Extra Sessions
Cohen
Her office is exactly as it was the last time I was here: organized, fragrant, too bright.
Yet… something is different.
Maybe the light, or the way she holds the pen between her fingers.
My gaze, as always, falls to where her legs cross beneath that glass desk that leaves nothing to the imagination.
She makes a small, insolent smirk, then stands up.
The golden dress stretches over her curves.
She walks toward me calmly, her eyes locked on mine.
And then something happens that makes no sense.
Sloane Heart, the most independent and controlled woman on the planet, kneels down in front of the desk.
Then, slowly, she leans forward, hands on the polished floor, and looks up at me from beneath her lashes.
My heart stops.
I don't know whether to laugh, pass out, or kneel down myself.
I watch her advance slowly, her fingers grazing the parquet floor, her scent washing over me.
Every inch she covers steals a breath.
It’s a slow, silent catastrophe.
“You know, Becker,” she says, in an almost innocent tone, “I thought it was time to change the approach. Maybe you understand practical lessons better.”
“If this is a test, I promise to give it my best shot.”
She smiles again, tilting her head to the side.
That smile is the final blow.
The dress slightly constrains her thighs as she moves, and when she stops right in front of me… nothing else exists.
Only her, her breath, and the way she looks at me as if I’m a secret to be slowly uncovered.
She lifts her head a bit. The waterfall of blonde hair falls down her back.
She brushes my knee with one hand, and my body reacts before my brain does.
Blood pounds in my veins; my throat is dry.
Her fingers slowly move up, drawing invisible lines on the fabric of my pants.
I’m not breathing anymore.
“Are you provoking me, Angel?” I don’t know how I manage to say it; my throat feels completely closed up.
“Me?” she pretends to consider, then bites the corner of her lip. “Just a little.”
…Her fingers pause for an instant, as if measuring the distance between thought and madness.
Then she looks up, batting those marvelous, sensual lashes that made me lose my mind the first time I saw her.
Her fingers drop to the zipper of my jeans. Christ.
My lungs forget how to function.
The zipper slides down. Her eyes meet mine.
Damn, I love her mischievous, naughty expression.
She slides my boxers down without breaking eye contact.
Sloane leans in, her mouth a whisper from my skin, her warm breath brushing my groin, freezing me in place.
Then her beautiful lips close around my cock.
And… oh, fuck.
My head falls back, my hands rest on her head, I push her gently and move deeper inside. For a moment I think I could die like this—lost, blinded, completely hers.
Then—darkness.
A flash of white behind my eyelids.
A muffled sound, a breath that isn’t hers anymore, but mine.
I snap my eyes open.
The ceiling.
The hammering in my chest.
The sheets tangled around my legs.
Shallow breaths. Damp skin.
It takes me a second to place myself.
Another to realize my hands are shaking—
that everything, every single detail, felt real.
The scent.
The voice.
Her lips—
“Christ,” I whisper, dragging a hand over my face.
Just a dream.
A fucking vivid, irresistible dream.
I sit up in bed, lungs burning, forehead slick with sweat.
Every muscle tight, like I’ve just played a full ninety minutes.
And in my chest, that hollow pull of want and emptiness
I no longer know how to carry.
I brace my elbows on my knees, head in my hands.
Sloane has completely screwed with my brain.
It takes me a while to recover before I head downstairs to start my thrilling day back in Elm Hollow.
Yes, that was sarcasm.
I don’t know why, but embarrassment clings to me like a second skin—
and it only gets worse when Dominic looks up from his laptop, half-smirks, and asks,
“Sleep well?”
I nearly flinch.
What?
Does he know?
How the hell does he always know everything?
He can’t. It was just a dream.
Still… that question isn’t like him. Dominic doesn’t do casual.
“Yeah!”
Too loud. Definitely too loud.
I scan the room. Nate’s not here. Thank God.
Because the last thing I need is to land on his mental shit list under the heading:
Becker fantasizes about the coach’s daughter.