Page 76 of Power Play
He groans, his hands skating up my waist. “God, you’re going to be the death of me.”
“Yeah,” I say, leaning in to brush my lips against his jaw, “but what a way to go.”
He kisses me like he’s starving. As though he’s been waiting all damn season for this exact moment. And I match him beat for beat,teeth grazing, hands tangled in his hair. I slide my hips against his, and he groans into my mouth as if I’ve physically hurt him in the best possible way.
His hands dip under my top, rough palms against my skin. “Off,” he mutters.
“Bossy.”
“Efficient.”
I peel my top off and toss it somewhere over my shoulder. He immediately leans forward, mouth hot and hungry against my collarbone, kissing a line down to the edge of my bra.
“You always this handsy when injured?” I whisper.
“You bring out the worst in me,” he murmurs.
“Flattery will get you everywhere.”
We make a mess of it. A glorious, tangled, half-dressed mess. I wiggle out of my jeans while he tries to hook a finger under my bra strap without breaking his ankle. It’s chaos. Hot, breathless, completely ridiculous chaos.
“You know,” I pant, as he finally manages to get my bra off, “this might be the sexiest physio appointment in the history of ankles.”
He grins against my chest. “I’m giving it five stars on Yelp.”
I laugh, then gasp when he shifts just right and his mouth does wicked things. All humour disappears in a rush of heat, his hands guiding me, anchoring me, worshipping me like I’m some kind of religion he’s just discovered.
He pulls me close, rolling his hips up, mouth at my ear. “You sure about this?”
“If you stop now,” I growl, breath hitching, “I’m calling an Uber and never speaking to you again.”
He chuckles, low and wrecked. “God, I love you.”
I freeze. He does too.
His eyes go wide. “I mean… shit. Not officially. Or maybe officially? I don’t know. That just sort of…”
“Murphy.” I lean down and kiss him, soft this time. “Shut up and make it count.”
And he does. God, does he ever.
He moves with this perfect mix of reverence and recklessness, like he’s trying to memorise every sound I make, every curve, every gasp. We find our rhythm in seconds, breath syncing, skin on fire.
My back arches. He whispers my name like it’s a prayer.
When I fall apart, it’s with his arms tight around me and his lipsagainst my shoulder, and when he follows, he does it with a groan so filthy it should be illegal in at least three countries.
We collapse in a sweaty heap, breathless and grinning.
“Well,” I say eventually, my cheek pressed against his chest. “If that’s your game with a sprained ankle, I’ll take it.”
He laughs, pulling the throw blanket over us. “That was the warm-up, Hart.”
“Ambitious.”
“Optimistic.”
I close my eyes and melt into him, the weight of the night settling into something golden.
