Our bodies slam together, the sound obscene. Her ass slamming into me—yeah, definitely my favorite soundtrack.
“You…” she pants, voice almost a growl, “…you really think you’re irresistible.”
“Am I wrong?”
Another deep stroke.
Her body answers before her mind does, the way she tightens around me saying far more than her words ever could.
“Yes.”
But the look of pure bliss gives her away. I love that expression on her face.
“Then you should see yourself right now.” I pause only long enough to kiss her—I can’t help it. “You’re so damn beautiful.”
Her eyes meet mine, her teeth sinking into her lower lip. For a second, she looks vulnerable.
Just a second.
“No one asked for compliments, Becker.” Mischief flashes in her eyes. “I asked you to fuck me.”
Damn it.
She won’t let me win.
She won’t surrender.
So I pull almost all the way out and slam back into her—and hell, the sound she makes wrecks me just as much.
“You’re so fucking tight,” I growl. “Perfect and insolent at the same time.”
She laughs—but the sound dies in her throat when I thrust again.
I grip her hips hard, reclaiming control of the rhythm. Slow, deep thrusts—then fast, brutal ones. I want her mind so flooded with pleasure there’s no room left for her smart mouth.
Her eyes are closed now, her head pressed to the tiles, but her body keeps clinging to me. Her nails rake down my back—another mark I won’t forget.
“Who’s the puppy now?” I whisper, my body on fire.
She doesn’t answer with words.
Her body tightens around me, the pressure building until it’s unbearable. Her mouth opens, and my fingers move instinctively to muffle her cry.
Her orgasm crashes over me like a wave of heat, ripping away what little control I have left.
I growl—pure possession—and follow her, my final thrust a violent collapse against her body.
Fuck good intentions.
Sloane Heart is my most beautiful transgression.
37
A Diva in Stilettos and a Sweatsuit
Cohen
I’m sitting at the kitchen table like I’m being interrogated by the FBI—
