I Am a Fucking Goddess
Sloane
I walk through the lightly falling snow like the devil himself is on my heels—except the devil, in this case, is my own fury.
My hand is clamped around Cohen’s with enough force to cut off his circulation, but I don’t care. I drag him out of the Great Hall, away from the applause, away from the cameras, and especially away from him.
That sleazy smile.
That old humiliation boils up my throat—acidic, choking.
But as my heels sink into the snow and I feel Cohen’s warm hand locked with mine, something shifts.
It morphs.
It becomes something else.
It becomes need.
I need to scrub Joe out of my head.
Not because I feel anything for him—God forbid.
But because I need to overwrite his betrayal with something stronger, more real, more violent. A full-force hurricane.
I need Cohen.
“Sloane, slow down!” he protests, nearly slipping as he tries to keep up while I storm down the path to our chalet. “What the hell is going on? The gala dinner starts in thirty minutes, we have to—”
“I don’t give a damn about the dinner,” I snap without looking back.
“But the mayor said—”
“To hell with the mayor.”
We reach Door Number 9. My hand trembles as I shove the key into the lock, push the door open, and yank Cohen inside with me. I slam it shut with a sharp kick.
The room is dark, lit only by the flickering orange glow of the fireplace.
Cohen looks at me—confused, worried. He’s still breathing hard from the challenge, hair a mess, that T-shirt stretched indecently across his broad chest.
“Sloane, hey…” He steps toward me, lifting a hand to touch my face. “You’re shaking. Is it because of that guy? Damn it, I’ll break his face.”
A vein throbs in his neck.
And I know—I know—Cohen Becker is half a second away from doing something impulsive and spectacularly stupid. Something that could tank his career for my sake.
The thought squeezes my heart, but I can’t let it happen.
I am Sloane Heart, and I fight my own battles.
I shake my head and pull back from his touch. I don’t want comfort. I don’t want a knight in shining armor.
I want fire.
My gaze drops.
His jeans are tight—painfully tight—struggling to contain an erection that clearly hasn’t had a moment’s peace since the end of the challenge.
I felt it earlier, when I was straddling him.
And seeing it now, so hard and ready for me, snaps something inside my brain.
I want to feel like a goddess.
I want to feel worshipped and used at the same time.
I want to be his only obsession, his only thought, his only breath.
“You don’t need to break anyone’s face,” I say, my voice low and steady, thick with intent—an intent that makes his eyes go wide. “You just need to wait right here. And don’t move.”
“What? Where are you going?”
I don’t answer.
I turn and slip into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.
I brace my hands on the sink, breathing hard.
I lift my gaze to the mirror.
A woman stares back at me—cheeks flushed, eyes glistening with furious lust, red lipstick slightly smudged.
You are Sloane Heart, I tell myself.
You’re the Queen of Hearts. And you’re going to take exactly what you want.
I strip out of my clothes quickly. The red dress puddles onto the floor in a useless pile of fabric.
I’m left wearing nothing but my red stilettos and the bodysuit.
The one Cohen bought.
And it looks like it was made for me. He actually has great taste.
The black lace is cool against my overheated skin but clings like a second layer. It’s sheer, obscene, perfect. The fabric cuts high at my hips, the little red bows are begging to be untied, and my nipples are hard and visible through the delicate mesh.
I look at myself in the mirror—and I don’t see a girl who was humiliated.
I see raw power.
I muss my hair, shaking it out over my shoulders in a blonde cascade.
Cohen is standing by the fireplace, hands tangled in his hair, his back to me. The tension in his shoulders is almost vibrating.
“Sloane, please, just talk to me. If you’re mad about—”
He turns.
And the sentence dies on his lips.
He freezes. His arms drop to his sides. His mouth parts slightly, but no sound comes out.
His eyes go dark—devouring every inch of me.
From my neck, down the lace that barely hides my breasts, over the flat of my stomach, to the narrow strip of fabric between my thighs that does absolutely nothing to keep his imagination in check.
I feel his stare like a physical touch—hot, consuming, sparking everywhere at once.
“Holy shit,” he breathes, voice wrecked.
I move toward him.
One step at a time. Slow. Certain. Predatory.
The humiliation is gone.
All that’s left is the need to take him. To ruin him a little. To make him lose his mind.
“Do you like it?” I ask, stopping just short of touching him. “It’s your gift.”
Cohen swallows hard. I watch his Adam’s apple bob. He’s hypnotized.
“Sloane… we should…”
I know he doesn’t mean what I mean—but I answer anyway.
“We definitely should.”
I plant my hands on his chest and push him back.
