I see the realization settle over her face. She knows exactly who I mean.
My hands slide to her hips as the crop keeps teasing—skimming her inner thighs, inching closer to the heat between them.
She spreads her legs, inviting me. Begging.
She’s wet. So wet the scent of her arousal cuts through the champagne and fills my head.
“I want you,” she moans, pushing back against me. “Now. Please.”
“Patience, Angel.”
I slip my hand between her thighs, finding her swollen clit, circling it slowly with my thumb.
With my other hand, I snap the crop against her right cheek.
The sharp sting behind, the relentless pleasure in front—it wrecks her.
She cries out, throwing her head back onto my shoulder, baring her neck.
I bite her. Hard.
Right over the pulse.
Right where I know it destroys her.
Sloane loves bites.
“You’re mine,” I growl against her skin. “Say it.”
Of course, she doesn’t.
Instead, she pushes back against me, hard enough to make my vision blur.
“Is that all you’ve got, Becker?” she challenges, her voice shaking but still sharp with that insolence that drives me insane. “I thought you were an athlete—not an amateur.”
That snaps the last thread of my control.
The caveman I’ve been holding back tears through the cage.
I drop the crop. I don’t need toys. I need my hands. My body.
“Amateur?” I growl against her skin.
I grab her hips hard enough to leave marks, my fingers digging into the soft flesh as I pin her against the solid wood table. I tear her pants down in frantic, rough motions—the rasp of the zipper the only warning she gets.
There’s no room for gentleness.
No room for slow foreplay.
I need to be inside her the way I need air. I need to erase every other touch, every other thought, every other man she’s ever known.
I take her in a single thrust—deep, all the way.
Sloane screams. Not a moan—a sharp cry of shock and pure pleasure.
She’s tight. So tight I have to stop for a split second, jaw clenched, neck taut, fighting not to come immediately.
She takes advantage of it.
