Page 88 of Changing the Playbook
His voice drops low enough to vibrate through me. “Are you seducing me?”
“Depends.” I trail a finger down his chest. “Is it working?”
“Fuck yes.” The words come out raw. “But Sophie, if you’re not ready?—”
The concern threading through the obvious want in his voice confirms what I already knew. This man sees all of me—themessy parts, the scared parts, the parts I try to hide—and still wants me.
“I’m sure.” I meet his eyes so he can see I mean it. “I want this. Want you. Maybe I can’t promise what tomorrow or next week or next month looks like, but right now I want to be selfish. I want to take what I want. And what I want is you, Mike, more than anything in the world.”
His smile blooms slow and devastating. “Then let’s go be selfish together.”
act 3
twenty-five
MIKE
Sophie’s mouthopens under mine, and the months of wanting crash into me all at once. My body remembers everything—the exact pressure that makes her gasp, the spot where her neck meets her jaw that always made her melt, the way she unconsciously rocks her hips when she’s turned on.
It’s been two months, three weeks, and six days since that night. Not that I’ve been counting like some lovesick teenager. Just that my body apparently keeps its own calendar, and right now every single day of that drought is screaming at me to take whatever she’s offering.
I cup her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones as I deepen the kiss. Her lips are softer than I remembered, which seems impossible since I’ve replayed this exact scenario approximately eight thousand times. In the weight room. During film study. In the shower.
Especially in the shower.
She makes this tiny sound—half whimper, half sigh—and muscle memory takes over. I slide one hand to cradle her skull, fingers threading through silk that smells like vanilla shampoo. My other hand finds her waist, fingertips grazing the strip of warm skin where her sweater has ridden up.
Jesus.
Four inches of exposed skin and I’m already harder than our defensive drills.
The seatbelt cuts across her chest, this annoying barrier that’s keeping her too far away. I fumble with the release, breaking the kiss just long enough to free her. The second that belt clicks open, Sophie’s climbing into my lap with the same determination she uses for everything—decisive, graceful, absolutely devastating.
Her knees bracket my hips and suddenly she’s everywhere. The weight of her settling against me, the curtain of her hair blocking out the streetlight, her hands gripping my shoulders like I might disappear. My brain short-circuits because Sophie Pearson is straddling me in my car and grinding down against me.
And, most of all, I’m elated and hungry because she said there was a chance. A chance of us. It might be messy, it might have side roads and detours and it might be doomed from the start, but I told her I only wanted her if she wanted me—and wanted us—and she does. I don’t need certainty beyond that, I just need her.
“God, Soph,” I manage against her mouth. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this.”
She rocks her hips and discovers exactly how much I’ve been thinking about it. A smile curves against my lips. “I think I have some idea.”
My hands slip under her sweater on autopilot. Her skin is impossibly soft, and she shivers when my fingers trace her spine. “Hot?” I ask.
“Not even close.” She presses closer, eliminating any remaining space between us. “Actually burning up.”
Sophie’s fingers trail down my chest with intent, pausing at my sternum like she’s memorizing my heartbeat. And whenher hand continues south toward my belt and presses her palm against the obvious evidence of what she does to me, coherent thought evaporates.
The groan that escapes sounds like I’ve taken a check to the boards.
Through the haze of want, reality taps on my shoulder. We’re steaming up my windows in the middle of her street, directly under the world’s brightest streetlight. Any minute now, another student could get a front-row seat to the coach’s daughter grinding on the hockey team captain.
“Sophie.” Her name comes out strangled. I catch her wrists gently, even though it’s the last thing I want to do. “We’re still in my car.”
She blinks slowly, like she’s surfacing from underwater. The flush spreading across her cheeks makes me want to trace its path with my tongue. Her gaze darts to the fogged windows, and I watch awareness creep back in and a smile cross her face.
“Right. Car. Street. Students. Faculty. Not ideal for…”
“For what I plan to do to you,” I finish.
