“I said turn around, Sloane.”
Silence stretches. A brief, brutal standoff between control and desire.
Desire wins.
She turns, bracing her hands on the table, leaning forward—arching in that way that wrecks me every time.
Her dress rides up, baring her thighs.
Christ.
I stand behind her. I don’t touch her—not with my hands.
I trail the tip of the crop along her spine, over the red fabric. She shivers hard.
“You’re tense,” I murmur at her ear. “Relax.”
“You bastard,” she gasps.
“And you’re beautiful.”
In one swift motion, I haul her dress up to her waist.
She’s wearing nothing underneath.
Damn.
Her ass is perfect—round, bare, glowing in the firelight.
I flick one cheek with the crop.
She moans, startled.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
Another stroke.
A little harder.
Her skin blooms pink beneath the leather.
“Yes…”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Cohen…”
I press in close, letting her feel how hard I am against her back.
“Who’s in this room, Sloane?”
“Us?” she answers, breathless, confused.
“Who else?”
“No one.”
“Exactly. No one. That guy doesn’t exist. Only I do. Only what I’m doing to you exists.”
