Chapter 25
twenty-five
MIKE
Sophie’s mouth opens under mine, and the months of wanting crash into me all at once. My body remembers everything—the exact pressure that makes her gasp, the spot where her neck meets her jaw that always made her melt, the way she unconsciously rocks her hips when she’s turned on.
It’s been two months, three weeks, and six days since that night. Not that I’ve been counting like some lovesick teenager. Just that my body apparently keeps its own calendar, and right now every single day of that drought is screaming at me to take whatever she’s offering.
I cup her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones as I deepen the kiss. Her lips are softer than I remembered, which seems impossible since I’ve replayed this exact scenario approximately eight thousand times. In the weight room. During film study. In the shower.
Especially in the shower.
She makes this tiny sound—half whimper, half sigh—and muscle memory takes over. I slide one hand to cradle her skull, fingers threading through silk that smells like vanilla shampoo. My other hand finds her waist, fingertips grazing the strip of warm skin where her sweater has ridden up.
Jesus.
Four inches of exposed skin and I’m already harder than our defensive drills.
The seatbelt cuts across her chest, this annoying barrier that’s keeping her too far away.
I fumble with the release, breaking the kiss just long enough to free her.
The second that belt clicks open, Sophie’s climbing into my lap with the same determination she uses for everything—decisive, graceful, absolutely devastating.
Her knees bracket my hips and suddenly she’s everywhere.
The weight of her settling against me, the curtain of her hair blocking out the streetlight, her hands gripping my shoulders like I might disappear.
My brain short-circuits because Sophie Pearson is straddling me in my car and grinding down against me.
And, most of all, I’m elated and hungry because she said there was a chance.
A chance of us. It might be messy, it might have side roads and detours and it might be doomed from the start, but I told her I only wanted her if she wanted me—and wanted us—and she does.
I don’t need certainty beyond that, I just need her.
“God, Soph,” I manage against her mouth. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about this.”
She rocks her hips and discovers exactly how much I’ve been thinking about it. A smile curves against my lips. “I think I have some idea.”
My hands slip under her sweater on autopilot. Her skin is impossibly soft, and she shivers when my fingers trace her spine. “Hot?” I ask.
“Not even close.” She presses closer, eliminating any remaining space between us. “Actually burning up.”
Sophie’s fingers trail down my chest with intent, pausing at my sternum like she’s memorizing my heartbeat. And when her hand continues south toward my belt and presses her palm against the obvious evidence of what she does to me, coherent thought evaporates.
The groan that escapes sounds like I’ve taken a check to the boards.
Through the haze of want, reality taps on my shoulder. We’re steaming up my windows in the middle of her street, directly under the world’s brightest streetlight. Any minute now, another student could get a front-row seat to the coach’s daughter grinding on the hockey team captain.
“Sophie.” Her name comes out strangled. I catch her wrists gently, even though it’s the last thing I want to do. “We’re still in my car.”
She blinks slowly, like she’s surfacing from underwater. The flush spreading across her cheeks makes me want to trace its path with my tongue. Her gaze darts to the fogged windows, and I watch awareness creep back in and a smile cross her face.
“Right. Car. Street. Students. Faculty. Not ideal for…”
“For what I plan to do to you,” I finish.
“Which is?” The question vibrates against my neck where she’s pressed her lips.
I lean close enough that my words brush her ear. “It starts with getting you out of these clothes and ends with you forgetting your own name.”
She shivers hard enough that I feel it, then pulls back to study my face. “Remember what I said earlier? About coffee?”
“Vaguely.” I’m distracted by the way she hasn’t actually stopped moving against me, these tiny restless shifts that are destroying my sanity.
“I lied.” A grin tugs at her mouth. “I don’t even have coffee upstairs at all, Mike…”
“Shocking betrayal. What kind of monster lures someone up for nonexistent coffee?”
“The kind who’s been trying to figure out how to get you in her bed without actually having to say ‘please come upstairs and fuck me senseless.’”
My brain flatlines. Full stop. Sophie Pearson just said those words while sitting in my lap, and I’m pretty sure I’ve died.
“Well,” I manage, “coffee’s overrated anyway. I hear it keeps you up all night.”
