Chapter 41
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
SOPHIE
When I said, “let’s keep doing this,” I didn’t expect Murphy to act like we’d signed a contract with fine print and a commitment clause, but I’m hardly mad about it.
He’s become a permanent fixture in my phone and my flat. Texts me every morning like clockwork. Today was a selfie with bed hair and the caption “Still fit tho, right?”, and usually caps off the night with a meme, a voice note, or a completely unprovoked ranking of biscuits by dunkability.
He raids my snack cupboard as if he pays rent. Drops by with takeaway and claims he’s “just keeping me company” while I work, only to distract me so badly I end up rewriting the same three lines for an hour.
And then there’s the kissing.
The man kisses like it’s a bloody art form. Like every time is a new draft and he’s determined to make it a masterpiece. And I, little old professional, composed, self-contained me, turns into a puddle on contact.
Today is the same as any other weekday, really. I’m juggling client calls and trying to ignore the siren song of the biscuits he didn’t finish last night.
Murphy’s at the rink. He sent me a video earlier of Ollie tripping over a cone during drills, captioned “proud dad watching his toddler walk.”
I send back a gif of a clapping seal and carry on pretending I’m being productive on my work from home day. By late afternoon, he rings me without warning.
“Did you know,” he starts, “that your boyfriend is a local celebrity now?”
I snort. “Don’t think you qualify just because someone recognised you at Greggs.”
“First of all, rude. Second of all, I’ll have you know the woman behind the till called me ‘luv’ and asked if I was that guy from the game on Friday.”
I grin. “And did you say yes?”
“Course I did. She gave me a free sausage roll.”
“Wow. Fame has really changed you.”
“You should see the ego on me now, Hart. Unmanageable.”
I smile into the phone, slouching deeper into my sofa. “You coming over later?”
“Try and stop me. Bringing snacks. Don’t eat.”
“You never say that when I’m in a dress.”
He groans. “Woman, I’m at the rink. Do you want me sent off for inappropriate conduct?”
“Just trying to keep your blood pressure up. Cardio’s important.”
He mutters something about me being a tease and hangs up.
When he shows up later, he smells like the rink, and he’s still in his training kit, with his trackies slung low on his hips, and his hair still damp from a quick shower, his grin is cocky as hell.
“Nice of you to dress up,” I say, eyeing his hoodie.
“You say that now, but you’ll be stealing it in twenty minutes.”
“Bold of you to assume I want your sweat.”
“Please. You’d bottle my pheromones if you could.”
I toss a cushion at him. He dodges and makes a beeline for the kitchen, pulling out the snacks he brought, crisps, chocolate, and two bottles of something fizzy that definitely isn’t Prosecco but he’s calling “date night bubbles” anyway.
“Come here,” he says, pulling me onto the sofa beside him. “Had a shite training session. I need my emotional support goblin.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
I raise a brow. “Say that again and I’ll eat all your crisps.”
He tilts his head, smug. “Say that again and I’ll let you.”
This is what we are now. Easy. Flirty. Sharp edges softened by shared snacks and way too much touching. He throws an arm around me as if he owns the furniture and the space I take up, like I fit here. And weirdly, I do.
He ends up with his head in my lap, scrolling through TikTok while I pretend to work. I braid a section of his hair because he doesn’t stop me, and he hums whenever my nails skim his scalp.
“You know you’re ridiculous, right?” I say, twirling the tiny plait at his temple.
He looks up at me with that lopsided grin. “You like that I’m ridiculous.”
“Debatable.”
“Liar.”
I lean down and kiss him. It’s lazy and warm and familiar in a way that makes my chest ache. He hums against my mouth, his hands sliding up my thighs, it’s kind of casual but not casual at all.
“You keep kissing me like that,” he murmurs, “and I’m going to forget we were supposed to eat.”
“Was that ever really the plan?”
He sits up and pulls me into his lap like it’s the most obvious solution. “Depends. You want snacks or me?”
I eye the crisps. “Tough call.”
“Cheek.” But then he kisses me again, and I forget what crisps even are.
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 I swear I 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 he wants to 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 was hopeful.”
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