Chapter 48 Viral Flowers and （Hopefully） Soundproof Dressing Rooms
Viral Flowers and (Hopefully) Soundproof Dressing Rooms
Cohen
“Jesus Christ, this town is worse than the national sports press.”
I toss my phone onto the red velvet loveseat in the dressing room like it’s on fire.
On the screen, looping over and over, is a TikTok that has already taken over the entire county.
The subject?
Me.
Walking toward Sloane’s agency with a bouquet of tulips in my hand.
And Aunt Tina’s voice-over?
“Look how he’s holding them! That’s the grip of a man in love. Or a man who messed up really, really bad and is begging for forgiveness. Ten out of ten on the color choice—very soft-boy era.”
“There are already a thousand photos and videos of me bringing you flowers,” I mutter, dragging a hand down my face.
“They even analyzed my body language. Apparently the ‘angle of my left shoulder’ indicates a desire to protect you mixed with sexual submission. What the hell are these people smoking?”
Sloane is sitting in front of the lit mirror, touching up that red lipstick that has officially become my personal obsession.
Despite the chaos, she smiles. A small, nervous smile—but it’s there.
“Welcome to my world, Becker. Privacy is an abstract concept around here. I’m not even sure the word privacy exists in the Elm Hollow dictionary.”
She swivels in her chair to look at me.
“Anyway… the briefing went well. We’re officially registered. Nino said we’ll get the full details soon.”
She exhales, and I watch her shoulders tense beneath that structured blazer of hers.
“Becker… prepare yourself mentally. We have to make our first official public appearance at tomorrow’s Town Assembly.”
She rolls her eyes dramatically.
“They summoned us. Like we’re defendants in court.”
I move closer and lean on the makeup counter.
“Well, technically we are guilty of disturbing the peace. I buy lingerie, you wear illegal lipstick… we kind of asked for it.”
She doesn’t laugh at my joke. Her gaze drops; her fingers twist the fabric of her tailored pants.
I know exactly what she’s thinking.
Not about the Assembly.
Not about us.
She’s thinking about Rae.
Yesterday’s data breach wrecked her. Sloane is convinced she destroyed Rae’s friendship and whatever was happening with Grant.
“Hey,” I say softly.
She looks up. “Mm?”
“Stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Stop telling yourself Rae is going to hate you. Or that Grant is going to flee to Mexico. Those two are idiots—yes—but they like each other. Rae knows you didn’t mean to hurt her. She knows you’re you. That all you’re ever trying to do is… fix things.”
Sloane shakes her head. “Rae made Grant check out of The Snowed Inn early… she’s terrified of admitting she feels something. She says it’s all just a setup…”
“Grant will change her mind. He can’t stay away from her even if he tries—I saw it the other night.”
I bend down toward her, stepping into her space.
“And you need to stop punishing yourself. You’ve got enough on your plate.”
I brush my finger under her chin.
“Like me.”
Sloane looks at me. Her pupils widen, swallowing the blue.
“You’re not a problem anymore, Becker,” she murmurs, her voice a little rougher, a little breathless. “You’re… a distraction.”
I grin. Slow. Lazy. Wolfish.
I like that label.
“A distraction, huh?”
“Yes. A very large, arrogant, loud distraction that I’m using so I don’t think about the fact that my career is currently on fire.”
“Great,” I say, my voice dropping an octave, turning to pure gravel. “In that case… let me distract you properly.”
I step between her legs and ease them open.
The air in the dressing room shifts instantly.
Thickens.
Heats.
Fills with static and the kind of pheromones that should come with a warning label.
Sloane doesn’t pull back.
She lifts her chin—defiant, regal, infuriating—and that look alone is enough to fry every remaining brain cell I have.
But I see it.
The frantic little pulse at her neck.
“We’re in a dressing room, Cohen. The production assistants could walk in at any minute.”
“Mm… honestly? Right now I could not give a single damn.”
My hands slide onto her thighs, gliding slowly—possessively—up the expensive fabric of her tailored pants.
I feel her muscles tighten beneath my palms as I move higher.
I reach her inner thigh and press. Just enough.
She jolts.
A quiet, strangled sound slips out of her—and it might be the best thing I’ve heard all week.
“You need a way to let the tension out, Angel. I can see it. You’re vibrating. You’re wound so tight you might actually snap.”
“I’ll box with Dom later,” she fires back, even as her hands fly up to my shoulders, fingers gripping my shirt like she needs something to hold onto.
“I don’t want to hear another man’s name while I’m trying to undo your frustration,” I murmur, lowering my head until my teeth graze her earlobe.
“And for the record… I am exceptionally good at undoing it.”