“Lucky for you, that’s exactly what I had in mind.”
With obvious reluctance, she climbs off my lap. I immediately miss her weight, her warmth, the perfect pressure of her against me. And as I watch, she straightens her clothes with hands that shake slightly, that tiny tell makes me want her even more.
This composed, brilliant woman is trembling because of me.
Because she wants this as badly as I do.
“Are you coming?” she asks, challenge bright in her eyes.
“Give me thirty seconds upstairs and we both will be.”
She laughs—a bright, surprised sound. “That’s terrible.”
“And yet you’re still inviting me up.”
“Yeah.”
We both exit the car, and her fingers lace through mine as we head inside, a simple touch that makes my heart hammer like overtime sudden death.
And, as she leads me toward her building, I catch her glancing back with this mix of determination and desire that mirrors everything rioting through my system.
Whatever this means for us tomorrow be damned.
Right now, I’m following Sophie Pearson anywhere she wants to take me.
Wild Berry Pop Tarts.
Sweet.
As I follow Sophie through her apartment, every detail I’d missed during our first encounter months ago demands attention.
Back then, I’d been too focused on getting her naked to notice the life scattered across her countertops.
Now, my brain catalogs evidence of something precious I’m being allowed to witness.
The coffee mug in the sink that could double as a soup bowl.
The nursing textbooks arranged in perfect right angles on her coffee table.
Hazel’s artwork covering the fridge alongside appointment cards.
Each detail slots into place, building a picture of the woman.
A wonderful, stressed, tired, beautiful, overwhelmed, scared woman.
“Bathroom?” I say when she bypasses her bedroom door.
“Trust me.”
There’s something different in her voice, a confidence that sends heat straight through me. The Sophie from months ago would’ve blushed at the thought of leading a guy anywhere. This Sophie moves with purpose, and my body responds to that certainty, every nerve firing.
The bathroom barely fits two people. When she closes the door behind us, her scent fills my lungs, and I reach for her but she pulls away. I’m confused, for a second, until I watch her open a drawer with game-winning determination and, a second later, purple silicone gleams in her hand.
She meets my eyes with a look that dares me to judge her for owning it, for wanting to use it, for being bold enough to suggest it. “You’re always talking about trying new things, always asking what I want, so here’s both in one for you to decide what you want to do.”
“Sophie Pearson,” I say. “Every time I think I’ve got you figured out…”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s fucking perfect.”
She sets the vibrator on the counter with a soft click that echoes in the small space. Steam curls from the shower as she turns it on, fogging the mirror within seconds. Her hands move to her sweater’s hem, but I catch them, need pressing against my ribs.
“I need you to know something,” I say.
She tilts her head, waiting. A strand of hair falls across her cheek.
“I know you take your coffee with enough sugar to rot teeth. I know you color-code your study notes by subject and importance. I know you buy Pop Tarts but feel guilty eating them for breakfast, so you tell yourself they’re an afternoon snack.
” I pull her close, until every curve presses against me. “I know you, Sophie.”
“Mike.” My name breaks on her lips.
“Not done yet.” I release her wrists to frame her face, thumbs brushing those freckles I’ve memorized.
“I know the real you. I know spiders make you squeak and flail. I know you give everyone else pieces of yourself until there’s nothing left.
I know you’re the strongest person I’ve ever met, but you don’t see it. ”
“If you’re trying to make me cry before we even get naked?—”
“Just making sure you understand.” My gaze travels down her body, lingering on the rapid rise and fall of her chest before meeting her eyes again. “This isn’t just physical for me, and I really look forward to figuring out where this goes. Though the physical is pretty good too…”
Her laugh bounces off the tile, bright and real. “Such a smooth talker.”
“I have other talents too.”
Steam thickens around us as we undress each other.
No hesitation marks Sophie’s movements now, her fingers working my shirt buttons with precision while her eyes stay locked on mine.
When she pushes the fabric off my shoulders, her palms flatten against my chest, mapping muscle with focused attention.
“Christ, I missed this.” The admission spills from her lips as she traces my abs.
“We literally saw each other yesterday.”
“I meant this.” She spreads her fingers, claiming more skin. “Touching you.”
“Dangerous precedent you’re setting, Pearson.”