Page 92 of Playing for Keeps

“Don’t stop.”

God help me, I wasn’t about to.

My hand slid under her shirt, fingers skimming her stomach, then higher until I brushed her breasts. She sighed and arched into my touch, drowsy but wanting. Her nipples tightened under my palm as I rubbed gently, teasing until her breaths went shaky against my mouth.

My hand carefully drifted lower, sliding between her thighs. Her sweatpants were soft, thin and no barrier at all to how wet she already was. I circled her clit with steady pressure, and she arched back into me, pushing her ass against me.

“Fuck, Em,” I groaned into the crook of her neck, but I didn’t speed up. I kept it slow, drawing circles, kissing the side of her throat while her body moved restlessly against mine.

Her legs tensed, her breath hitching into short, sharp gasps as she chased the friction of my hand. When she came, soft and shaking, I held her through it, kissing her temple.

She turned in my arms then, pulling me closer. Her eyes were heavy, her mouth curved in a drowsy little smile.

I stripped us the rest of the way down, slowly, nothing rushed. I fumbled around in the nightstand for a condom, the simple action grounding me for half a second before I came back to her. Then I pushed deep into her, savouring every inch, my own breath stuttering at the friction. She was so tight, so warm, and the sleepy moan she let out nearly finished me right then.

We moved together unhurried, like we had all the time in the world. Her hand traced the line of my jaw, and I kissed her everywhere I could reach: her mouth, her cheek, her throat. She shifted beneath me and I hooked her leg over my hip, pressing in deeper, holding there for a beat before moving again.

“Max,” she breathed, thick with sleep, and I swear it was the most beautiful thing I’d ever heard.

She clenched around me, trembling as she came again. The sound of her pulled me over the edge. I pushed into her, groaning her name against her skin as I came with her.

For a while, I just stayed there, breathing hard, listening to her heartbeat level out under my chest. Finally, I rolled us so she could curl back against me, her back to my chest again. “Sleep,” I whispered, kissing her temple.

I wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her in until she was tucked against me. Her breathing got steadier and calmer. For a long time I just lay there, staring into the dark, fighting the heaviness in my chest.

Em?” I murmured, not even sure why.

No answer. Already fast asleep.

I buried my face in her hair, closed my eyes, and let the words I’d been holding back all night come out.

“I love you.”

She didn’t stir. But lying there with her, the words finally spoken, was enough. For now.

44

EMMA

Denise was sitting at her desk, shaking her head dramatically at whatever she was reading. My stomach dipped. God, I hoped my book wasn’t making her frown like that. The door was open, so I knocked on the frame instead.

Her head came up at once, and the frown melted away. “Emma, come in. I’ve been looking forward to today. Have a seat. Tea or coffee?”

“Tea, please.”

“Of course,” she said, already half out of her chair. “I should’ve known. You never touch coffee. Is that a British thing?”

I laughed, sitting down in the chair across from her. “No, it’s a me thing. I just don’t like the taste. I’ve tried everything – milk, sugar, both – but it always tastes like…”

“Like crap?” she offered with a grin.

“Something like that.”

She chuckled. “But how do you survive mornings?”

I shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I’m a morning person. Getting up early has never been the problem; it’s staying up late that does me in. I love mornings. The peace and quiet, the sense that a whole day is waiting for you.”

I smiled, recalling how my love for mornings had already started in childhood. “My parents hated it, though. I would be in the kitchen making noise – mixing pancake batter or blending fruit – completely oblivious that they wanted to sleep in. And then my dad would appear in the doorway, so cranky. He wouldn’t say a word for the first minute; he just poured himself a cup of strong tea. Then he’d start talking about whatever book he was reading while I finished breakfast. Mum was better at ignoring the chaos. She’d only get up after Dad had brought her tea. It became sort of a tradition, really. Those small things… they stick with you.”