Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Jason
The Dream Sequence Drill (A.K.A. How to Wake Up Panting and Filthy With No One to Blame but Yourself)
The door clicks shut behind me, and I barely make it two steps before I stop cold.
She’s not supposed to look like that.
Scottie stands in the center of the room, arms crossed, hips cocked like she owns the place—and maybe me, too. Her legs are bare. Tiny black shorts that ride high on her thighs. A dark sports bra hugging her chest, and nothing else but confidence.
Her hair’s down. Long. Tousled. Like she just rolled out of bed after doing something filthy—and wants to do it again.
“You’re late.” Her voice is commanding, but there’s a hint of flirtation between us. I’m not sure how I know, but it’s like she’s trying to seduce me. “Drop the brace. Lose the crutches. Hope on the table.”
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I’m supposed to be in charge, to tell her how I want it, how I need it.
She tilts her chin, eyes narrowing. “I said get on the table. I’m massaging all those hard muscles today.” Her tongue drags over her bottom lip. “I’m in charge of you. Isn’t that what you wanted, Tate?”
I stare. Not even pretending to be subtle about it.
There’s heat in her voice, sure—but it’s the way she stands that makes my heart pound. Like she’s in charge. Like I walked into her arena.
And maybe I did.
I drop the crutches and lose the brace. I cross the space fast, ignoring the pull in my knee. All I can think about is the skin she’s showing and how I’ve wanted to touch it since the first day she called me an arrogant ass.
I reach her in two long strides. My hands go straight to her hips. Warm skin meets my palms. Smooth. Bare. My fingers curl around her, not tight—just enough to feel her there.
She draws in a breath.
That tiny intake is all I need.
I dip my head and crash into her mouth—my lips on hers, hard and greedy and full of every thought I shouldn’t be having.
She gasps, but she doesn’t pull away. She kisses me back with the same heat, her body rising to meet mine. My tongue sweeps past her lips, and I taste her—sweet and a little daring. Her hands clutch my shirt, yanking me closer until we’re chest to chest, and it’s clear neither of us wants to stop.
I slide one hand up her spine, drawing her in, chasing more. Her moan vibrates against my mouth, and I swear it shoots straight through me, fast and electric.
I’ve kissed before.
But not like this.
Not like I’ve been waiting. Not like I’ll burn out if I don’t have more if I don’t have her. When I pull back, her lips are parted, kiss-bitten and glossy. Her lashes are low, her breathing wrecked.
“You kissed me,” she whispers like it just hit her.
“I warned you,” I say, my voice rough, gravel sliding off every syllable. “I don’t take orders well.”
Her gaze dips to my mouth, then down to where my hands still grip her hips like I’ll let go if I don’t hold tight enough. “This isn’t what I had planned.”
I lean in, our noses brushing, lips barely apart. “But this is what I’ve wanted to do to you all along.”
I don’t wait for a yes. I wait for her not to say no—and she doesn’t.
My hands skim up the curve of her waist, fingers sliding beneath the edge of that thin strip of fabric masquerading as a bra.
My thumbs graze soft skin, then rise—slow, reverent—until I’m palming her completely.
Warm, full, perfect. Her breath hitches when I tug the bra up and over, baring her to me.
My mouth waters.
Fuck, I’ve thought about this too many times. In the shower. In my bed. During workouts when I should’ve been focused on anything else.
I lower my head without a word, lips brushing across the swell of her breast before I take one into my mouth, slow and hungry. She gasps—sharp and needy—and her fingers shoot to my hair, tangling hard as I suck her deep.
“Fuck. Fuck,” I groan against her skin, tongue flicking over her nipple, tasting her. “You have no idea how long I’ve missed this. You—fuck, you’re unreal.”
She arches into me, hips pressing forward, breath catching in her throat. I switch sides, giving the other the same attention—kissing, licking, dragging my teeth across her in a way that makes her legs tremble.
“You were wearing that tiny little top the first day I showed up at the clinic,” I murmur between kisses. “Told myself I was here for rehab. Lied like a pro.”
She lets out a broken sound, part laugh, part moan, and rocks her hips against mine like she’s done pretending, too.
“You’re not supposed to be doing this,” she whispers, but her voice lacks conviction. Her hands stay on me. Her body chases more. “This is about healing you.”
“Guess I’m failing rehab,” I mutter, mouth still on her skin. “But I’m finally getting somewhere.”
Her skin’s soft and alive under my mouth, and I kiss her like I’m starving because I am.
She gasps again when I drag my tongue along her nipple and then suck her in hard—like I’m claiming her like this is mine, like I’ve earned it through every aching second of pretending not to want her.
Her nails bite into my shoulders as she presses against me. Every inch of her, bare and bold and completely wrecking me.
I pull back, breathing hard, forehead resting against her sternum. “Get on your knees,” I whisper, not a command—more like a plea.
Her breath stutters.
“I want to watch you,” I murmur, hands trailing down her sides, settling just above the waistband of those damn shorts. “I need to see your lips around my cock. I’ve dreamed of it—fuck, I am dreaming, aren’t I?”
She doesn’t answer. Just stares at me with something between a dare and a promise.
“If this isn’t real, let me stay in it. Just long enough to feel your mouth on me.” My fingers slide under the waistband, start to peel the shorts down inch by inch, revealing smooth thighs I want wrapped around my head.
“Let me have this,” I whisper, voice frayed. “Let me watch you take me in. Let me hear you moan while you’re on your knees for me. Just once. Please.”
Her eyes darken, lips parting as she sinks to the floor—slow, like she knows I’ll remember every second of this, even if it’s ripped away.
She reaches for my waistband. My hands tangle in her hair, guiding her. My heart is pounding so loud I barely register how she looks up at me like she wants it too.
Then . . . she’s fucking gone. I’m back in my bedroom, taken away from her, like paper tearing in the wind.
I’m gasping, sweat clinging to my skin, sheets twisted, hard as fucking steel, and absolutely wrecked. My hands clench the edge of the mattress. My throat’s dry. My cock’s pulsing. My whole body feels like it just ran a marathon through hell and liked it.
“Shit,” I mutter into the dark.
It was a dream.
Of course, it was.
But fuck if it didn’t feel real—so real that I can still taste her skin on my tongue, still feel the drag of her hair against my palm, still hear the sound of her breath right before she lowered herself in front of me.