And the sentence dies on his lips.
He freezes. His arms drop to his sides. His mouth parts slightly, but no sound comes out.
His eyes go dark—devouring every inch of me.
From my neck, down the lace that barely hides my breasts, overthe flat of my stomach, to the narrow strip of fabric between my thighs that does absolutely nothing to keep his imagination in check.
I feel his stare like a physical touch—hot, consuming, sparking everywhere at once.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, voice wrecked.
I move toward him.
One step at a time. Slow. Certain. Predatory.
The humiliation is gone.
All that’s left is the need to take him. To ruin him a little. To make him lose his mind.
“Do you like it?” I ask, stopping just short of touching him. “It’s your gift.”
Cohen swallows hard. I watch his Adam’s apple bob. He’s hypnotized.
“Sloane… we should…”
I know he doesn’t mean what I mean—but I answer anyway.
“We definitely should.”
I plant my hands on his chest and push him back.
He stumbles backward, rocking until the back of his legs hit the edge of the canopy bed. He drops onto the mattress, legs spread, eyes locked on me like I’m both his downfall and his salvation.
I step between his legs.
He’s sitting. I’m standing.
I’m in control.
I slide my fingers into his hair, giving a gentle tug to tilt his face up toward mine.
“You wanted me, Becker?” I whisper. “You wanted me when you bought this?”
“Yes,” he growls, his hands fly to my hips. His fingers dig into my bare skin—hot, rough, desperate. “Fuck, yes. Always. I want you every damn minute.”
“Good. Then watch me. Watch me and don’t think about anything else.”
I sink to my knees in front of him.
He lets out a ragged sound, his grip tightening as his hands glide higher, thumbs pressing into my skin.
My fingers go to the fly of his jeans.
He trembles.
Cohen Becker—unshakable professional athlete—is trembling for me.
I lower the zipper slowly. The metallic slide sounds like thunder in the quiet room.
