“I’m just trying to—” He stops, swallows. For a second, his eyes look almost vulnerable.
I want him with every fiber of my being—but I don’t want to force him.
So I pull my hand away.
“Okay. Message received,” I say lightly. “You don’t want this.”
I don’t feel disappointed.
I don’t.
That tight feeling in my chest? Definitely not disappointment.
It doesn’t hurt.
“Sloane—”
I only realize I’m turning away when his hand closes around mine. His voice is low, rough. “Fuck. Of course I want you. Who wouldn’t?”
A nervous smile slips out.
He has no idea.
But no—this is not the time to think about my ex.
Cohen pulls me back toward him, his hand sliding up my face, stopping under my chin.
Then he kisses me again.
It’s different this time. Slower. Almost tender.
“Last night,” he says quietly, “I promised myself I wouldn’t hurt you again.”
Oh hell no. I don’t want this. He shouldn’t dare.
“You’re giving yourself too much credit, Cohen-the-Pest.”
I pitch my voice into its most arrogant register and lift a brow.
“Now—are you actually capable of fucking me, or not?”
He stifles a laugh.
“I think I’ve demonstrated that more than once,” he says, the arrogance sliding right back into place.
Good.
Great.
I want to hate him.
And stop wanting him.
Period.
“Then fuck me properly,” I say, cool and sharp, “and stop acting like a scared puppy.”
36