He stumbles backward, rocking until the back of his legs hit the edge of the canopy bed. He drops onto the mattress, legs spread, eyes locked on me like I’m both his downfall and his salvation.
I step between his legs.
He’s sitting. I’m standing.
I’m in control.
I slide my fingers into his hair, giving a gentle tug to tilt his face up toward mine.
“You wanted me, Becker?” I whisper. “You wanted me when you bought this?”
“Yes,” he growls, his hands fly to my hips. His fingers dig into my bare skin—hot, rough, desperate. “Fuck, yes. Always. I want you every damn minute.”
“Good. Then watch me. Watch me and don’t think about anything else.”
I sink to my knees in front of him.
He lets out a ragged sound, his grip tightening as his hands glide higher, thumbs pressing into my skin.
My fingers go to the fly of his jeans.
He trembles.
Cohen Becker—unshakable professional athlete—is trembling for me.
I lower the zipper slowly. The metallic slide sounds like thunder in the quiet room.
I pull him free.
He’s perfect. Hard as stone, thick, pulsing with want, a bead of pre-come gleaming at the tip.
My breath catches. The need to take him into my mouth hits so fiercely it makes my jaw ache.
I look up at him. His head is tipped back, eyes shut tight, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.
“Look at me, Cohen,” I command.
He opens his eyes. They’re dark pools of lust, hazy and unfocused.
“You’re a witch,” he pants. “You’re going to kill me.”
“No,” I say softly. “I’m going to drive you insane.”
I lean down and lick him—
one long, slow stroke, from base to tip.
Cohen arches off the bed, a strangled sound tearing from his throat. His hands fist in my hair, fingers tightening in the strands.
I open my mouth and take him in.
The head presses against my soft palate and I moan, the taste of him—salt, skin, and want—flooding my tongue.
I start to move.
Up and down.
I wrap my hand around the base, adding pressure, while my mouth works the tip.
I want to torture him. I want him to feel every inch, every pull, every slow drag.
He swears, a nonstop stream of filthy words.
“Yes… fuck, yes… you’re so warm… suck it, Angel…”
The broken sound of his voice turns me on more than anything else.
I pick up the pace.
I take him deeper, pushing past my gag reflex, forcing my throat to open for him. I want all of him. I want him to know he belongs to me.
I feel him throb against my tongue, growing even harder in my mouth.
It’s pure power.
Feeling him unravel under my touch, feeling his steel-hard muscles tense, his thighs starting to shake…
“Look at me,” he growls.
I lift my eyes without stopping, my mouth still working him.
He watches me as I take him, as my cheeks hollow around his length. The sight alone looks like it pushes him right to the edge.
He starts rocking his hips into me, fucking my mouth.
“Fuck… Sloane, I can’t… you’re too good… Angel, you need to move now if you don’t want—”
Oh, I definitely want to.
I pick up the pace.
His hands clamp around my head, guiding me, setting a frantic, animal rhythm.
I don’t resist. I let him.
I suck harder, circle the crown with my tongue, tighten my hand around the base.
My body is on fire. My pussy throbs painfully inside the lace bodysuit, the pleasure of giving him pleasure almost unbearable.
I want everything. I want him to empty himself completely inside me. I want to steal his soul.
“I’m coming… fuck, I’m coming… take it all, Angel… drink me…”
His body goes rigid in a violent spasm. His abs tense hard beneath my hands.
I feel his hot release explode in my mouth, wave after wave, as he shouts my name—his voice breaking, his body shaking uncontrollably.
I swallow everything, greedily, still sucking until I’ve drained him completely, until he collapses back against the cushions, wrecked, panting, defeated in the sweetest possible way.
I pull away slowly, a thin string of saliva still connecting us for a single, lingering second.
I drag my tongue across my lips, tasting the last trace of him.
Then I rise to my feet—breathless, flushed, the black lace clinging to my overheated skin like it was painted on.
Cohen looks up at me from where he sits.
His hair is falling into his eyes, his chest gleaming with sweat, and his expression… God. He looks like he was hit by a freight train—and enjoyed every second.
He reaches for me, fingertips brushing the lace on my thigh with something that borders on reverence.
“You’re… you’re a damn devil,” he breathes, a worn-out, amazed smile tugging at his mouth.
I look at him—really look at him.
There’s no Joe. No humiliation. No noise from the outside world.
There’s only Cohen.
Only this man staring at me like I’m the one woman on earth capable of bringing him to his knees.
And in that moment, I feel like a goddess.
“I know,” I reply, giving him a crooked, deeply satisfied smile. “Now, Becker… I believe we have a gala dinner to attend.”