He kisses me like he’s trying to erase the rest of the world.
The water pours down, scalding.
He lets out a low, broken sound that goes straight through me, and I clutch at him—his slick shoulders, his wet hair—holding on like I might fall apart if I don’t.
“You’re going to tell me this was a mistake,” he murmurs, fighting for control I have no interest in letting him keep.
“Sure,” I say, already kissing him again.
That’s it.
The moment my mouth meets his, whatever fragile thread of logic Cohen Becker has been clinging to snaps completely.
He pulls me tight against him, the water rushing between us, my legs—trapped in soaked, useless pants—pressing against his naked, burning body.
His hands cradle my face again, intense and attentive, and he kisses me like nothing else exists.
That sound escapes him once more—deep, helpless—and I grab him, everywhere I can reach.
“You’re going to hate me,” he breathes.
Is hestilltrying to hold back?
God damn him.
“Don’t talk shit, I already hate you.” I pull away just enough to rip off my blouse. Thank goodness… I’m not wearing a bra.
Less fabric.
Less resistance.
Cohen stares at me like he’s never seen breasts before in his life, and—ridiculously—it makes me feel powerful. Wanted.
I smirk. I can see it in his eyes.
He’s unraveling.
“I’m going to hate myself,” he murmurs, and I’m not even sure if he’s talking to me.
I step closer again.
My hand, which had been heading for my pants, changes course and goes straight for his cock.
Oh God. The second I grab him, stars burst behind my eyes. He’s big, hard, thick—and I’ve never felt so powerful.
“Sloane…”
My name sounds like a curse on his lips.
I see it in his eyes. He’s already gone.
“Are you really saying you can’t give me what I want?” I whisper.
He growls.
Yes.
That landed.
