Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Scottie
The Definitely Came in the Shower Maneuver
Listen, I didn’t run out of the therapy room, but . . . speed walking?
Yeah, that was absolutely part of my exit strategy.
I should probably head home and call in sick for the next few days until . . . what the fuck was that?
The flirting. The tension. Sure, let’s kiss, and while we’re at it, why don’t we just go ahead and fuck, right here, between a set of lateral steps and glute bridges?
Apparently, my professional boundaries evaporated the moment Jason Tate looked at me like I was the answer to every prayer his cock ever whispered.
Once I reach my office, I slam the door shut and lean back against it, heart pounding, mouth dry, panties soaked.
This man is not normal.
He shouldn’t be allowed to walk—okay, limp—into a room looking like a goddamn fallen sports god with that grin and those arms and those thighs and just .
. . exist. And talk to me like that. Say things like, “You want to kiss me right now?” like he doesn’t know I’ve been dreaming about exactly that since the day he rolled in here with crutches and attitude.
It’s like my body’s been rewired around him.
My skin’s humming. My breasts ache. My thighs are practically vibrating with the need for release. There’s a pressure low in my belly that’s been building all damn morning, and now it’s full-on wildfire. I need something—someone—to put it out.
Spoiler: it’s not going to be anyone else but him.
And that’s the fucking problem.
I make it to the bathroom tucked behind my office, strip out of my leggings and sports bra in record time, and turn on the shower. Steam fills the space almost instantly, but I don’t wait. I step under the spray, scalding water, breath hitching as the heat rolls down my body.
My fingers are between my thighs before I’ve even reached for shampoo.
I need this.
I need him—but since that’s not happening right now, I’ll take the next best thing.
I close my eyes, lean back against the cool tile, and slip my hand lower. I’m already slick, the kind of wet that’s half arousal, half desperation. I drag my fingers through it, circling slowly, breathing shallow.
In my head, it’s Jason.
On his knees. Mouth open. Tongue out.
“You’re dripping for me, Scottie,” he says, voice thick, eyes hungry. “Can I taste you?”
God, yes. Fuck yes.
I slide one finger inside. Then two.
My other hand comes up to my breast, squeezing, tugging, thumb brushing over my nipple until it’s tight and aching. I press deeper, curling my fingers just right, letting the fantasy take over.
His mouth is everywhere in my mind.
Licking up my thighs, biting the curve of my hip, sucking on my nipple like he wants to leave his mark.
“Keep going,” he says. “I want to watch you come. Right here. Just for me.”
My hips move in time with the rhythm. Water pounding against my back. Fingers thrusting faster. The sound of slick movement blends with the steady slap of water and my breathy moans.
In my mind, he’s now got me pinned against this wall. One hand holding my wrists above my head. The other is between my legs, working me open. His cock hard against my stomach. His mouth on my neck, then my breasts, sucking like he’s starving.
I pump my fingers harder, chasing that edge. My thighs start to tremble, and everything in me winds tighter, like a spring about to snap.
“Jason . . .” I whisper, breathless.
He grins in my head. Wicked. Sure. Like he knows I’m falling apart because of him.
Then it hits.
Hard.
My orgasm crashes through me, fast and sharp, my back bowing, knees buckling, breath catching as I ride it out against my hand, the wall, the fantasy of the man I’m not supposed to want.
I stand there, panting, still twitching, water sluicing down my skin like it’s trying to rinse away the evidence of everything I just did.
It doesn’t work.
I towel off in record time. My skin flushed for reasons that have nothing to do with the water temperature and everything to do with a man whose hands haven’t even touched me.
Officially.
I slide into a fresh pair of leggings, a sports bra, and a T-shirt. My hair’s twisted into a clip, face dewy, post-orgasm glow completely impossible to hide. I should try some makeup, but I didn’t bring any, not even face moisturizer.
It’s okay, Scottie. It’s going to be fine. Just take a deep breath.
I open the door to my office, and I find Reese sitting in my chair with a manila folder, legs crossed, eyes narrowed, lips curled into a smirk like she knows exactly what just happened. She doesn’t . . . probably.
“Huh. You took a shower after a session.” Her smile grows. “Girl, you worked him hard. I knew you’d straddle him and show him who’s the fucking boss in this building.”
“Not helping,” I mumble.
Because what I don’t need right now is a commentary about my sex-voiced, glute-groaning patient who spent the last forty-five minutes flirting like it was foreplay and I was his main event.
Neither the image of me straddling cowboy girl while .
. . and there I go, diverting my thoughts to where I shouldn’t.
I do not need Reese implying that Jason Tate and I were eye-fucking each other during an official, medically-documented session. That I didn’t just emotionally combust on the mat beside a six-foot-two sex complication in recovery.
She glances up, eyes raking over me. “You look like you fought a war and lost.”
I collapse into my chair, limbs loose, still shaky from the stress relief portion of my shower. Both hands cover my face. “I need a lobotomy.”
Her brows lift. “Was it Jason?”
I peek between my fingers. “Reese.”
“Oh my God,” she gasps, slamming her laptop shut like this is a code red. “It was him. Tell me everything.”
“I prefer not to discuss my private sessions with clients.” I try for professional. I really do. But my voice cracks halfway through.
