Page 139 of Changing the Playbook
For me.
The magnitude of it steals my breath all over again.
“You were ready to give up everything,” I whisper, my voice still rough from crying out his name.
He shifts onto his side too, facing me, his dark eyes soft. A bead of sweat trails down his temple, and I reach out to catch it with my thumb, marveling at this simple intimacy.
I crawl over him, straddling his hips, and lean down until my lips brush his ear. “Let me give you something new.”
His hands come up to rest on my thighs, warm and solid. “Sophie?”
“I want you everywhere.” I shift my hips, letting him feel how wet I still am, how ready. “Anywhere you want to go, we’ll go together.”
Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed quickly by heat that makes my stomach flutter. “Are you sure?”
“There are no more closed doors between us,” I tell him, holding his gaze. “Not tonight. Not ever.”
A gentle smile spreads across his face—not arrogant or triumphant, but grateful, reverent.
He rolls me onto my stomach again, but this time his touch is worshipful. His hands map the geography of my body—my back, my hips, the curve of my ass. When he spreads me open, I tense slightly, but his lips press against my shoulder blade in reassurance.
“We’ll go slow,” he promises, and I hear him spit. His finger circles my ass, spreading moisture, before pressing gently inside.
The sensation arrests me—foreign and invasive, but not unpleasant. My body wants to resist, to protect this unexplored space, but I breathe through it, trusting him. When he adds a second finger, stretching me carefully, the burn makes me gasp.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he says, his free hand rubbing soothing circles on my lower back.
“It’s OK,” I manage, surprised to find it’s true. “Just… different.”
He works me open with infinite patience, adding more spit, more fingers, until the discomfort transmutes into something else. Something that makes me push back against his hand, seeking more of this strange new pleasure.
“Please,” I whisper, looking back over my shoulder at him. “I’m ready.”
His eyes search mine once more before he positions himself. The first push is overwhelming—pressure and stretch and a fullness that defies description. I gasp, my fingers clutching at nothing, trying to anchor myself to something solid.
“Breathe,” he coaches, holding perfectly still. “Just breathe, baby.”
I do, forcing my body to relax, to welcome him. And when he finally slides home, buried completely inside me, we both groan—him from the tight heat, me from the impossible fullness.
“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel… Sophie, you’re so tight. So perfect.”
I reach between my legs, finding my clit, and the first touch sends electricity through me. The combination—him filling me in this forbidden way while I work myself with familiar strokes—is devastating.
He starts to move, slow and careful at first, then deeper as he feels me responding. Each thrust sends shockwaves through me, pleasure mixing with the lingering burn until I can’t separate them, don’t want to separate them.
“Come for me, Soph,” he grits out, his control clearly fraying. “I need to feel you come like this.”
My fingers speed up, chasing the orgasm building inside me. When it breaks, I muffle my scream against my arm, my whole body convulsing. The feeling of me clenching around him sends him over the edge too, and he comes with a shout.
Even when we’re done, when he’s softening inside me, we stay joined for long moments, both of us panting. When he finally pulls out, I whimper at the loss, at the strange emptiness that follows.
He gathers me against him immediately, pressing kisses to my hair, my temple, my cheek. “You OK? Was that—did I hurt you?”
“No,” I assure him, turning in his arms to face him. “It was perfect. We’re perfect.”
We lie there on his floor, naked and sweaty, city lights painting abstract art on the ceiling through his windows. The fear that’s lived in my chest for months—maybe years—has finally quieted to a manageable hum.
“I’ve been so scared,” I admit, tracing patterns on his chest. “Of my mom getting worse, of dropping the ball, of not being enough. But maybe… maybe I can help my family and still have this.”
