36. The Independent Mic #2
She leans her head back against my stomach, closing her eyes. “They’re going to come for us now, Cooper. Legally. Professionally. This isn't a win; it’s a declaration of war.”
“I know,” I say, leaning down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “But they’re coming for us. Not you. Not me. Both of us. And I’m pretty sure they’re not ready for that.”
She turns in her chair, looking up at me. The vulnerability is back, but it’s different now. It isn't a weakness she’s trying to hide; it’s a bridge she’s offering. She reaches up, her fingers tracing the line of my jaw, her touch light and tentative.
“You stayed,” she says, her voice thick. “Even after everything I said. Even after I tried to push you out of the car. You’re still here.”
“I’m a very stubborn person, Sloane. I thought we’d established that by now.”
She pulls me down, her mouth finding mine in a kiss that isn't about the show or the receipts or the corporate fallout. It’s desperate and grounding, a frantic confirmation that we’re both still breathing, both still real.
I pull her up from the chair, my arms wrapping around her waist, lifting her until her toes are barely touching the concrete floor.
She tastes like the coffee she’s been drinking all day and the salt of the tears she won’t let fall.
I back her against the acoustic-foam-covered lawnmower, not caring about the absurdity of the setting.
My hands find the hem of her sweater, sliding up to meet the warm, soft skin of her back.
She moans into my mouth, a low, guttural sound that makes my pulse do a frantic tap-dance against my ribs.
She wraps her legs around my waist, pulling me closer, her nails raking down my neck.
“Cooper,” she gasps, her forehead resting against mine. “Not here. Tessa’s literally ten feet away.”
“Tessa is in the kitchen looking at Twitter metrics,” I murmur, my mouth moving down to the sensitive skin of her throat. “And Inez is probably already coding a way to block our audio from her own ears.”
Sloane laughs, a real, breathless sound, and bites my shoulder through my henley. “God, you’re impossible.”
“I prefer ‘persistently charming,’” I say, pulling back just enough to look at her. Her eyes are dark, heavy with a hunger that matches my own. The fear is gone, replaced by a fierce, undeniable heat. “I love you, Sloane. I don’t think I’ve said it enough today. Or ever.”
The silence that follows isn't the teeth-filled kind. It’s the kind that earns its length. She looks at me for a long beat, her expression shifting from surprise to something deeper, something that feels like a home I’ve been looking for since I left the stadium years ago.
“I know,” she says, her voice steady. “And I’m working on saying it back. But for now...” She tugs at the front of my shirt, her eyes dropping to my mouth. “Shut up and fuck me, Cooper. I need to feel something that isn't a corporate memo.”
I don't need to be told twice. I carry her toward the back of the garage, past the stacks of old moving boxes and a discarded exercise bike, to the small, lumpy sofa Tessa keeps for late-night editing sessions. It’s far from the luxury of the Lakeside Lodge or the controlled comfort of her apartment, but as I lower her onto the fabric, I realize it’s perfect. It’s independent. It’s ours.
I strip off my henley, my skin prickling in the cool air of the garage.
Sloane watches me, her gaze traveling down my chest to where my jeans are straining against the weight of my need.
She’s already pulling her sweater over her head, her tits spilling out of her lace bra, her nipples tight and dark in the dim light.
She looks like a goddess of war, and I’m the lucky soldier who gets to worship at her altar.
“You’re so beautiful,” I whisper, my hands fisting in the fabric of her leggings as I pull them down her legs.
She’s soaking wet, her pussy glistening in the shadows, her scent filling my head until I can’t think about anything else.
I slide two fingers inside her, and she arches her back with a cry, her pussy clamping down on me with a desperate, rhythmic need.
“Harder,” she begs, her hands fisting in my hair. “Please, Cooper. Now.”
I fumble with my belt, my cock springing free, thick and throbbing.
I’ve never wanted anything more than I want to be inside her right now, to fill the hollow ache that’s been building since we walked out of NovaWave.
I position myself at her entrance, the tip of my cock glistening with pre-cum as I brush against her slick heat.
“Look at me,” I command, and her eyes snap to mine, wide and honest. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I thrust into her, one long, deep movement that buries my cock inside her to the hilt, bottoming out against her cervix.
She screams my name, her nails digging into my shoulders, her wet heat clamping around me like a vice.
, her body shaking with the force of the connection.
I start to move, my pace urgent and relentless, my cock stretching her, filling her until there’s no room for anything but the two of us.
She rides the rhythm with me, her tits bouncing with every thrust, her voice a constant litany of ‘yes’ and ‘please.’ I can feel her climax building, the tight clench of her pussy around my cock, the way her breath catches in her throat.
She’s so close, so perfectly aligned with me, that when she finally breaks, I go with her.
She comes with a long, shattered moan, her body convulsing as wave after wave of pleasure ripples through her.
I follow a second later, my orgasm tearing through me as I explode inside her, filling her with my release.
We stay like that for a long time, tangled together on the lumpy sofa, the sound of the rain finally starting to pound against the garage roof above us.
“We’re going to be okay,” I whisper into the crook of her neck, my heart finally slowing its frantic pace. “No matter what Graham does next.”
Sloane doesn't answer with words. She just pulls the old, moth-eaten blanket over our tangled limbs and holds me tighter. Outside, the storm is just beginning, but in here, for the first time, the mic is finally off.