Private Lessons and Leather Souvenirs
Cohen
The chalet door shuts behind us with a heavy click, sealing out the cold, the snow, the cameras, Aunt Tina—and that asshole Joe.
Inside, there’s only the warmth of the fire we left burning and the scent of woodsmoke and champagne.
Sloane leans back against the closed door, tipping her head against it. She exhales a long breath, like she’s been holding it in for the last three hours.
Her red dress clings to her body like a second skin, faintly creased at the hips where I held her on the walk back.
She’s a magnificent disaster.
“Well,” she murmurs without opening her eyes, “we survived. And we’re at the top of the leaderboard. I’d say the day is officially over.”
She pushes off the door and heads for the bathroom—probably to begin whatever makeup-removal ritual takes ten steps and involves seven products. It took me forever to wipe her makeup off that night…
“Night, Becker. Try staying on your side of the—”
“Stop.”
My voice comes out low.
A command, not a request.
Sloane freezes mid-step.
She turns slowly, arching that perfect eyebrow.
“Excuse me? Are you giving me orders?”
“I’m not sleepy, Sloane.”
I move toward her.
Slow.
Deliberate.
She holds my gaze, but I see her breathing pick up. I see her swallow.
“We’ve had a long day, Cohen. And tomorrow—”
“Tomorrow doesn’t exist,” I cut in, stopping a single step away from her. “There’s only right now. And right now, I intend to settle the score.”
“Settle the score?”
She folds her arms across her chest. The movement pushes her breasts higher in the bodice of her dress.
“Earlier,” I say, my voice dropping into something rougher, darker, “you drove me crazy. You took me in your mouth, emptied me, made me see stars. And me? I just sat there like a damn fool, enjoying it without giving you anything in return.”
I lean in.
“I don’t leave debts unpaid, Angel.”
She looks at me—and then a slow, unapologetically smug smile curves her lips.
No shyness. Just a woman who knows exactly what she’s doing.
“You think I need a participation trophy, Becker?”
She steps into my space, closing the last inches between us.
“I did it because I wanted to. I liked having that power over you. I liked hearing you beg. Watching you lose your mind.”
She licks her lips—a calculated gesture that hits me squarely in the groin.
“You don’t owe me anything. My pleasure was watching you collapse at my feet. And I loved sucking you.”
Fuck.
That sentence.
That damn sexy arrogance.
My blood heats fast, admiration tangling with a desire so sharp it makes my head spin.
This woman is incredible. She doesn’t want to be saved. She doesn’t want to be coddled.
She wants to take.
And that drives me insane.
My lips curve into an incredulous, fascinated smile.
“You’re lethal, you know that?” I murmur, shaking my head. “I love it when you’re a bitch.”
I reach out and cup her cheek, my thumb tracing the sharp line of her jaw.
“You liked having me in your grip, huh?” I ask softly. “Liked feeling me weak for you?”
She nods, eyes bright with triumph. “It’s crazy.”
“Good,” I say, my voice dropping into a low, excited growl. “Then let me return the favor.”
I look at her like she’s the most precious, dirtiest thing I’ve ever seen.
“I want to hear you scream as loud as I screamed, Sloane. I want to get even—with interest.”
I move toward the duffel bag, never breaking eye contact.
“And I brought just the right tool to make sure that happens.”
I pull out the riding crop.
Her gaze drops to the black leather, then lifts back to mine. Her pupils widen, swallowing the blue.
There’s no fear.
There’s anticipation.
The same hunger burning in me.
“Cohen…” she whispers, her voice shifting—lower, warmer. “Did you bring… that?”
I slide the leather slowly across my palm.
Swish.
A dry, thrilling sound.
“It’s a gift,” I say with a crooked smile. “It would’ve been rude to leave it at home, wouldn’t it?”
I tilt my head. “And then there was that note. Something about how I should learn discipline.”
I step closer, crowding her back against the table.
“I think there’s been a misunderstanding, Angel. I’m not the one who needs discipline.”
She stares at the crop, then at me. Her pupils are blown wide—black, liquid.
“You wouldn’t dare,” she hisses. “Are you testing me?”
I hook the strap of her red dress with the handle and ease it down, slow, deliberate, exposing the pale curve of her shoulder.
“Turn around.”
“Cohen—”
“I said turn around, Sloane.”
Silence stretches. A brief, brutal standoff between control and desire.
Desire wins.
She turns, bracing her hands on the table, leaning forward—arching in that way that wrecks me every time.
Her dress rides up, baring her thighs.
Christ.
I stand behind her. I don’t touch her—not with my hands.
I trail the tip of the crop along her spine, over the red fabric. She shivers hard.
“You’re tense,” I murmur at her ear. “Relax.”
“You bastard,” she gasps.
“And you’re beautiful.”
In one swift motion, I haul her dress up to her waist.
She’s wearing nothing underneath.
Damn.
Her ass is perfect—round, bare, glowing in the firelight.
I flick one cheek with the crop.
She moans, startled.
“Do you like it?” I ask.
Another stroke.
A little harder.
Her skin blooms pink beneath the leather.
“Yes…”
“Yes what?”
“Yes, Cohen…”
I press in close, letting her feel how hard I am against her back.
