Page 113 of Played
He responds immediately, his body moving into mine with an urgency that matches my own.
His good hand grabs a chunk of my hair, fingers threading through the strands and gripping tight at the base of my skull. He pulls me flush against him—body to body—until there's no space left between us at all. His cast presses awkwardly against my side, but neither of us cares.
The kiss deepens, grows more frantic, more desperate. My hands find his shoulders, his neck, pulling him closer even though it's physically impossible. When we finally break apart, both of us breathless and gasping for air, I look up to find his eyes have gone dark—pupils blown wide, that warm brown nearly swallowed by black.
There's heat there. And hunger.
“Bedroom," I whisper.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
He walks me backward, his lips never leaving mine, our bodies moving together in an awkward, desperate shuffle.
My hands clutch at his shoulders, his shirt, anything I can grab hold of to keep him close. We bump into furniture—the edge of the dresser, the corner of the bookshelf—but neither of us slows down.
His good hand splays across the small of my back, fingers pressing into my skin through the thin fabric of my shirt, guiding me, steadying me as we move. The cast on his other hand brushes against my hip, a clumsy reminder of everything that's happened, but I don't care. All I care about is the heat of his mouth, the solid weight of him against me, the way he kisses me like I'm the only thing in the world that matters right now.
My calves hit the edge of the mattress and I lose my balance, falling backward onto the bed. I don't let go of him—my fingers are twisted in his shirt, gripping tight, and I pull him down with me. He catches himself with his good hand, bracing against the mattress beside my head, his cast landing awkwardly near my shoulder. For just a second we pause, both breathing hard, oureyes locked. Then he's kissing me again, covering my body with his.
Our clothes disappear in a desperate frenzy—my fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, yanking it open with so much force that I hear one pop off and skitter across the floor. His good hand works at my jeans, thumbs hooking into the waistband and dragging them down my hips while I kick them off impatiently.
Zippers rasp, fabric rustles and slides, everything hitting the mattress and floor in a chaotic pile that neither of us pays any attention to. My shirt goes flying. His pants follow. The air between us crackles with urgency.
He hovers over me, the cast on his injured hand braced carefully beside my head, his good hand planted on the bed on my other side. His chest heaves with each breath, muscles taut and beautiful in the dim light filtering through the window. For one suspended heartbeat, we just look at each other—his dark eyes fixing mine, searching, asking a silent question.
I don't give him time to second-guess anything. My hands fly up and I yank him down by the neck, fingers tangling in his beautiful wavy hair, and I kiss him like I'm drowning and he's my only source of air.
His mouth moves from mine to my jaw, licking a trail of hot kisses along the sensitive skin there before dropping to my throat. He finds the perfect spot and lingers there, teeth grazing, teasing, making my breath hitch in my chest.
Then he travels lower down to my collarbone, exploring every inch of exposed skin, and I can barely stand it…. he’s driving me crazy.
I arch into him desperately, my spine curving off the bed as I press closer, needing more contact, more pressure, more of everything. My fingers thread through his soft hair, the strands silky between my fingertips, and I tug hard—harder than Iprobably should—pulling him closer, urging him on, wordlessly begging him not to stop.
He groans.
“Fuck me already,” I moan.
He smiles that perfect grin I love as he pushes into me. Hard. Like I like it.
“Harder," I breathe.
He obliges immediately, his hands gripping my hips with a possessive intensity that sends electricity crackling through my nerve endings. His fingers dig into the soft flesh there, anchoring me, holding me exactly where he wants me.
I dig my nails into his shoulders in response, feeling the firm muscle beneath my palms, then drag them down his back with deliberate force. He doesn't complain—doesn't even flinch. If anything, the sharp bite of pain seems to spur him on, drawing a low, guttural sound from deep in his chest that reverberates through both our bodies. His grip tightens on my hips, becoming more urgent, more desperate.
I lose myself completely in him—in the delicious friction building between us, in the heat radiating from our sweat-slicked bodies, in the intoxicating way his body moves with mine in perfect synchronization.
Every push drives the frustration deeper into my core, transforms it into something raw and electric and utterly consuming. The anger, the fear, the helplessness—it all bleeds away, replaced by pure physical sensation that drowns out every coherent thought.
My world narrows to just this: the slide of skin against skin, the ragged sound of our breathing filling the quiet room, the exquisite pressure building and building with relentless intensity.
"Liza—" His voice breaks.
I thread my fingers through his hair and pull again—harder this time, tugging at the roots with enough force to tilt his head back. A sharp hiss escapes his lips, but it's edged with pleasure rather than pain. I can feel him shudder beneath my touch, his entire body trembling as he fights for control.
The tension inside me coils tighter and tighter, winding like a spring compressed to its absolute limit. My breath comes in short, desperate gasps. My vision blurs at the edges. And then, finally, mercifully, it snaps—the tension releasing all at once.
My orgasm rips through me—white-hot, consuming, obliterating everything else. Daniel, Claudia, the police, the fear—it all dissolves into blinding sensation.
