“You’re so hot…” I moan against her neck, starting to move.
It’s a slow, lazy, deep rhythm.
There’s only the need to be as close as possible.
My chest drags along her bare back.
My scruff scratches her shoulder.
Sloane buries her face in the pillow to muffle her moans, but I feel her tremble every time I hit the right spot.
“Do you like it like this?” I murmur, nibbling her ear.
“Yes… yes… don’t stop…”
“I couldn’t stop if the house burned down.”
I slide my free hand between her legs, finding her clit as I keep thrusting into her.
The double stimulation wrecks her.
She comes almost immediately, her body tightening in long, delicious spasms that milk me, drag me with her, push me over the edge.
“Come for me, Angel. Take it all.”
I let go inside her, emptying myself in deep, desperate thrusts, my bound hand squeezing her fingers, anchoring me to her as the world narrows to this bed, this heat, this woman.
When it’s over, neither of us moves.
I stay inside her until I soften, unable to break the contact.
Sloane melts back against me, exhausted, satisfied.
She lifts my bound hand and kisses my knuckles.
“Goodnight, Becker,” she whispers.
“Goodnight, Angel.”
I close my eyes, bury my nose in her hair, and drift off with her, still wrapped together.
Hour 24: Freedom
DRIIIIN!
Sloane’s phone alarm goes off, tearing through the afternoon quiet.
It’s 5:00 p.m.
We’ve spent the last few hours sprawled on the couch, half-asleep, watching snow fall outside the window—our hands intertwined, never once letting go. It’s been a strange, suspended-in-time kind of day. Leftover pizza. Slow kisses. Sex marathons. A shared laziness I didn’t even know I was capable of.
But now it’s over.
“It’s time,” Sloane murmurs, stretching. The emerald silk dress is artistically wrinkled, riding up her thighs.
I rub a hand over my face. I still haven’t put a shirt back on. I couldn’t, with the handcuffs.
So I’m shirtless, sweatpants hanging low on my hips, barefoot—looking like a man who hasn’t left a bedroom in a century.
