Heart Rates, Jealousy & the Sweet Taste of Victory
Cohen
There’s a kind of silence that’s louder than a scream.
That’s the silence sitting between me and Sloane right now.
We’re standing beside the futuristic chairs in the Great Hall, surrounded by Aunt Tina’s pink chaos, but my attention is locked on one thing.
Well… two things.
Sloane—frozen stiff like an ice sculpture beside me.
And that guy.
Joe.
Three seats down.
I watch him from the corner of my eye. He’s got that “nice guy next door” face—usually the mask worn by the biggest assholes on the planet. He laughs obnoxiously at something his partner says, then steals another quick glance at Sloane.
My blood simmers under my skin.
Who the hell is he? And why did Sloane react like that?
She never loses her cool.
She handles corporate crises, impossible clients, and my dysfunctional family without flinching. But one stupid wink from Mr. Pastel Sweater over there sent her straight into shutdown.
Is he her ex?
Probably.
Did he hurt her?
Definitely.
Does she still love him?
That one hits like a punch to the gut. Jealousy curls through me—cold, sharp, vicious.
I want to stand up, walk over there, and ask Joe if he’s having trouble seeing straight—or if he’d like me to fix his vision permanently.
But I can’t.
I have to stay calm.
I have to give her space.
If I turn into a caveman now, I lose her.
And I’m not losing her.
I want to win her.
I want to prove I’m the man who stays—not the one who explodes the second something touches a nerve.
I take a long breath, trying to steady my pulse—which is already too damn high before the sensors are even attached.
“Gentlemen, take your seats!” Aunt Tina bellows, snapping the riding crop through the air with a level of enthusiasm that should concern us all. “Hook yourselves up to the Heart’s Truth Machine!”
I sit.
A tech slaps the adhesive sensors across my chest. His hands are cold, but I’m burning.
I scan the other couples.
Sarah—Joe’s partner—is shrugging off a transparent jacket that somehow managed to cover nothing.
Underneath, she’s wearing a sequin dress so tight I don’t understand how breathing or walking is physically possible.
The neckline defies gravity and shows off a chest that’s way too big for her frame and glistening with body oil.
She leans down, whispers something to Joe, laughing in that grating, high-pitched way that makes my eye twitch.
He smiles at her—but his gaze slides right back to us.
To Sloane.
I grip the armrests so hard my knuckles go white.
Look at her one more time, asshole, and I’ll make you swallow that heart monitor.
The challenge begins.
The first couples are a comedic disaster. Chad (the fit-fluencer) looks more turned on by his own reflection on the screen than by his girlfriend.
Roxanne insults Dave until he goes into tachycardia from pure rage (valid strategy, but risky).
Then it’s Lucy and Lars.
Lars is red-faced—embarrassed or turned on. Or both.
Lucy steps up to him. She doesn’t dance. She doesn’t strip.
She cups his face in her hands, gently. She leans in and whispers something in his ear, brushing her fingers through his thick beard with a tenderness that silences the entire room.
On the monitor, Lars’s heart rate explodes.
145.
It’s pure, simple adoration.
“They’re good,” I murmur to Sloane.
She doesn’t answer. She’s staring at the floor, laser-focused—like a boxer before the final round.
“Couple Eight!” Tina announces.
Joe and Sarah.
Sarah launches herself into it immediately. She rubs against him, shakes her ass, runs her hands over her chest with theatrical enthusiasm.
Joe watches the monitor, smug, like he’s checking his Instagram likes… which I’m sure is his favorite hobby.
His pulse definitely spikes—he’s male, and she’s practically flashing her nipples with how revealing that dress is—but it’s automatic. Mechanical.
I’m also positive the cameras just captured the show’s first borderline-nude moment. Production will be thrilled.
They land at 130.
Sarah celebrates like she just won an Oscar, planting a loud, smacking kiss on Joe.
She hasn’t even realized it isn’t the highest score so far.
He gives her a slap on the ass, but his eyes... his eyes immediately dart back to Sloane.
He wants to see if she watched.
He wants to see if she’s jealous.
I feel Sloane go rigid beside me.
I turn toward her.
“Hey,” I say quietly.
She lifts her gaze. She’s furious. She’s stunning. She’s the Queen of Hearts about to take someone’s head off.
“Let’s go win,” I tell her. It’s not a question.
I know she can make me lose my mind—and my heart—without even trying.
She gives a small nod. Then she shrugs off her white coat in one smooth movement, letting it fall onto the chair.
Underneath, she’s wearing a red dress.
Short. Soft. With a low scoop back that dips almost to her spine.
Her perfect ass curves deliciously beneath it, and I have to physically restrain myself from putting my hands on it.
I refuse to look like Joe—it’s… disgusting.
Sloane throws me a confident smile.
My heart skips a beat, and I’m not even hooked up to the machine yet.
“Captains, you’re up!” Aunt Tina hollers.
The lights dim. A spotlight locks onto me.
A tech clips the final sensor onto my finger.
My resting heart rate flashes onto the monitor.
85.
“Already high, Becker?” Tina remarks into the mic. “Nervous?”
“Impatient,” I correct, without taking my eyes off Sloane.
She’s standing in front of me, right at the edge of the spotlight.
The DJ hits play.
Earned It by The Weeknd.
A slow, deep bass line that crawls right into your bones.
Sloane takes a long breath. She closes her eyes for a single second, then opens them again.
She’s Sloane. My Sloane.
The angel from The Aureum. The woman who challenges me. Who drives me out of my damn mind.
She starts to move.
She glides toward me like a predator.
