Chapter 8 Murphy
MURPHY
Murphy slumped onto the bench in the locker room, peeling off his gear one piece at a time. Conner dropped down beside him with a friendly nod.
“Good skate today. You’re looking solid out there.”
“Thanks, Captain,” Murphy said with a tired grin. “Been putting in the work.”
Conner cracked his knuckles, stretching. “Summer treating you right? Getting some training?”
"Oh yeah, I've spent a lot of the summer in the gym." Murphy paused, thinking. “But mostly time with my family. My brother’s been keeping me grounded.”
“Sounds like a good thing.”
“Yeah. It is. Keeps me humble.”
Conner chuckled. “My sister's the same. No one can remind you of where you came from quite like a sibling.”
Murphy laughed. “That's definitely true.”
Conner stood to go to the shower, and Murphy finished with his gear.
This was his second year in the league, and he still had to pinch himself to remind himself that this was actually happening.
After a lifetime of hard work, he'd been drafted in his junior year when he played for BU.
He finished school, and after graduation, he joined the team.
He looked around the room. Working with these guys, for this organization, was a dream come true. And this year, he wasn't the rookie anymore. It was going to be a good year.
Later that night, Murphy pulled up to Hillary’s house carrying a pizza box and a bottle of wine. The porch light flicked on, and she opened the door, a small smile greeting him.
“Come on in,” she said, stepping aside.
A bottle of wine and a pizza later, he was finishing up. Murphy wiped his hands on a rag, surveying the freshly assembled shelves as if he’d just built the Eiffel Tower. “Not bad for a hockey player, huh?”
Hillary laughed, the sound slipping out before she could stop it. “I’ll admit, I thought we’d end the night with a pile of wood and me googling ‘emergency handyman.’”
He grinned, dropping down onto the couch beside her. “You wound me.”
He picked up the last piece of pizza as the theme song to Gilmore Girls played. "How many times have you watched this show?" he asked.
"It's a classic," she said, moving closer to him.
"So countless times," he said, resting his arm on the back of the couch.
She bit her lips and smiled up at him before scooting over more.
They leaned into each other, laughter softening into a charged quiet.
He reached up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering against her cheek.
Her breath hitched—then his mouth was on hers, warm and insistent.
The kiss deepened, his tongue brushing against hers, tasting her like he’d been starving for it.
His hand slid under her t-shirt, palm warm against the curve of her waist before dipping lower, fingers brushing the lace edge of her panties.
She gasped into his mouth, arching when he slipped his hand between her thighs.
“Murphy—”
“Shh. Let me,” he murmured, his voice low, rough.
His fingers found her slick, and he groaned against her lips, stroking her slowly at first, then with purposeful pressure.
She clutched his shoulders, biting her lip as pleasure coiled tight inside her.
He kept his eyes on her face, drinking in every flutter of her lashes, every gasp, until she broke apart with a muffled cry, shuddering against him.
He kissed her through it, hands never leaving her until the aftershocks faded. "What do you say we move this to your bed?" he whispered in her ear before pressing a kiss to her temple.
In the bedroom, he took his time stripping her, pressing reverent kisses to every inch of bare skin he revealed. “God, you’re beautiful,” he whispered, worship threaded through every touch.
He pushed her back on the bed and kneeled between her legs. His dick throbbed at the sight of her perfect pussy. He trailed a finger down her center before pushing it in. Using his other hand, he spread her open and gave her a slow, indulgent lick as she squirmed.
"Please, Murphy, just fuck me."
He'd never been with anyone like Hillary before. She went after what she wanted and didn't care what anyone thought, in the bedroom and in life. He considered himself lucky to be part of all of it. But as she moaned, he had a renewed focus on her pleasure.
They'd been doing this all summer, so he knew what to do. He knew the spot to hit inside and the way she liked her clit sucked, so that was just what he did.
Her thighs squeezed around his head as she cried out.
When she came down, he was standing over her looking down at her, "You're so pretty when you come."
"Get over here," she said, reaching for him.
He moved over her slowly at first, building her up again until she was begging, nails digging into his back. When he finally pushed into her, his breath stuttered. "Fuck," he groaned in her ear as he ground against her.
Then he set a steady rhythm, every thrust punctuated by murmured praise. It had never been this good before.
She came again, clinging to him, and he followed with a hoarse groan, collapsing beside her and pulling her close.
Later, tangled in her sheets, he traced a lazy circle on her hip. “Guess we should be careful about getting walked in on again,” he teased lightly.
"Right. That was a close one," she said.
He was hoping she would laugh, but she didn't seem to find it funny.
"I mean, you can shove me under your desk anytime, Boss."
This did get a little chuckle out of her as he relaxed back into the bed.
Her smile flickered. “This . . . was amazing. But we said no strings. And after tonight, we should stick to that.”
He tried to make it a joke. “Sure. Last hurrah.”
But when he left, pulling the door shut behind him, the words looped in his head. She'd said this many times after they'd hooked up this summer, but part of him thought she might mean it this time.
He started up his car and looked back up at her house. He would respect her decision, whatever it was, but he was in deep. Somehow, since the gala, this devastatingly strong woman had come to mean a lot to him. He was not ready for it to be over.