Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
SOPHIE
Murphy’s mouth is on mine before I can even formulate a thought. One second, I’m laughing at some ridiculous line he’s just fed me and the next, I’m being kissed as if I’m the last shot of tequila on Earth.
Hot. Fast. Shameless.
It’s a good kiss. A dangerously good kiss.
The kind that comes with no hesitation and just enough teeth to make my knees go a bit traitorously wobbly.
I’m not new to confident men, but Murphy has the kind of self-assuredness that only comes from being adored on and off the ice, and for once, it’s not annoying. It’s electric.
“Wow,” I say when we finally come up for air, my heart punching a rhythm against my ribs. “You always open with that, or is tonight special?”
He grins; eyes gleaming as if he’s just won a bet. “Only for women who steal my hoodie and pretend it’s not foreplay.”
“You gave me this hoodie.”
“Exactly. Foreplay.”
Cocky bastard.
“Do you ever stop talking?”
Murphy leans in again, his lips brushing the corner of my mouth, maddeningly slow now. “Not when I’ve got you making that face.”
“What face?”
“The one where you’re pretending you don’t want me to throw you down on the couch and make you forget your name.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t move away. My body’s already betraying me, gravitating toward his like I’ve been dying for this since he first winked at me across the bar.
“Bed,” I demand, “I’m not getting carpet burns because you’re impatient.”
“I’m very patient,” he says, dipping to kiss the curve of my jaw, his voice lower now. Rougher. “But the noises you make when you’re bossy are killing me. So, what’s it gonna be, Hart”
“It’s Sophie.”
He smirks against my skin. “Right. Sophie.”
I shove at his chest, not because I want space but because I don’t. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet, here you are. In my hoodie.”
“In your hoodie because you’re a walking furnace.”
“And kissing me because?”
“I slipped.”
He snorts, actually snorts. “You slipped. Onto my face?”
“Accidents happen.”
His mouth crashes back onto mine, and this time there’s no teasing.
No jokes. Just heat. His hands are everywhere; under the hoodie, skimming my sides, mapping me as though he’s memorising my shape.
I let out a gasp when his fingers slide beneath my bra, thumbs brushing across my nipples in a way that turns my spine to liquid.
“That’s... not fair,” I breathe.
“Who said I play fair?”
Murphy walks me backward, this time with real intent.
Through the hallway, past the half-shut door that leads to the bathroom, until we reach my bedroom.
It’s a bit of a mess, some laundry on a chair, a crumpled jersey on the floor, but I barely register it before I’m on the bed with him following me down, all heavy heat and rough hands.
“You good?” he asks suddenly, his tone softer.
I blink up at him, surprised by the shift.
“Yeah. You?”
He kisses me again before I can roll my eyes a second time, and then we’re undressing each other in between ridiculous one-liners.
“You know,” I say as I tug his shirt over his head, “this is going to ruin our entire dynamic.”
“Can’t ruin perfection.”
“You’re so full of yourself.”
“And yet, still, you’re unbuttoning my jeans.”
“Tragically, yes.”
He groans when my fingers skim over the front of his boxers, and I can’t help the victorious grin that pulls at my lips. He’s solid heat, all muscle and taut skin, and when he tugs the hoodie and my shirt off in one swoop, his breath catches.
“Holy shit, Sophie.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What?”
“Just... you. Like this.” He makes a helpless gesture as if he’s overwhelmed. “You’re unreal.”
I feel something shift then. Something warm and stupid and dangerous. I push it down.
“No sweet-talking,” I murmur as I reach for him again. “We agreed this was strictly fake mutually assured destruction.”
“Oh, I plan to destroy you.”
“Promises, promises.”
And then it’s fast again, messy in the best way. His mouth on my neck, my chest, my stomach. His fingers finding places that make me writhe and swear, and forget how to breathe. I’m not quiet, and he clearly likes that, grinning wickedly every time he pulls a sound out of me that borders on a moan.
“Murphy…God…there,”
“Say it again.”
“No.”
“C’mon, Soph. Give a guy something to work with.”
“You already are.”
He laughs, and it’s breathless and raspy, and then he’s moving lower, kissing down my thighs before his mouth finds me properly. I gasp, one hand flying to his hair, gripping tight.
“Jesus…okay…yep…that’s…wow,”
He hums like he’s smug as hell. I kick him lightly in the shoulder, then immediately regret it because he retreats, smirking up at me with flushed cheeks and wild hair.
“You’re gonna regret that.”
“Try me.”
He does.
He slides back up my body, mouths at my collarbone, nips at my earlobe, and then he asks “Condoms?”
“In the drawer,” I answer, quirking a brow.
“Preparation is sexy.” He kisses my jaw as he pulls open the drawer and retrieves a small foil packet.
“Boy Scout?”
“I earned all the badges, baby.”
I laugh, and he kisses me again, slower this time. When he pushes inside me, it’s a stretch and a burn, and something that makes my whole body arch into his. We move together as though we’ve done this a hundred times, as if we know each other already, which is insane, because we don’t. Not really.
But in this moment, it feels like we do.
He mutters something into my hair, something that sounds like a curse and a prayer all at once. I dig my nails into his shoulders and meet him thrust for thrust, gasping every time he hits just right.
“Jesus, Murphy…”
“I know.”
“Shut up…”
“You shut up,”
“Harder,”
He groans, biting down gently on my shoulder as he obeys. We crash over the edge together not long after, breathless and a little stunned.
For a long time, there’s just the sound of our breathing and the faint hum of the streetlight through the window. He rolls off me but keeps an arm slung around my waist, pulling me into the curve of his chest like I belong there.
So dangerous.
“You okay?” he murmurs into my hair.
“I’m fantastic.” My voice is sleepy now
“Good.”
There’s a brief pause.
“That was...” he starts.
“Unexpectedly excellent?”
“I was gonna say ‘life-changing,’ but sure, let’s start modest.”
I laugh. “You are impossible.”
“You’re the one who kissed me first.”
“Excuse me?”
“Delusional.”
“Sexy and delusional. You’re the whole package.”
I groan, flopping back onto the pillow. “God help me, you’re staying the night, aren’t you?”
“Well, I’m in your bed,” he plants a kiss on my forehead.
“I’ll make you leave if you start writing sonnets.”
“Too late. Rhymed ‘Sophie’ with ‘trophy’ in my head earlier.”
“Oh my God.”
“I won you, baby.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“True. But you’re still not putting your clothes back on.”
He nuzzles into my neck, and to my great shame, I don’t shove him off. If anything, I scoot a little closer.
“Just so we’re clear,” I say, yawning. “This doesn’t mean anything.”
He hums. “Sure.”
“No feelings.”
“None at all.”
“Just a one-time thing.”
“Right.”
I’m not sure which one of us is lying more.