Her blue eyes are locked onto mine.
She stops between my spread knees—without touching me.
The monitor behind me starts beeping.
Beep… beep… beep…
95.
She bites her lower lip, slowly, intentionally.
She knows I’m watching her mouth.
She knows I’m thinking about that “Mistletoe Kisses” lipstick and exactly where I want to see it printed all over my body.
She leans down.
Her hands land on my shoulders.
I feel the heat of her palms through my shirt. Her thumbs rub the base of my neck.
“Tell me, Becker… which way did you like fucking me best?” she whispers.
Her voice is a low, raspy scrape meant only for me.
My breath catches.
“How much do you like being deep inside me?” she goes on, leaning in closer. “Do you remember how I looked at you in the mirror when you were fucking me?”
Jesus Christ.
My hands clamp down on the armrests. I’m fighting every primal instinct I have not to grab her by the hips and pull her down onto me.
She knows. She sees it.
Her hands slide down—slow, torturous.
Over her chest, down her stomach, and then lower, until she’s gripping her own thighs.
She squeezes.
God… I wish it were my hands on her.
Her nails dig into the fabric of her dress.
“I love it when you lose control, Becker,” she murmurs. “I love it when you’re mine.”
135.
She shifts to the side, her lips brushing my ear. Her scent—vanilla and danger—fills my lungs.
A low growl escapes me, unintentional, and it echoes through the speakers.
The room goes dead silent.
All you can hear is the frantic beep-beep-beep of my accelerating heart.
She moves back in front of me.
She holds my gaze. Her pupils are blown wide.
Without breaking eye contact, she lifts one leg, then the other, straddling me—hovering, not sitting.
Her thighs press against the outsides of mine.
Her hips are level with my face.
The red dress rides up, revealing inches of skin that short-circuit my brain.
She rolls her hips. Slowly. Deliberately.
Back and forth.
Barely brushing me.
My erection is pushing painfully against the zipper of my jeans.
I tilt my head up, looking at her like a dying man looks at water.
She lowers herself.
Slowly.
Inches at a time.
Until I can feel the heat of her center hovering just above the bulge in my jeans.
It’s not direct contact, but it’s enough to make my vision flicker.
155.
The audience holds its breath.
“Guess what I’m wearing under this dress, Becker…” she whispers, a wicked smile tugging at her lips. “You’d love to take it off me right now, wouldn’t you? You’d love to finish what we started.”
“Yes,” I rasp. “Fuck, yes.”
She brings her mouth close to mine.
I lean forward instinctively, desperate, chasing her lips.
I need to kiss her. I need to taste her.
She pulls back at the very last millimeter.
“Not here, Becker. Not yet.”
The denial slices through me—pain and pleasure all tangled together.
And yeah… I vaguely remember the rules.
No hands below the belt.
No kissing.
“But later…” she murmurs, leaving the promise hanging in the air—dirty, explicit, devastating.
She slips off me in one smooth motion, rising back to her feet.
She leaves me there—breathless, hard as stone, my heart trying to punch straight through my rib cage.
The monitor screeches like a goddamn alarm.
On the giant screen, the number flashes:
172.
The room erupts.
A roar, cheers, someone gasps.
Aunt Tina is flapping a rhinestone fan like she’s trying to take flight, screaming something I can’t even process.
I hear none of it.
All I see is Sloane.
Her chest rises and falls too fast. Her cheeks are on fire. Her eyes—bright with triumph and desire—lock onto mine.
I rip the sensors off like they’re burning me and shoot to my feet.
I don’t look at the score.
I don’t look at the crowd.
My gaze crosses Joe’s for a split second.
He’s pale. Mouth hanging open.
He looks like a kid whose favorite toy just got stolen and smashed in front of him.
I smile.
A wild, arrogant, victorious smile.
See that, asshole?
She’s mine.
I stride back to Sloane, slip an arm around her waist, and drag her against me—claiming her without shame.
“You won, Angel,” I breathe against her ear, still panting.
“But tonight? We’re evening the score.”
She looks up at me, and her smile—God, that smile—is the best damn thing I’ve ever seen.
We won the challenge.
But it feels like I just won something a hell of a lot bigger.
Group Chat: LAKEWOOD LOCKER ROOM ???? (Minus One)
Turbo (Tayler): CALL A DOCTOR. OR AN EXORCIST. OR A PRIEST.
Turbo (Tayler): 172 BPM?! Becker, were you running a Champions League final or sitting in a chair?!
Doc (Harrison): Technically, that’s an anaerobic high-intensity parameter. If you weren’t moving, you were having a heart attack. Or an orgasm.
Blaze (Liam): Definitely the second one. Did you see his face when she climbed on top of him? I feared for his zipper. RIP Becker’s jeans.
The Wall (Derek): Update from the battlefield: Coach is in catatonia.
Turbo (Tayler): I think he’s plotting Cohen’s murder.
Blaze (Liam): Worth it, though. Did you see Joe’s face? He looked like he swallowed a whole lemon.
Saint (Javier): Obliterated. You annihilated him. Great play, Captain.
The Wall (Derek): Also—seriously—“easy to take off”? Becker, you’re a porn poet. I can’t stop thinking about it.
Me: You’re all idiots. Tell Coach that—Actually, no. Don’t tell him anything.
Doc (Harrison): Too late. He just stood up. Said: “Enjoy it while it lasts, Becker. Because—(unintelligible insults).” Now he’s yelling at Nate on the phone.
Turbo (Tayler): ?????? It’s been nice knowing you, bro. At least you’ll die happy.