Page 95 of Changing the Playbook
“No one’s ever… either of those things. For me.”
The confession settles between us with the weight of a gift. Mike Altman, who I assumed had experienced every possible pleasure, saved something for me. For us.
I trace lazy patterns through his chest hair, sudden shyness creeping in. “Was it OK?”
A laugh bursts from him—pure disbelief. “OK? Sophie, I didn’t know my body could feel that. I didn’t know I could…”
“Good.” Satisfaction colors my voice, and I feel a lightness I haven’t felt in months. Around three months, actually. “Because I plan on doing it again.”
“Thank fucking God.” He pulls me impossibly closer. “Though you might have broken something. Give me a minute.”
“Only a minute?” I pout, feigning disappointment. “Here I thought I’d made a real impression.”
He grins and presses his lips to my temple. The gesture feels more intimate than everything we just did, and then he pulls me tighter than I ever thought was possible.
“Romance novels always skip this part,” I say eventually, hyperaware of various fluids cooling on our skin. “The deeply unsexy cleanup.”
“Reality needs better editors.” But he makes no move to release me. “In a minute.”
Neither of us moves for several more. Finally, my practical brain—the one that spent a semester studying UTIs—wins out.
“Shower?”
“Lead the way.”
We navigate to the bathroom with surprising ease. No awkward scramble for clothes or averted eyes. We move around each other like long-term lovers, though we’ve only been whatever-this-is for one night.
Hot water sluices over my skin, washing away sweat and evidence of our activities. Mike steps in behind me. For a moment, we simply exist in the steam and spray. Then he reaches for my shampoo—the expensive stuff.
“May I?” The question holds unexpected tenderness.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
His fingers work through my tangled hair with careful attention. Each movement deliberate, thorough. The simple act of him massaging shampoo into my scalp, working through each strand, supporting my weight as I melt back against him, unravels something deep in my chest.
“Whatever this is, I’m glad we’re doing it,” he murmurs against my ear. “You don’t know what you do to me.”
Water streams down my face as I tilt back to see him. “Pretty sure I just got a comprehensive demonstration.”
That soft smile appears on his face, the one I’m beginning to realize belongs only to me. “I mean all of it. Every part.”
The words form before I can stop them. “You make me feel capable, Mike. You make me feel invincible.”
His arms tighten. “What?”
I turn in his embrace. “Not because you’ll handle things for me. Because you believe I can handle them myself, but don’t always have to.”
His eyes search mine. I see my own barely controlled emotions reflected there—fear at how fast this is moving, overwhelmed by the intensity, hope that maybe he feels what I’m starting to feel.
“Sophie…”
My name sounds different in his mouth now.
Weighted.
Important.
I press my fingers to his lips. “I know we said we’d figure it out, whatever this is. But after tonight… I can’t pretend this is casual.”