“Sure. I’ll document that nothing happened,” she deadpans, then rises to close my door like we’re about to enter a war room. “But now you have to tell me. What happened?”
“Nothing . . . kind of, yeah, nothing at all.”
I drop my hands with a sigh that’s supposed to summon maturity.
Spoiler: it does not.
“Oh, but I have the feeling that a lot happened,” Reese insists.
“He was all . . . smolder-y and sweaty. Making these sounds during glute bridges like we were filming a rehab-themed porno. Mature audiences only, of course.”
Reese grins. “Was it like—good production value? Or low-budget student film energy?”
“I wanted to punch him and lick him at the same time.”
Her brows jump. “Well, that escalated quickly.”
“You don’t get it.” I slump forward, forehead nearly hitting the desk. “He was Jason-ing at full volume.”
She blinks. “Jason-ing?”
“Grumpy. Flirty. Brooding with the precision of a man who’s probably ruined someone with just his mouth. Maybe a little combustive. Or destructive? I don’t know. He looked like sex on a stick and sounded like one, too.”
Reese pretends to take notes. “So . . . all of the above.”
“Plus bonus cocky mouth,” I say, gesturing wildly like that explains anything. “And then he flirted. Like, actually flirted. Not just teasing. Not push-pull banter. It was like?—”
“Foreplay with words?”
“Verbal edging,” I whisper, defeated. “And I almost let him. I wanted to let him. Which is a terrible idea because Jason Tate is a no-go. I’ve known this forever.”
Reese leans back in her chair and steeples her fingers like a therapist ready to wreck me. “We’re going to need context. Start from the beginning. Or better yet—why are you reacting like this at all? He’s just a patient.”
I stare at her.
She stares back.
And then I do something reckless.
“We may have hooked up once…or twice.”
Her eyes widen. “What.”
“It was years ago during the Summer Olympics. I honestly can’t remember why he flew out.
My entire family was there to support me.
We were in the athlete lounge. He handed me a Gatorade and told me I looked like hell.
I called him an asshole. Then somehow, it turned into this deep-dive two-hour convo about pressure and performance and why we both hate the word ‘legacy.’”
She’s frozen. Mouth open. “And?”
“Everyone else left. The lights were low. We were alone. We made out for a while and then took things to my room where they got more…intense…and naked.’”
Reese lets out a full gasp.
“And then we didn’t speak for years until he popped up here.”
“Why not?”
“Because he left without saying a word like a fucking asshole . . . and I panicked . . .”
She covers her mouth. “You’re telling me you’ve had a thing with him simmering since the Olympics?”
I hold up a finger. “Technically, prom was before that.”
“What?!” I’m pretty sure everyone in a two-thousand-mile radius heard her squawk the word.
I wave a hand as if it’s no big deal. “It was senior year. My date bailed. Jason and Leif were there for . . . I don’t even remember. But it was another time that we just talked and talked until . . . I did the dumbest thing imaginable.”
“You kissed him?”
“A little? Which means my vagina has been holding a grudge ever since—and also been aggressively campaigning for his cock for just as long.”
Reese blinks. “You’ve been pining for your brother’s best friend since high school?”
“I. Am. Not. Pining.” I gesture to myself like my body might explain things. “It’s attraction. Strong. Sudden. Aggressive attraction because my hormones need a cock.”
Then I say, “We’re almost like magnets. It’s like he walks in, and something in my uterus salutes, my vagina drips, and I’m left looking like a soggy animal out of an ASPCA commercial.”
She snorts. “So what you’re saying is, you didn’t decide to want him. Your vagina acted alone?”
“My vagina mutinied. She’s operating on instinct now.”
Reese laughs. “No wonder you were so against taking his case. You're so hung up, you're like laundry on a clothesline.”
“I’m a therapist, Reese. I do not need to be catching orgasms for a client.” I tilt my head, staring at the window, wondering if that’s even a thing.
Her eyes narrow. “Wait. You haven’t orgasmed, right?”
I shoot her a look.
She gasps. “Ella Crawford.”
“I mean . . . ” I straighten, trying for dignity. “Definitely not with him . . . recently.”
It was one time.
Okay, two.
Fine. Thrice in the last twelve hours. Two with my vibrator. Once in the shower. But I’m not telling her that.
Reese grabs a protein bar off my desk and slides it toward me like it’s emotional triage. “Okay. Game plan. You’re going to wear your baggiest scrubs, chant activation patterns until your libido forgets how to spell, and avoid being within a foot of his penis at all times.”
I sigh. “That’s not helpful.”
“But it’s accurate.”
And just like that, the truth hits me.
Jason Tate—cocky, complicated, heartbreak-wrapped-in-a-recovery-plan Jason Tate—isn’t just a patient.
He’s a relapse fantasy.
So maybe . . . maybe, I let it happen. Let the fantasy burn hot and fast. Live it. Own it. And move on.
I mean, he’s here. He’s tangible. And he’s looking at me like I’m not just helping him heal, but like I’m dinner.
Maybe it’s time I let him have me as the main fucking course. But would that be smart? If I let him have me once, I’m scared I won’t know how to stop. How not to want him more than I do right now.