Page 44 of Power Play
“Thinking about last time?” I murmur. “How you sounded when I had you against my wall? Or maybe how good you tasted on my fingers before I even got you to the bedroom?”
Her hand lifts slightly, brushing her collarbone like she’s not even aware of it.
“Murph…”
“Say yes,” I whisper. “Say you’re thinking about it.”
She bites her bottom lip. “I’m thinking about it.”
I exhale a laugh, its low and rough, guttural even. “I knew it. You’re such a little liar. Pretending to be unaffected.”
“And you’re such a cocky bastard.”
“Your cocky bastard.” I shift, letting the towel slip just slightly, flashing enough of the V to tease. Her eyes follow the movement like a hawk.
“Jesus,” she breathes.
“Touch yourself, Soph,” I murmur. “Go on. Just a little. Pretend I’m there.”
She makes a sound that could knock me clean out if I weren’t already flat on my back. Her hand disappears beneath the hem of her sleep shorts and I groan, palming myself under the towel, eyes locked on her flushed face.
“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” I say.
“You,” she breathes. “Your mouth. Your hands. That thing you did with your… God… your hips,”
“Yeah?” I stroke myself slowly, just enough to feel it build. “You want it again?”
She nods, moaning softly. “Yes. Please.”
I groan. “I’ll give it to you. After that dinner. After everyone’s watched us fake it all night. I’ll come home with you and show you exactly what it looks like when I stop pretending.”
She whimpers, her body jerking as she finds her rhythm. I’m seconds behind her, both of us panting, eyes locked across the phone screen like we’re in the same room.
After we come down, the silence is thick but warm. Her eyes flutter open. “That was unprofessional,” she mutters, flushed.
I grin lazily. “You’ll recover. Eventually.”
She snorts. “You better hope I do. Because if I walk into that dinner, and your PR team realises I can’t make eye contact with you without reliving this moment…”
“I’ll make sure they don’t notice,” I promise, already picturing her in heels, clinging to my arm.
Sophie Hart on my arm in front of cameras, flashing her sharp tongue and that devastating smile?
Yeah.
We’re in deep, and I don’t want out.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
SOPHIE
If hell had a scent, it would be stale air con, cheap perfume, and overpriced fabric that somehow manages to itch through your skin and into your soul.
Otherwise known as the city centre shopping outlet on a Wednesday evening.
“Remind me why I agreed to this?” I ask, yanking a sequinned monstrosity off the rack and holding it up with a look of disgust. “This looks like something Barbie would wear to court.”
“You agreed,” Mia says, annoyingly chipper as she flicks through a rack of more refined options, “because you have a very public dinner to attend tomorrow with yourvery handsome fake boyfriend, and his agent said ‘glamorous but demure.’ Which, I know, is not your natural habitat.”
