Page 93 of Changing the Playbook
“Liar.” But she’s smiling that real smile that transforms her entire face.
“We should probably dry off before we freeze.”
She smirks, and that wicked glint returns to her eyes. “Who says I’m done?”
twenty-six
SOPHIE
When Mike reachesto pull me against him, I stop his hand. My fingers shake against his palm, not from nerves but from the overwhelming need to reciprocate. To make him feel even a fraction of the bone-deep satisfaction still humming through my body.
“What are you doing?” His voice drops an octave, rough with renewed interest rather than confusion.
“My turn.” I push against his chest, and he steps back toward the bed. The surprise flickering across his face sends heat pooling low in my belly.
Sophie Pearson, taking charge in the bedroom, soaking wet.
Who would have predicted that?
“Graduate-level research requires hands-on experimentation.” The words surprise me. They’re confident, almost sultry. When did I learn to talk like this?
He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest as I push him onto his back. “Then by all means, Professor. I’m eager to contribute to your academic pursuits.”
I trace my tongue along the defined ridge of his pectoral muscle, and the taste makes my mouth water. Each ridge and plane of his abdomen deserves thorough investigation.
My tongue maps the territory while my hands explore the contrasting textures—coarse hair trailing down from his navel, smooth skin stretched over hard muscle, the slight give when I press my fingers into his sides.
The purple vibrator gleams on the rumpled sheets beside us. An idea forms, making my pulse hammer against my ribs. Mike has given me so many firsts tonight. Made me feel powerful and desired and completely uninhibited.
Maybe I can return the favor.
As my hand closes around the toy, his pupils dilate, the brown of his irises nearly disappearing. “Sophie…” his voice trails off.
“Trust me?” The soft buzz fills the space between us as I bring it to his chest, and suddenly the moment feels loaded.
His sharp inhale answers for him. I circle his left nipple with the vibrating tip, watching it harden to a tight peak. His abs contract, creating shadows in the lamplight. The slight arch of his back, the way his fingers grip the sheets…
Electricity courses through my veins. Real control. Not the performative confidence I sometimes fake at work or school, but the intoxicating knowledge that I’m reducing this strong, assured man to gasps and muscle tremors.
“Has anyone ever—” The question dies on my tongue. Of course someone has. This is Mike. Hockey god, campus legend, owner of abs that make angels weep.
But he shakes his head.
And something warm and possessive blooms behind my sternum.
Mine. This is mine to give him.
I trace the vibrator lower, following that dark trail of hair. Goosebumps rise across his skin, and when I reach where he’s already hardening again—seriously, the recovery time—the sound that tears from his throat goes straight to my core.
“Fuck, Sophie.”
“Good or bad?” My hand pauses.
“Good.” His voice cracks. “So fucking good.”
The encouragement emboldens me. I settle between his thighs, the position granting me an intimidating view of all that carved muscle and masculine vulnerability. But instead of shrinking back into my usual uncertainty, I feel… capable. Confident. Romance novels definitely undersold this particular thrill.
The vibrator hums in my right hand as I lean down and take him in my mouth. Salt and musk flood my senses. The combination of sensations—wet heat and mechanical vibration—makes him gasp. His fingers thread gently through my hair. Not demanding. Not guiding. Just… there. Connected.
