Page 108 of Power Play
All that matters is him, and this, and the way we fit together like two halves of the same chaotic whole.
He thrusts harder, faster, dragging sounds from me I didn’t know I could make. One hand finds my wrist, pins it above my head, the other gripping my thigh to keep me open for him. His eyes never leave mine, even as we fall apart.
When I come, it hits me like a freight train, all white-hot pleasure and shattered breath. He follows with a low groan, burying his face in my neck as he spills inside me.
We collapse in a heap, panting and laughing, tangled in each other and a dozen packing labels.
“Still annoyed about the gala?” I ask, once I can breathe again.
“Nope,” he says, eyes closed, voice content. “I’ll just think about this while I’m stuck talking to people named Rupert and Camilla.”
I laugh. “Maybe I’ll text you filthy things during the speeches.”
He cracks one eye open. “You really are the woman of my dreams.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
MURPHY
The bow tie is a lost cause.
I scowl at it in the mirror, fingers fumbling like they’ve never tied a knot in their life. It looks less James Bond and more strangled pigeon. Behind me, Sophie lounges on the edge of the bed, legs crossed, wearing one of my hoodies and a dangerously smug expression.
“You know, there are YouTube tutorials for that. Or girlfriends with superior motor skills.”
I give her a look through the mirror. “You volunteering, or just mocking from the sidelines?”
She saunters over, bare legs all but stealing my focus, and takes the silk tie from my hands with a roll of her eyes. Her fingers are quick and confident as she works, pulling the knot into place with a flourish.
“There,” she says, smoothing it down. “Now you only look mildly like a twat.”
I catch her wrist before she pulls away, tugging her close. “You love it.”
“I loveyou,” she corrects, brushing imaginary lint off my lapel. “Even when you’re being all grumbly about black-tie events.”
“’Cause they’re a nightmare,” I mutter. “Tiny food, forced smiles, and that one woman who always corners me about my skincare routine as though I’m some sort of male beauty guru.”
Sophie laughs, slipping her arms around my waist. “To be fair, your skin is suspiciously nice.”
“Genetics. And maybe a little toner.”
She grins, and I lean down to kiss her, slow and greedy, drawingher in until she sighs against my mouth. The kind of kiss that promises later. When the tux is off and the real fun begins.
But for now, there’s the charity gala.
The venue is full of polished glass, designer dresses, and enough champagne to float a Zamboni. I’ve barely stepped in when I’m swept up by Layla, who does a quick scan of my outfit like she’s inspecting for lint and potential scandal.
“You clean up well, Murph. Try not to scare the investors.”
“No promises,” I mutter, pasting on a smile.
I make the rounds, shaking hands, nodding politely, pretending to understand corporate jargon while sipping something fizzy I can’t pronounce. Sophie would be brilliant at this. Warm, clever, good at charming the old-money types. Without her, I feel like a half-functioning mannequin in a room full of sharks.
I’m halfway through a conversation about something called a vertical integration strategy when I see her.
Tabloid Girl.
Real name; Chloe. Occupation; journalist with a suspicious habit of being wherever the team’s gossip is hottest. She’s dressed in a plunging red number tonight, all sharp angles and too-white teeth, and she’s already beelining straight for me, hips swinging as if she’s on a catwalk.
