Page 138 of Changing the Playbook
His mouth collides with mine, hungry and desperate, nothing like the gentle promise of his earlier kiss. This is raw need, days of silence and pain compressed into the fierce tangle of teeth and tongues. His hands twist in my hair, angling my head back to deepen the kiss, and I moan into his mouth.
My fingers fumble with his shirt buttons. After the third attempt, I give up on dignity entirely, gripping the fabric and yanking. Buttons scatter across the hardwood floor with satisfying little clicks, like plastic applause for my destruction of his wardrobe.
“Sophie—” His groan reverberates against my lips as I rake my nails down his newly exposed chest, feeling the muscles contract beneath my touch.
He spins me, pressing my back against the wall hard enough to rattle the framed hockey jersey hanging nearby. The impact steals my breath in a sharp gasp that he swallows with another kiss. His erection brands against my stomach through our clothes, hot and insistent, and I grind against him.
“Missed this,” he growls between kisses, his mouth blazing a path to my neck. “Missed us.”
Each word is punctuated by teeth and tongue on my pulse point, and my knees buckle. We’re barely three feet inside his apartment, haven’t even made it past the entryway with its neat row of shoes and the hockey stick propped in the corner, but I couldn’t care less. Not when every cell in my body riots for him.
My throat burns with need, parched for him after all these days apart. He’s water and wine and every drink I’ve ever craved.
My hands attack his belt while his hands wrestle with my jeans, our movements frantic and uncoordinated. We’re all desperate hands and harsh breathing, except this isn’t about discovery—it’s about reclamation. About filling the hollow spaces the past week carved into us.
“Off,” he demands, shoving my jeans down my hips.
I kick them away along with my underwear, barely registering the cool air on my bare skin before he’s pressed against me again, all heat and hard muscle and home. I reach for his cock, wrapping my fingers around the thick length of him, and he hisses through his teeth.
“Sophie, fuck?—”
“That’s the idea.” The words come out breathless, more gasp than sass, but I’m proud of myself for maintaining any humor at all when my brain is melting.
We collapse to the floor in a graceless heap of limbs and half-removed clothing. The hardwood is cold against my back, a sharp contrast to Mike’s burning mouth as it charts a path across my body—my breasts, my stomach, that sensitive spot where my hip meets my thigh that makes me squirm.
When I guide him toward my mouth, he groans. “You don’t have to?—”
“I want to.” I drag my tongue from base to tip, tasting salt and musk and Mike. “I’ve been thinking about this. About you. About how you taste.”
His eyes roll back as I take him deep, working him with lips and tongue and just enough teeth to make him gasp. The sounds he makes—desperate, guttural, completely uninhibited—send liquid heat pooling between my thighs. I’m loud too, moaning around him, letting him feel every vibration of my appreciation.
“Stop,” he gasps suddenly, pulling away. “Not like this. Need to be inside you.”
Before I can mourn the loss, he flips me onto my stomach. The move is swift, almost rough, and anticipation races down my spine. He hauls my hips up, positioning me on hands and knees.
“This OK?” His fingers tease between my legs, finding me soaked.
“Fuck me,” I demand, pushing back against his hand. “Please, Mike. I need?—”
He plunges into me mid-sentence, burying himself to the hilt in one thrust. I cry out, my fingers scrabbling for purchase on the polished floor as he sets a punishing pace.
Yes. This is what we needed. The slap of skin against skin, the burn of him stretching me, the complete abandon. Every thrust drives deeper, harder, each one a declaration: Mine. Still mine. Always mine.
“Yes,” I gasp, meeting him thrust for thrust. “Harder.”
He complies, one hand sliding up my spine to fist in my hair, pulling my head back. The sharp pull amplifies everything else, and when his other hand reaches around to find my clit, I nearly scream.
“That’s it,” he growls in my ear. “Let me hear you.”
I do. I let myself be loud, let every moan and whimper and desperate plea fill his apartment. Let the neighbors know. Letthe whole building understand that we’re here, we’re together, we’re not broken beyond repair.
We’re soaring without a plan, and I love it.
My orgasm ambushes me, sudden and overwhelming. I clench around him, my whole body shaking as waves of pleasure crash over me. He follows seconds later with a roar, spilling deep inside me.
We collapse in a sweaty heap on the floor, chests heaving, limbs tangled. My cheek presses against the cool hardwood, and I can feel his heart hammering against my back where he’s draped over me.
After a long moment, I roll onto my side to look at him. Really look at him. At this man who would have walked away from the ice, from the roar of the crowd, from everything that makes him who he is.
