walking into the clinic.
Jason: I’ve missed you all day.
Scottie: Define “missed.” If you mean “currently using you as fuel for aggressive masturbation fantasies,” then sure.
Jason: . . . marry me.
Scottie: Whoa. Settle down, Romeo.
Scottie: I’m sure you say that to all the girls who dirty talk you while wearing pajamas.
Jason: Only the ones who can make me hard from three thousand miles away.
Jason: Speaking of . . . ready for our video call?
My thumb hovers for a second—because, yes, there’s a good chance this is a Very Bad Idea. And yet here I was, doing it anyway. Of course, I hit the video call button before I can chicken out.
His face fills my screen almost instantly.
Disheveled hair. Bare shoulders. That grin that short-circuits my brain every damn time.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says, voice low and rough like he’s been waiting hours just to say it to me.
“Hey, desperate,” I tease, shifting against the pillows.
He groans, long and shameless. “You have no fucking idea.”
His gaze drags over me—messy bun, tank top, bare face, tired eyes—and he looks like he’s staring at a fucking miracle. Like I’m everything.
“You’re dangerous,” he mutters, voice slipping deeper, rougher.
“You’re easy,” I shoot back, heat sparking under my skin.
“Only for you.”
He leans closer to the camera, eyes dark and hungry.
“Show me.”
My pulse skitters. “Show you what?” I say, pretending to play dumb even though we both damn well know. “My new table?”
“Yourself.” His voice drops to a growl that shreds straight through my self-control. “Show me how much you miss me. Be good, Crawford. Take your clothes off for me . . . slow. The way I like it.”
The command sends a bolt of heat spiraling through my belly.
God help me, I want to.
I hesitate, nerves flickering—but then I catch the way he’s looking at me. Like he’s starving. Like he needs this as badly as I do.
Slowly, deliberately, I peel my tank top over my head, tossing it aside. Left in nothing but thin, barely-there panties.
Jason’s breath hitches, sharp and ragged. “Fuck.” His voice is wrecked now, desperate and low. “You’re going to kill me.”
“You’re the one who wanted this,” I murmur, heat pooling deep inside me.
“Yeah,” he breathes. “Best fucking decision of my life.”
I shift, propping my phone against a pillow so he can see me better—stretched out across the bed, flushed and aching, just for him.
His breathing turns ragged through the speakers like he’s fighting every caveman instinct not to break through the fucking screen.
“Touch yourself for me,” Jason says, voice low and sinful. “Nice and slow, baby. Let me watch you fall apart.”
My heart stumbles into a sprint. My skin feels too tight, too sensitive.
But the way he’s looking at me—like I’m his goddamn religion—strips away every last scrap of hesitation.
I slide my hand down, fingertips grazing my stomach, teasing the waistband of my panties.
“Fuck, Scottie,” he rasps. “You’re killing me. You’re so fucking beautiful. So fucking mine.”
The raw hunger in his voice sends a rush of need through me, so hot it almost aches.
I dip my fingers lower, slipping beneath the thin cotton, finding the slick heat waiting for him.
Jason groans, biting his lip so hard it goes white. “Take them off,” he orders roughly. “I need to see all of you.”
I hook my thumbs into the waistband and shimmy out of them, tossing them off the bed. His curse rips through the speaker.
“God, look at you,” he says, almost like he’s in pain. “Fucking perfect.”
I trail my fingers back down, slow and deliberate, spreading my thighs just enough for him to see.
He lets out a rough, broken sound that sends a jolt of heat straight through me.
“Touch your clit, sweetheart. Just your clit. Slow circles. I want to see you get desperate for it.”
I obey, dragging slow, torturous circles over the throbbing bundle of nerves. My breath stutters out in a ragged shudder. Jason leans closer to the screen as if he could reach through it and touch me if he just got close enough.
“That’s it,” he says, his voice wrecked and wild. “God, you’re fucking perfect. You feel good, don’t you?”
I whimper, nodding, losing my grasp on words, language—basic cognitive function, honestly.
“I wish I was there,” he rasps. “Wish I could suck that sweet pussy until you’re begging. Wish I could slide inside you nice and slow. Make you scream my name so loud you lose your fucking voice.”
“Jason . . .” I breathe, hips jerking helplessly with the rhythm of my hand.
“Don’t stop,” he growls. “Don’t you fucking dare. I need to see you come. I need to see you fall apart for me.”
Tension coils tighter, winding me up until I’m teetering right at the edge of no return, the heat sparking hotter with every second. And through it all, he’s there—watching me like he’s starved like I’m the only thing he’s ever fucking wanted.
His voice drops lower, rough and almost reverent. It’s my undoing.
“Come for me, baby. Give it to me. Let me see how fucking good I make you feel—even from three thousand miles away.”
That’s all it takes.
