Chapter 26
twenty-six
SOPHIE
When Mike reaches to pull me against him, I stop his hand. My fingers shake against his palm, not from nerves but from the overwhelming need to reciprocate. To make him feel even a fraction of the bone-deep satisfaction still humming through my body.
“What are you doing?” His voice drops an octave, rough with renewed interest rather than confusion.
“My turn.” I push against his chest, and he steps back toward the bed. The surprise flickering across his face sends heat pooling low in my belly.
Sophie Pearson, taking charge in the bedroom, soaking wet.
Who would have predicted that?
“Graduate-level research requires hands-on experimentation.” The words surprise me. They’re confident, almost sultry. When did I learn to talk like this?
He laughs, the sound vibrating through his chest as I push him onto his back. “Then by all means, Professor. I’m eager to contribute to your academic pursuits.”
I trace my tongue along the defined ridge of his pectoral muscle, and the taste makes my mouth water. Each ridge and plane of his abdomen deserves thorough investigation.
My tongue maps the territory while my hands explore the contrasting textures—coarse hair trailing down from his navel, smooth skin stretched over hard muscle, the slight give when I press my fingers into his sides.
The purple vibrator gleams on the rumpled sheets beside us. An idea forms, making my pulse hammer against my ribs. Mike has given me so many firsts tonight. Made me feel powerful and desired and completely uninhibited.
Maybe I can return the favor.
As my hand closes around the toy, his pupils dilate, the brown of his irises nearly disappearing. “Sophie…” his voice trails off.
“Trust me?” The soft buzz fills the space between us as I bring it to his chest, and suddenly the moment feels loaded.
His sharp inhale answers for him. I circle his left nipple with the vibrating tip, watching it harden to a tight peak. His abs contract, creating shadows in the lamplight. The slight arch of his back, the way his fingers grip the sheets…
Electricity courses through my veins. Real control. Not the performative confidence I sometimes fake at work or school, but the intoxicating knowledge that I’m reducing this strong, assured man to gasps and muscle tremors.
“Has anyone ever—” The question dies on my tongue. Of course someone has. This is Mike. Hockey god, campus legend, owner of abs that make angels weep.
But he shakes his head.
And something warm and possessive blooms behind my sternum.
Mine. This is mine to give him.
I trace the vibrator lower, following that dark trail of hair. Goosebumps rise across his skin, and when I reach where he’s already hardening again—seriously, the recovery time—the sound that tears from his throat goes straight to my core.
“Fuck, Sophie.”
“Good or bad?” My hand pauses.
“Good.” His voice cracks. “So fucking good.”
The encouragement emboldens me. I settle between his thighs, the position granting me an intimidating view of all that carved muscle and masculine vulnerability.
But instead of shrinking back into my usual uncertainty, I feel…
capable. Confident. Romance novels definitely undersold this particular thrill.
The vibrator hums in my right hand as I lean down and take him in my mouth. Salt and musk flood my senses. The combination of sensations—wet heat and mechanical vibration—makes him gasp. His fingers thread gently through my hair. Not demanding. Not guiding. Just… there. Connected.
With my ex, this was a chore. Three minutes of jaw ache while he lay there unresponsive, occasionally patting my head with all the enthusiasm of someone petting a sleeping cat, warning me before he was about to come because he found fluids ick .
But Mike?
Every swirl of my tongue earns a reaction.
A hitched breath when I hollow my cheeks. A low groan when I take him deeper. A trembling thigh when I scrape my teeth gently along his length. And, all the while, the vibrator explores his inner thigh and behind his balls while my mouth continues its work.
“Sophie—”
I glance up through my lashes.
The question must be clear because he nods, spreading his legs wider.
Complete, absolute surrender.
My heart threatens to crack my ribs with its pounding. The lube from my nightstand—thank God past-Sophie splurged on the good stuff—coats my fingers and the toy. With infinite care and probably too much lube, I ease the vibrator inside him.
The sound he makes—raw, desperate, completely uninhibited—is nothing I’ve ever heard from composed, confident Mike Altman. His spine bows off the mattress when I angle the toy, finding that spot I’ve read about but never had the courage to explore.
“Is this?—”
His hand reaches for mine, fingers interlacing. The gesture says everything, so in response, I work the toy inside him while my mouth returns to its task. The coordination required reminds me of learning to drive stick shift, awkward at first, but the rewards…
God, the rewards.
Each broken sound.
