Page 107 of Power Play
His brow arches. “Oh yeah? How?”
I lean in, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Use your imagination.”
His eyes darken instantly, the playful spark in them flickering into something more primal.
“Sophie Hart, are you seducing me while we’re surrounded by bubble wrap and boxes labelled ‘kitchen crap’?”
“Is it working?”
“Woman, I would crawl through a sea of packing peanuts for you.”
I laugh, but it morphs into a gasp when he grabs my hips and flips us, pinning me to the floor in one smooth movement. The concrete beneath the cheap carpet is cold, but he’s all heat and hunger as he covers my body with his.
He kisses me hard. Open-mouthed, all tongue and intent, tasting of salt and need. His hands slip beneath my sweatshirt, calloused palms skating up my sides to cup my breasts through my bra, thumbs flicking over the lace, until I arch into him.
“Off,” he growls, tugging at the hem of my top, and I lift my arms obediently. He yanks the bra down too, groaning when my bare skin is exposed. His mouth is on me a second later, sucking and licking, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin until I writhe under him.
“You drive me mental,” he mutters against my breast. “Completely fucking mental.”
His words vibrate against my skin. I reach for his hoodie, tugging it off, then wrestle with the T-shirt underneath until he’s bared from the waist up, chest flushed, abs tightening as he lowers himself back over me.
His hips grind into mine, the friction maddening. I can feel him hard through his joggers, pressing right where I need him most. I moan and grab at his waistband, desperate.
“In a rush, are we?” he teases, biting down gently on my bottom lip.
“You started it.”
He chuckles low in his throat, but obliges, sitting back on his heels to tug my leggings down in one rough pull. My knickers follow, tossed carelessly onto the nearest pile of bubble wrap.
His eyes roam over me, hungry and reverent all at once.
“Christ, you’re perfect.”
“Then come here and do something about it.”
He does.
His mouth trails down my stomach, tongue flicking over the soft skin just above my hip, then lower still. He settles between my thighs, hands spreading my legs with gentle insistence. And when his mouth finds me, hot and wet and wicked, I nearly come undone on the spot.
I thread my fingers through his hair, hips bucking up as he licks and sucks and teases like a man with something to prove.
“Murphy, fuck, don’t stop.”
He hums in approval, the vibration sending another wave of heat crashing through me. When he finally pulls back, my legs are shaking.
“You’re not going to that gala without me thinking about this every five seconds,” I pant.
“Good.” He leans up to kiss me again, then fumbles for his joggers, pushing them down just far enough. I reach for him, wrap my hand around him, stroking slow and deliberate. His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenched.
“Fuck, Soph,”
He doesn’t wait. Lines himself up, pushes inside me in one slow, deep thrust that makes both of us moan. He stills for a second, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine.
“Every time,” he murmurs. “Every bloody time.”
Then he starts to move.
It’s hot and filthy and completely ungraceful. We knock over a taped-up box of books, nearly crush a roll of bubble wrap, and I’m pretty sure someone outside hears me scream his name, but none of that matters.
