Page 86 of Power Play
He kisses me like he’s starving, as if he’s been waiting all night for an excuse. It’s as though a switch has been flipped.
His hands are under my clothes before I can blink, finding the edge of my knickers and dragging them down with just enough care not to tear the lace. My breath catches when he drops to his knees, right there on the floor in front of my sofa.
“Murphy,”
“Shh,” he murmurs, voice thick. “Let me.”
He hooks my leg over his shoulder, and then his mouth is on me and IswearI see stars. I grip the cushion beneath me, as he works me over like he’s memorising every sound I make. I bite my lip to keep from moaning too loud, but he growls when I do, like hewantsto hear me unravel.
I don’t last long. Not with the way he uses his tongue, and then says my name like a promise and a prayer.
When I come, it’s with a gasp and a shudder, my hips rolling against his mouth and my fingers fisted in his hair. He groans as though he’s the one coming.
He rises, licking his bottom lip, eyes blazing. “You okay?”
I nod, breathless. “You? That looked... enthusiastic.”
“Been thinking about it all day,” he admits, pushing me gently back against the sofa again. “But I’m not done.”
His trackies are pushed down a second later, his cock hot and heavy in his hand. I reach down, stroke him once, twice, just to watch him groan and brace his arm beside my head.
“Condom?” I ask.
He pulls one from his pocket with a sheepish grin. “I washopeful.”
I laugh. “You cocky bastard.”
“Takes one to know one.”
He rolls it on fast, and then he’s inside me, deep and thick and perfect, and we both go still for a moment, eyes locked, foreheads pressed together.
“Fuck,” he whispers. “You feel like heaven.”
We move in sync, every thrust measured and hungry. It’s not slow or soft, it’s desperate and filthy and full of tension. All I can feel is him. All I can hear is his voice in my ear, telling me how good I feel, how close he is, how he’s not going anywhere.
We come almost together, me first, crying out into his shoulder, him a moment later with a harsh groan and a whispered “Jesus, Sophie.”
We stay tangled like that for a beat, catching our breath, lips brushing, skin damp.
Then he grins, cocky and soft all at once. He tucks himself away, kisses the inside of my knee before guiding my leg back down, and then he helps me dress.
When we’re curled up under a blanket and some terrible action movie’s playing in the background, he laces his fingers through mine and holds them against his chest. His heart thumps steady beneath my palm.
“You know I love you, right?” he says, his voice quieter than usual.
My breath catches. “Yeah,” I say. “I know.”
His thumb strokes over my knuckles. He doesn’t say anything else because he doesn’t need to.
I lean into him, resting my head on his shoulder, and let the silence wrap around us like a promise. Because for all the teasing and the banter and the borderline illegal levels of snogging, this is real.
He’s all in.
And so am I
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
MURPHY
