She’s beautiful, damn it.
Her breathing quickens, she arches her back, and she can't stop her knees, which now clamp against the sides of my head, on my temples. She comes on my mouth but doesn't scream my name.
We need to work on that.
I pull away slowly, stand up, and look at her.
Her eyes are half-closed, her dress hiked up on her hips.
“We can call it a day now, Angel. Think of me when I’m gone.” I smile, satisfied.
I lick my lips and head for the door.
She grunts something, but I can't quite make it out. I’m already out of her office, trying to put as much distance as possible between myself and the still-pulsing desire to screw her until we both have trouble walking.
19
Round One: Cohen Becker vs. My Sanity
Sloane
Boom.
One hit.
Boom.
Another.
The punching bag swings hard, snapping back with enough force to nearly shove me off balance. I brace it with both hands, take a deep breath, and… hit it again.
“I’m guessing your day was shit,” a calm voice says from behind the bag.
He steadies it with both hands, chest still damp with sweat from his own training session.
Dominic Voss.
Workout gear, dark hair dripping, towel over his shoulder, and his usual neutral expression—the kind you’d have watching a building burn down with the same level of concern you give to water boiling.
“Hold the bag, Voss,” I hiss, landing another punch.
Dominic obeys. Obviously.
With the same lack of enthusiasm he had when I practically dragged him out of the ring thirty minutes ago after his sparring session.
He didn’t say a word.
Just wiped off his sweat, took his place behind the bag… and stared at the ceiling.
And now he’s here.
Absolute stillness. Arms extended. Expression unreadable.
While I try to sweat the rage out of my system.
Perfect.
He’s the ideal friend for days when I’m one impulse away from committing homicide.
