Page 165 of Play Fake
I dip my head, kissing the spot just behind her ear. She shivers, her eyes fluttering closed, but I murmur, voice low and thick, “Keep looking, Soph. I want you to see what you do to me.”
Her breath catches. I watch her in the glass, her cheeks flushed, lips parted. My hands slip under the jersey, palms flat against her bare stomach. I drag them up, slow, savoring the feel of her skin, the way her body arches into my touch.
When my hands find her breasts, I squeeze, gentle at first, then more insistent, thumb brushing over her nipples until she whimpers. I watch every reaction—her lashes fluttering, chest rising faster, the way her thighs press together. One hand slips lower, fingers gliding down her belly.
I bend, pressing another slow kiss to the side of her neck. She sighs, her eyelids fluttering. My hands slide down, fingers hooking in the waistband of her pants. “Let me see you,” I whisper, voice thick.
I slip her pants and panties down, letting them puddle at her ankles. She steps out of them without looking away from the mirror, her bare skin gleaming in the soft light. I drag my hands back up, cupping her hips, then her stomach, then higher beneath my jersey.
“Keep watching, Soph,” I murmur, meeting her gaze in the glass. “Don’t look away.”
I palm her breasts, thumbs brushing over her nipples, watching her shiver, her breath quickening. My hand slides lower, tracing over her stomach, between her thighs. She gasps, her body arching into my touch as my fingers find her, already slick and needy.
“God, you’re beautiful like this,” I growl, voice rough with want. “Look at yourself, baby. Look how perfect you are when I touch you.”
Her hands grip the edge of the sink, knuckles white, her eyes never leaving mine in the mirror. I tease her, slow at first, circling her clit until she’s trembling, then slip my fingers inside, curling just right. Her lips part, a whimper slipping out, cheeks flushed.
“Beck—please?—”
“You want to come for me right here?” I ask, moving my fingers faster, my free hand squeezing her hip. “Want to see how you look when you fall apart?”
She moans, her back arching, body straining for more. “Yes, yes, I?—”
Her eyes try to flutter closed as she nears the edge, but I lean in, my mouth hot against her ear. “You know the rules, pretty girl. Eyes on me when you come.”
She obeys, meeting my gaze in the mirror as her body tenses, her breath stuttering. I don’t let up, coaxing her higher, until she falls apart for me—her mouth open, eyes wide, everything raw and unguarded. I watch every shudder, every wave of pleasure roll through her, my own need burning sharp and urgent.
I turn her in my arms, kiss her hard, and she melts against me, shaky and sweet. I scoop her up, carrying her to the bed, laying her down and following her, hungry for more.
She tugs at my shirt, and I strip it off, then continue baring myself to her. Her hands roam, desperate and greedy, tugging me closer. I push inside her in one slow, deep thrust, swallowing her gasp with my mouth.
We lose ourselves in each other, every movement slow at first, then faster—her body rising to meet mine, our hands tangled, hearts hammering. She clings to me as she comes again, her pleasure pulling me over the edge with her.
We collapse together, breathing hard, tangled in the dark, the mirror’s memory burning behind my eyes. And as I hold her, feeling her heartbeat slow against mine, I know there’s nowhere else I’ll ever belong.
Sophie
The bathroom is quiet except for the faint hum of the ceiling fan and the sound of my own heartbeat pounding in my ears.
I sit on the edge of the tub, one hand pressed over my mouth, the other holding a small white stick that’s about to change everything.
Two pink lines.
Clear as day.
I blink, like maybe I’ve imagined it. We weren’t exactlytrying, but we hadn’t been preventing either. Between Beck’s games, my work, and taking care of Caleb, life’s been full—beautifully, chaotically full. I always figured we’d talk about it someday. Plan it. But life, it seems, had plans of its own.
My throat tightens as I look down again, eyes stinging. I’m not scared. Just overwhelmed in that deep, chest-hurting way that only comes when something feels so impossibly right.
There’s a knock at the door.
“Hey, Soph? You almost ready?” Beck’s voice is warm, amused—the same tone he uses when Caleb’s been bouncing off the walls all morning. “Birthday boy’s getting impatient. I think he’s eaten half the frosting off his cake already.”
I take a shaky breath, swiping quickly at my eyes. “Yeah—one second!”
The handle clicks anyway, and before I can say anything, he’s stepping inside. His grin fades when he sees me—not scared, just instantly attuned, like he always is.
“Hey,” he says softly, brow creasing. “You okay?”