I shatter with a gasping cry, pleasure tearing through me in wild, blinding waves.
Jason groans, low and guttural, the sound vibrating straight through the screen and into my bones like he can feel it, too.
I collapse onto the bed, panting, dazed, my body still twitching with aftershocks.
On the screen, Jason’s forehead drops to his arm, his whole body quaking like he’s barely stitched together.
“Fuck,” he mutters, voice wrecked and raw. “I’m so fucking in love with you, it’s disgusting.”
I blink at him, my heart lurching like someone hit it with a taser. Did he—? Did he really say ‘love’?
I just . . . stare. Frozen. Bracing for the take-back.
But he doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soften it with a joke. He just looks at me like I’m the best stupid mistake he’s ever made.
And somewhere deep inside me—beneath the panic, beneath the fear—something warm and reckless stirs awake.
My throat closes up, my heart cartwheeling in my chest like an idiot with no self-preservation instincts.
He said it like it was nothing. Like it was everything.
And now he’s just . . . there. Wide open. Completely unguarded. Waiting.
Panic and wonder clash hard inside me.
I could say something back.
I could absolutely fuck it all up.
Or—I could do the one thing I’m really good at when the ground starts wobbling beneath me: dive into the fire instead of running.
I push up onto my elbows, cocking a brow like I’m not two seconds away from bursting into emotional flames. I could run. I could freak out. But instead, I focus his attention on the now. Us . . . sex, even when he’s not right next to me.
“Your turn,” I say, voice low and wrecked. “Come for me, Tate.”
Jason’s groan practically rattles the bedframe. He shifts, angling the phone so I can see the way he’s palming himself through his briefs—thick, hard, straining.
“You’re a fucking menace,” he growls, stroking himself with rough, impatient pulls. “You know that, right?”
“Fuck, baby,” he pants, voice shredded and begging. “Say my name. Tell me you’re mine. Need to hear it—need to fucking hear it.”
“Jason,” I breathe, letting every ounce of my need bleed into the word. I shift my hips, dragging my hand lower again, slow and shameless. “I’m yours. Always yours.”
He groans like it physically hurts, his body tensing, trembling, desperate for release.
“Come for me,” I whisper, rough and needy. “Show me how bad you missed me. Show me who you belong to.”
That’s all it takes.
He breaks with a growl that sounds ripped from somewhere deep inside him, his body shuddering through every pulse of pleasure, his eyes locked on mine like I’m the only thing keeping him alive.
It’s his breaking point.
He groans my name again—wrecked and raw—as his whole body tenses and then shudders, his hand clenching around himself as he comes, his face twisted up like it’s almost too much to survive.
Watching him fall apart for me—because of me—is enough to kickstart a second, smaller orgasm that leaves me breathless all over again.
For a long moment, we just lie there. Breathing. Reeling. Strung together across three thousand miles by something stupid and terrifying and real.
Finally, Jason drags his gaze back to me, a crooked, blissed-out grin pulling at his mouth.
“Best fucking FaceTime of my life,” he says hoarsely.
I laugh, wiping a shaky hand over my face. “You’re such a caveman.”
“Yeah,” he says, still smiling like he’s high off me. “But I’m your caveman.”
And, fuck, someone help me because I’m starting to think I might actually want him to be.
Jason props his chin on his forearm, blinking at me all slow and satisfied like he’s drunk on orgasms and dumb life choices.
“You’re dangerous, Crawford,” he mutters, voice rough and wrecked. “Should come with a fucking warning label.”
I huff out a laugh, tugging the sheet higher over my chest even though, yeah, that ship has definitely sailed.
“Please. You’d ignore the label and rip it open with your teeth.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, grinning lazily. “Probably while jerking off to you.”
I roll my eyes, my neck heating up to my hairline.
God, he’s ridiculous.
And hot.
And fucking terrifying in a way no one has been in a long time.
“Go to sleep, Tate,” I murmur, voice softer now.
He nods, but he doesn’t hang up.
Just keeps staring at me like I’m something rare and breakable and his.
Like if he blinks, I’ll disappear.
“You’re gonna dream about me,” he says, fighting a losing battle against a yawn. “Pretty sure you’re starring in a few of mine, too.”
I smile, biting the inside of my cheek to keep from doing something incredibly foolish, like blurting out “I love you” back.
“You wish.”
“I do,” he says simply.
Those two words sucker-punch me harder than any orgasm ever could.
I let the silence stretch between us, pretending I’m not absolutely losing my shit inside, pretending this is casual, no big deal, just another night.
But deep down, past all the walls and sarcasm, something soft and reckless is starting to believe him.
“Goodnight,” I say as I end the call before I beg him to come to me or to buy a plane ticket to be with him.
This . . . I need to sleep on all this. Tomorrow.
I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
Because tonight?
Tonight, I’m too busy falling.
Falling for Jason Tate.