“Who’s in this room, Sloane?”
“Us?” she answers, breathless, confused.
“Who else?”
“No one.”
“Exactly. No one. That guy doesn’t exist. Only I do. Only what I’m doing to you exists.”
I see the realization settle over her face. She knows exactly who I mean.
My hands slide to her hips as the crop keeps teasing—skimming her inner thighs, inching closer to the heat between them.
She spreads her legs, inviting me. Begging.
She’s wet. So wet the scent of her arousal cuts through the champagne and fills my head.
“I want you,” she moans, pushing back against me. “Now. Please.”
“Patience, Angel.”
I slip my hand between her thighs, finding her swollen clit, circling it slowly with my thumb.
With my other hand, I snap the crop against her right cheek.
The sharp sting behind, the relentless pleasure in front—it wrecks her.
She cries out, throwing her head back onto my shoulder, baring her neck.
I bite her. Hard.
Right over the pulse.
Right where I know it destroys her.
Sloane loves bites.
“You’re mine,” I growl against her skin. “Say it.”
Of course, she doesn’t.
Instead, she pushes back against me, hard enough to make my vision blur.
“Is that all you’ve got, Becker?” she challenges, her voice shaking but still sharp with that insolence that drives me insane. “I thought you were an athlete—not an amateur.”
That snaps the last thread of my control.
The caveman I’ve been holding back tears through the cage.
I drop the crop. I don’t need toys. I need my hands. My body.
“Amateur?” I growl against her skin.
I grab her hips hard enough to leave marks, my fingers digging into the soft flesh as I pin her against the solid wood table. I tear her pants down in frantic, rough motions—the rasp of the zipper the only warning she gets.
There’s no room for gentleness.
No room for slow foreplay.
I need to be inside her the way I need air. I need to erase every other touch, every other thought, every other man she’s ever known.
I take her in a single thrust—deep, all the way.
Sloane screams. Not a moan—a sharp cry of shock and pure pleasure.
She’s tight. So tight I have to stop for a split second, jaw clenched, neck taut, fighting not to come immediately.
She takes advantage of it.
She turns just enough to look at me over her shoulder—eyes bright, pupils blown wide, hair a wreck across her face—and she smiles. Dirty. Triumphant.
“See?” she gasps. “Much better.”
It snaps something in me.
I start moving. A brutal, possessive rhythm. Skin slapping skin. Hips crashing into her ass. The table creaks under us, but I don’t slow down. It can break for all I care.
My hands slide from her hips to her breasts, squeezing, greedy.
“Are you teasing me?” I rasp at her ear, my voice ground down to gravel. “Want to see how long I can last?”
I drive harder, hitting that spot I know wrecks her.
Her legs tremble, but she doesn’t give in. She grips the edge of the table, knuckles white, pushing back against every thrust—taking everything and demanding more.
“More,” she pants. “Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
It turns into a fight. A race. Who breaks first.
I fist her hair, pulling her head back, baring her throat. I bite her, and she writhes beneath me.
I can’t help it—I kiss her, teeth scraping her lip, tasting her breath.
“Who are you thinking about now?” I demand between thrusts. It’s not a question. It’s a claim.
She struggles to turn, to look at me as I take her, nails raking my arms.
“I’m thinking…” she moans, “…that you talk too much, Becker.”
She laughs—a broken sound that turns into a cry when I change the angle.
Jesus. This woman.
She doesn’t bend. She doesn’t break. She burns right along with me.
I feel her clench around me, tight and desperate.
“Cohen—”
Her voice changes. The defiance melts into pure need.
“Yes,” I growl. “Let go. Give it to me.”
I drive into her harder, relentless.
She loses it—head dropping forward, shoulders shaking as she screams my name, over and over.
“Fuck—yes—just like that—”
Feeling her come, feeling her body spasm around me, is the end of it. My control shatters.
I hold her there, face buried in her neck, and I let go with a hoarse sound that empties me completely—wave after wave, filling her, marking her, leaving no room for anything else.
We collapse together.
I lean against her back, sweat slicking us together, my heart pounding so hard it almost hurts. We stay like that, breathing, the fire crackling behind us.
Then she moves.
She turns in my arms, bracing on the table, and looks at me.
Her makeup is smeared. Her lips are swollen. One shoulder of her dress is torn loose.
She looks like she’s been through a war.
And it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
She runs a hand over my chest, trying to reclaim that CEO composure even as her voice shakes.
“Well,” she murmurs, “let’s just say… for a first night, it was an acceptable start.”
I laugh—tired, wrecked, stupidly happy.
“Acceptable?” I kiss her damp forehead. “Your legs were shaking, Angel.”
“Aftershocks,” she says, tightening her hold on me.
I lift her easily. She wraps her legs around my waist, resting her head against my shoulder.
“Take me to bed, Becker,” she orders, yawning into my neck. “I need eight hours of sleep if I’m going to boss you around again tomorrow.”
“Sure, boss.”
I carry her to the massive four-poster bed, lay her down on the red pillows, and pull her against my chest.
And as I hold her there, I realize I don’t give a damn about Joe, the race, or the rest of the world.
I have Sloane Heart in my arms.