She wants to take.
And that drives me insane.
My lips curve into an incredulous, fascinated smile.
“You’re lethal, you know that?” I murmur, shaking my head. “I love it when you’re a bitch.”
I reach out and cup her cheek, my thumb tracing the sharp line of her jaw.
“You liked having me in your grip, huh?” I ask softly. “Liked feeling me weak for you?”
She nods, eyes bright with triumph. “It’s crazy.”
“Good,” I say, my voice dropping into a low, excited growl. “Then let me return the favor.”
I look at her like she’s the most precious, dirtiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“I want to hear you scream as loud as I screamed, Sloane. I want to get even—with interest.”
I move toward the duffel bag, never breaking eye contact.
“And I brought just the right tool to make sure that happens.”
I pull out the riding crop.
Her gaze drops to the black leather, then lifts back to mine. Her pupils widen, swallowing the blue.
There’s no fear.
There’s anticipation.
The same hunger burning in me.
“Cohen…” she whispers, her voice shifting—lower, warmer. “Did you bring… that?”
I slide the leather slowly across my palm.
Swish.
A dry, thrilling sound.
“It’s a gift,” I say with a crooked smile. “It would’ve been rude to leave it at home, wouldn’t it?”
I tilt my head. “And then there was that note. Something about how I should learn discipline.”
I step closer, crowding her back against the table.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Angel. I’m not the one who needs discipline.”
She stares at the crop, then at me. Her pupils are blown wide—black, liquid.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she hisses. “Are you testing me?”
I hook the strap of her red dress with the handle and ease it down, slow, deliberate, exposing the pale curve of her shoulder.
“Turn around.”
“Cohen—”
