I shake the can.
“Open your legs, Angel.”
She obeys—slowly—locking her gaze on mine.
I don’t go there right away.
I draw a line of whipped cream starting at the hollow of her throat, down the valley between her breasts, all the way to her navel.
Sloane shivers violently, arching her back.
“It’s cold…” she moans.
“Wait until I warm it up.”
I lower myself over her.
I don’t use my hands.
Just my mouth.
I start at her neck, licking away the white sweetness with long, slow, deliberate strokes of my tongue. I savor the mix of sugar and salt on her skin.
Lower.
My tongue circles her breast, gathering the cream, teasing the areola already hardened from the cold.
“Cohen…” Her free hand fists in my hair, pulling my head closer.
I take her nipple into my mouth and suck hard, then nip it gently between my teeth.
The taste is unreal—sweet, warm, hers.
She arches again, offering herself, moaning my name.
I keep going, cleaning every last trace of white down to her navel. There, I stop, pressing my tongue into the hollow, making her writhe beneath me.
I straighten up, picking up a strawberry from the bowl. It’s large. Ripe.
I dip it into the cream clinging to the nozzle.
“Open up,” I order.
Sloane opens her mouth. I push the strawberry past her lips, slowly, my fingers following it in. She sucks the fruit and my fingers together, her eyes locked on mine with a lust that makes my blood pound.
I feel her tongue wrap around my index finger and thumb, drawing out the juice.
It’s the most erotic image I’ve ever seen.
“Do you want dessert, Becker?” she whispers, her mouth still smeared with cream.
“I want you. All of you.”
I squirt a final dollop of cream—on the inside of her thigh, right near the center of her heat.
Sloane’s eyes widen, her breath catching.
I settle between her legs. The chain of her handcuffs forces us close, my bound arm pressed against her side.
