Page 50 of Power Play
MURPHY
She doesn’t look back when she unlocks the door. Just pushes it open and disappears inside.
I follow, much slower. My pulse feels like it’s in my throat. Not from nerves, not really. It’s something else. As though I’m on the edge of something sharp and real and terrifyingly good.
Sophie’s already halfway across the room, kicking her heels off with a little grunt, muttering something about how her toes are going to file a formal complaint. But even as she talks, her movements are quieter than usual. Less snappy, more deliberate. Like she’s in her head, the same way I am.
She turns to face me, and for a second, neither of us speaks.
There’s still distance between us. Physically, maybe six feet. But emotionally we’re on the same ledge, hearts pressed to the same fault line.
“You meant it,” she says, voice hushed.
I nod. “Yeah.”
Her eyes search mine like she’s still trying to catch me out. But there’s nothing to catch. No act. No clever retort. Just me. Standing here, stripped of all the charm and the banter. Just a guy who’s realised he’s head over heels for a woman who agreed to fake it.
She steps toward me. It’s slow and measured. Like if she moves too fast, the whole thing might shatter.
I meet her halfway.
Her fingers go to the buttons of my shirt, not with urgency but with care. It’s as if she’s unwrapping something that matters. Something fragile. I let her. My hands slide around her waist as I watch her intently, my thumbs brushing the sides of her ribs, caressing the silk of her dress.
She exhales softly as the last button slips free.
“Is this still fake?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “Not even close.”
Her breath catches. And then she kisses me.
It’s not like before. Not rough or frantic. It’s soft, almost reverent. Like we’re learning each other all over again. Like she’s daring to believe this might actually be real.
I kiss her back just as gently, hands sliding up her spine, pulling her in. I feel the shiver that runs through her when our bodies press together. Feel her fingers dig lightly into my shoulders, as if she’s anchoring herself.
We break apart, foreheads touching, our breath mingling in the cool air.
“I don’t want to mess this up,” she whispers.
“You’re not going to.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do.” I take her face in both hands. “Because whatever this is, whatever it becomes, I’m in it. All the way.”
Her eyes shine. Not with tears this time but with something softer. Something resembling trust.
I take in the full extent of her dress. It’s green. Deep emerald that clings to every curve like it was made just for her. Spaghetti straps hang over her shoulders, delicate and barely there. The fabric catches the soft glow from the hallway, glinting like water. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
My fingers trail from her jaw, along the side of her neck, then down. I trace the curve of the strap, slowly pushing it off her shoulder. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips, and she doesn’t move, just watches me with parted lips.
“You’re beautiful,” I murmur.
“Shut up,” she whispers back, but it’s breathless, not biting.
I push the other strap off, and the dress slips slightly, baring more of her collarbone, the top swell of her chest. I press a kiss there, and feel her breath hitch beneath me as she shivers.
My hands skim down her back, to the small zip hidden near the middle of her spine. I tug it slowly, inch by inch, until the whole thing loosens and falls to her waist. She gasps as my hands slide to her stomach.
