“Stop telling yourself Rae is going to hate you. Or that Grant is going to flee to Mexico. Those two are idiots—yes—but they likeeach other. Rae knows you didn’t mean to hurt her. She knows you’re you. That all you’re ever trying to do is… fix things.”
Sloane shakes her head. “Rae made Grant check out of The Snowed Inn early… she’s terrified of admitting she feels something. She says it’s all just a setup…”
“Grant will change her mind. He can’t stay away from her even if he tries—I saw it the other night.”
I bend down toward her, stepping into her space.
“And you need to stop punishing yourself. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
I brush my finger under her chin.
“Like me.”
Sloane looks at me. Her pupils widen, swallowing the blue.
“You’re not a problem anymore, Becker,” she murmurs, her voice a little rougher, a little breathless. “You’re… a distraction.”
I grin. Slow. Lazy. Wolfish.
I like that label.
“A distraction, huh?”
“Yes. A very large, arrogant, loud distraction that I’m using so I don’t think about the fact that my career is currently on fire.”
“Great,” I say, my voice dropping an octave, turning to pure gravel. “In that case… let me distract you properly.”
I step between her legs and ease them open.
The air in the dressing room shifts instantly.
Thickens.
Heats.
Fills with static and the kind of pheromones that should come with a warning label.
Sloane doesn’t pull back.
She lifts her chin—defiant, regal, infuriating—and that look alone is enough to fry every remaining brain cell I have.
But I see it.
The frantic little pulse at her neck.
“We’re in a dressing room, Cohen. The production assistants could walk in at any minute.”
“Mm… honestly? Right now I could not give a single damn.”
My hands slide onto her thighs, gliding slowly—possessively—up the expensive fabric of her tailored pants.
I feel her muscles tighten beneath my palms as I move higher.
I reach her inner thigh and press. Just enough.
She jolts.
A quiet, strangled sound slips out of her—and it might be the best thing I’ve heard all week.