Each tremor through his powerful frame.
Each time his fingers tighten in my hair, not demanding but desperate.
Sophie Pearson, sexual revolutionary.
When I take him to the back of my throat while angling the vibrator just right, his entire body goes rigid. Every muscle locks tight, and I know?—
“Sophie, I’m gonna?—”
This is where I always pulled away before. Where I’d finish with my hand while calculating how quickly I could rinse my mouth after. But tonight? With this man who’s shattered every wall I built?
I meet his eyes, trying to communicate what my occupied mouth can’t say. Understanding dawns in his expression, followed by something that looks dangerously close to worship.
His release comes with my name breaking apart on his lips. I stay with him through it all, accepting this most intimate gift. Not because I have to. Not because it’s expected.
Because with Mike, I want everything.
The vulnerability required, the trust shared, it’s not about the physical act. It’s about choosing to be completely present with another person. No walls. No pretense.
As I carefully remove the vibrator and crawl up his body, his arms immediately pull me against him. Both of us breathe in ragged gasps. His heart hammers against my breast.
“Christ,” he says. “Sophie, that was…”
“I know.”
And I do. My body still thrums with the echo of control, of connection.
Raw vulnerability replaces his usual confident expression. “Two firsts.”
“What?”
“No one’s ever… either of those things. For me.”
The confession settles between us with the weight of a gift. Mike Altman, who I assumed had experienced every possible pleasure, saved something for me. For us.
I trace lazy patterns through his chest hair, sudden shyness creeping in. “Was it OK?”
A laugh bursts from him—pure disbelief. “OK? Sophie, I didn’t know my body could feel that. I didn’t know I could…”
“Good.” Satisfaction colors my voice, and I feel a lightness I haven’t felt in months. Around three months, actually. “Because I plan on doing it again.”
“Thank fucking God.” He pulls me impossibly closer. “Though you might have broken something. Give me a minute.”
“Only a minute?” I pout, feigning disappointment. “Here I thought I’d made a real impression.”
He grins and presses his lips to my temple. The gesture feels more intimate than everything we just did, and then he pulls me tighter than I ever thought was possible.
“Romance novels always skip this part,” I say eventually, hyperaware of various fluids cooling on our skin. “The deeply unsexy cleanup.”
“Reality needs better editors.” But he makes no move to release me. “In a minute.”
Neither of us moves for several more. Finally, my practical brain—the one that spent a semester studying UTIs—wins out.
“Shower?”
“Lead the way.”
We navigate to the bathroom with surprising ease. No awkward scramble for clothes or averted eyes. We move around each other like long-term lovers, though we’ve only been whatever-this-is for one night.
Hot water sluices over my skin, washing away sweat and evidence of our activities. Mike steps in behind me. For a moment, we simply exist in the steam and spray. Then he reaches for my shampoo—the expensive stuff.
“May I?” The question holds unexpected tenderness.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
His fingers work through my tangled hair with careful attention. Each movement deliberate, thorough. The simple act of him massaging shampoo into my scalp, working through each strand, supporting my weight as I melt back against him, unravels something deep in my chest.
“Whatever this is, I’m glad we’re doing it,” he murmurs against my ear. “You don’t know what you do to me.”
Water streams down my face as I tilt back to see him. “Pretty sure I just got a comprehensive demonstration.”
That soft smile appears on his face, the one I’m beginning to realize belongs only to me. “I mean all of it. Every part.”
The words form before I can stop them. “You make me feel capable, Mike. You make me feel invincible.”
His arms tighten. “What?”
I turn in his embrace. “Not because you’ll handle things for me. Because you believe I can handle them myself, but don’t always have to.”
His eyes search mine. I see my own barely controlled emotions reflected there—fear at how fast this is moving, overwhelmed by the intensity, hope that maybe he feels what I’m starting to feel.
“Sophie…”
My name sounds different in his mouth now.
Weighted.
Important.
I press my fingers to his lips. “I know we said we’d figure it out, whatever this is. But after tonight… I can’t pretend this is casual.”
For a moment, he just stares. Then he surges forward, capturing my mouth in a kiss that tastes like promises and possibility and every rom-com cliché I’ve mocked. When we break apart, we’re both gasping.
Heat creeps up my neck thinking about what we just did. “We should probably talk about this. Figure out what we’re?—”
“Sophie?”
“Yeah?”
“Stop thinking.”
And for once in my life, I do.