I bite lightly at the sensitive spot beneath her ear, sucking just enough to make her arch into me.
“This is just… just to release tension,” she whispers, breathless. “Don’t get any ideas, Becker. It doesn’t mean anything.”
I laugh against her skin, a low vibration that ripples through her chest.
“Whatever you say, boss. Use me however you want.”
I don’t give her time to fire back.
My hands go straight to the waistband of her pants.
“I hate these pants,” I growl, fighting with the button with less patience than I’ve ever had in my life. “Too much fabric. Total waste of time.”
“They’re tailored, you idiot—if you break the zipper I’ll kill you,” she pants, but she’s already lifting her hips, just as impatient as I am, helping me shove them down.
We push everything to her ankles—pants and panties in one go.
I grab her by the hips and lift her onto the cold counter.
With one swipe of my arm, brushes, powder, and bobby pins crash to the floor.
The sound is drowned out by her gasp when I wedge myself between her bare thighs.
She’s exposed.
Open.
Devastatingly beautiful.
The contrast between her perfectly buttoned silk blouse and her completely bare lower half is obscene.
It’s my undoing.
She looks at me through the side mirror.
Our eyes lock in the warm glow of the vanity lights.
“Look at yourself,” I order, catching her chin and angling her face toward the mirror. “Look how much you like coming undone for me.”
Sloane flushes deeply, her chest rising and falling in quick, sharp breaths.
“Shut up…” she whispers.
“No. Look at you, Sloane. You’re scorching hot. You’re wet for me, aren’t you?”
I slide a hand between her legs and find her already soaked, ready.
I lift two slick fingers in front of her face, letting her see them.
“See?” I murmur. “Your body can’t lie the way you do.”
She lets out a frustrated sound and grabs my shirt, popping a button.
“Stop talking and fuck me, Becker.”
I don’t need to be told twice.
I free my cock from my pants, hard and aching with need for her.
I thrust into her in one sharp, deep stroke.
Sloane cries out—a high, startled sound I immediately silence by crushing my mouth against hers.
“Shhh,” I whisper against her lips as I start to move. “You want us to get caught? You want them to see me fucking you?”
She shakes her head frantically, biting my lower lip, her eyes glossy with lust.
I drive into her fast, almost brutally.
It’s been too long.
There’s need. There’s hunger. I’ll never get enough of Sloane Heart.
I need to feel her as mine. I need to wipe every other thought from her brilliant, complicated mind until there’s nothing left but me.
“You’re so tight,” I growl through clenched teeth. “Fuck, Sloane—you’re perfect.”
She clings to my shoulders, her nails digging into my skin through my shirt.
“More…” she moans against my shoulder. “Cohen, more…”
I give her exactly that.
I grab one of her legs, slide it completely out of the bunched fabric, and hook it over my shoulder, opening her wider—driving deep, right into that spot that makes her lose her mind.
Sloane throws her head back, staring up at the ceiling, her mouth open in a silent scream.
Her body clenches around me in delicious spasms, squeezing, coaxing, begging.
I keep watching her in the mirror as I fuck her, seeing her ice-queen mask melt away completely.
I feel her getting close. Her breathing turns broken, hitching.
I slide my hand between our bodies, finding her swollen, slick clit. I rub it with my thumb, matching the rhythm of my thrusts.
“Come for me, Angel,” I murmur. “I want to hear you say my name.”
Sloane goes rigid, her entire body bowing tight.
“Cohen!” she cries, muffled against my neck.
I feel her come apart around me—strong, pulsing contractions that shred the last scraps of my control.
I growl, burying my face in the hollow of her neck, and let go, spilling into her with a force that leaves my bones hollow.
We stay like that for an endless minute.
My forehead pressed to hers, our heavy breaths tangling together. Our hearts pound in sync, wild and frantic in the silence of the fitting room.
Her hair is plastered to her forehead, her lips swollen, her eyes still hazy with pleasure.
Slowly, I pull out of her.
She makes a small, almost involuntary sound of protest that makes me smile.
She runs a hand through her hair, trying to pull herself together, but her legs visibly tremble when she tries to step down from the counter.
I steady her until she’s stable.
She looks at me—and then breaks into a short, incredulous, husky laugh.
“Great teamwork, Becker,” she murmurs, retrieving her panties from the floor with hands that aren’t quite steady. “Tension… definitely released.”
I kiss her—quick, possessive—before fixing my clothes.
“Told you,” I say. “I’m a man of many talents.”
I give her a wink, but as I watch her straighten her blouse and cover the red marks I left on her neck, I know the truth.
I will make Sloane Heart mine.
Completely.
And I’ll be worthy of her.