Chapter 51
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
SOPHIE
Cardboard, it turns out, has a way of multiplying like rabbits.
I stare at the sea of boxes overtaking my tiny flat, wondering how on earth I managed to accumulate so much stuff in just a couple of years. Murphy is currently wedged halfway into the cupboard under my sink, pulling out a suspiciously heavy shoebox that I definitely do not remember packing.
“What even is this?” he grunts, staggering to his feet and depositing it on the floor. The box emits a worrying rattle. “Is this your secret stash of weaponised hairdryers or something?”
I smirk, taping up the box in front of me with more enthusiasm than skill. “It’s probably old Uni junk. Or my cursed collection of charger cables from phones that died in 2014.”
He stretches, brushing dust off his hoodie. “We’re gonna need a bloody moving van the size of a team bus. And that’s just for your novelty mugs.”
“Says the man who owns nine different hockey jerseys, all with his own name on them.”
“They were gifts, thank you very much. From fans.”
“Right. Fans.”
He flops down beside me on the floor, reaching for the roll of packing tape like it’s a beer. His hair is mussed, cheek smudged with dust, but he still somehow manages to look disgustingly attractive. It’s unfair, really.
“Speaking of fans,” he says, with the casual tone of someone who is not-so-casually teeing up a question, “there’s this charity gala thing next Thursday. Team sponsors, posh food, red carpet nonsense. Layla says I have to go.”
I glance at him, narrowing my eyes. “And let me guess, you need someone to help you tie your tie and remind you not to say anything inappropriate to donors?”
He nudges my knee with his. “Was hoping you’d be my plus one, yeah. You’d class the whole thing up. Make me look respectable.”
I wince. Not because I don’t want to go, I actually love any excuse to wear something glittery and drink champagne while pretending I understand small talk. But...
“I can’t. I’ve got the finance meeting with that corporate wellness account on Friday morning, remember? The one I’ve been pulling twelve-hour days for. The director’s flying in from Dublin, it’s kind of a big deal.”
His face falls.
Not dramatically. Not in a storm-off, sulk-to-the-corner kind of way. More like someone let the air out of his happy balloon.
“So you’re saying I have to face the wolves alone. In a tux. With photographers. And tiny canapés.”
“Pretty much” I say, gently. “But you’ll be fine. Flash that devastating smile. Pretend to care about wine pairings. Don’t say the word ‘bollocks’ in front of anyone holding a cheque.”
He drops his head back against the wall with a groan. “What’s even the point of being in a committed relationship if I have to suffer through fancy rich people events alone?”
“Free laundry service and a designated box-packer?”
He grunts. “Not the same.”
“You’re being dramatic.”
He peeks one eye open. “Let me sulk in peace. It’s part of my charm.”
I roll my eyes, crawling across the floor to where he’s lounging. I straddle him easily, knees on either side of his thighs, arms looping around his neck. His hands find my waist like its muscle memory, and his thumbs draw slow, lazy circles that make heat pool low in my belly.
“You’ll be fine,” I murmur, brushing his hair back from his forehead. “I’ll make it up to you.”
His brow arches. “Oh yeah? How?”
I lean in, kiss the corner of his mouth. “Use your imagination.”
His eyes darken instantly, the playful spark in them flickering into something more primal.
“Sophie Hart, are you seducing me while we’re surrounded by bubble wrap and boxes labelled ‘kitchen crap’?”
“Is it working?”
“Woman, I would crawl through a sea of packing peanuts for you.”
I laugh, but it morphs into a gasp when he grabs my hips and flips us, pinning me to the floor in one smooth movement. The concrete beneath the cheap carpet is cold, but he’s all heat and hunger as he covers my body with his.
He kisses me hard. Open-mouthed, all tongue and intent, tasting of salt and need. His hands slip beneath my sweatshirt, calloused palms skating up my sides to cup my breasts through my bra, thumbs flicking over the lace, until I arch into him.
“Off,” he growls, tugging at the hem of my top, and I lift my arms obediently. He yanks the bra down too, groaning when my bare skin is exposed. His mouth is on me a second later, sucking and licking, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin until I writhe under him.
“You drive me mental,” he mutters against my breast. “Completely fucking mental.”
His words vibrate against my skin. I reach for his hoodie, tugging it off, then wrestle with the T-shirt underneath until he’s bared from the waist up, chest flushed, abs tightening as he lowers himself back over me.
His hips grind into mine, the friction maddening. I can feel him hard through his joggers, pressing right where I need him most. I moan and grab at his waistband, desperate.
“In a rush, are we?” he teases, biting down gently on my bottom lip.
“You started it.”
He chuckles low in his throat, but obliges, sitting back on his heels to tug my leggings down in one rough pull. My knickers follow, tossed carelessly onto the nearest pile of bubble wrap.
His eyes roam over me, hungry and reverent all at once.
“Christ, you’re perfect.”
“Then come here and do something about it.”
He does.
His mouth trails down my stomach, tongue flicking over the soft skin just above my hip, then lower still. He settles between my thighs, hands spreading my legs with gentle insistence. And when his mouth finds me, hot and wet and wicked, I nearly come undone on the spot.
I thread my fingers through his hair, hips bucking up as he licks and sucks and teases like a man with something to prove.
“Murphy, fuck, don’t stop.”
He hums in approval, the vibration sending another wave of heat crashing through me. When he finally pulls back, my legs are shaking.
“You’re not going to that gala without me thinking about this every five seconds,” I pant.
“Good.” He leans up to kiss me again, then fumbles for his joggers, pushing them down just far enough. I reach for him, wrap my hand around him, stroking slow and deliberate. His eyes flutter shut, jaw clenched.
“Fuck, Soph,”
He doesn’t wait. Lines himself up, pushes inside me in one slow, deep thrust that makes both of us moan. He stills for a second, breathing hard, forehead pressed to mine.
“Every time,” he murmurs. “Every bloody time.”
Then he starts to move.
It’s hot and filthy and completely ungraceful. We knock over a taped-up box of books, nearly crush a roll of bubble wrap, and I’m pretty sure someone outside hears me scream his name, but none of that matters.
All that matters is him, and this, and the way we fit together like two halves of the same chaotic whole.
He thrusts harder, faster, dragging sounds from me I didn’t know I could make. One hand finds my wrist, pins it above my head, the other gripping my thigh to keep me open for him. His eyes never leave mine, even as we fall apart.
When I come, it hits me like a freight train, all white-hot pleasure and shattered breath. He follows with a low groan, burying his face in my neck as he spills inside me.
We collapse in a heap, panting and laughing, tangled in each other and a dozen packing labels.
“Still annoyed about the gala?” I ask, once I can breathe again.
“Nope,” he says, eyes closed, voice content. “I’ll just think about this while I’m stuck talking to people named Rupert and Camilla.”
I laugh. “Maybe I’ll text you filthy things during the speeches.”
He cracks one eye open. “You really are the woman of my dreams.”