Page 87 of One More Chance
Then she opened her mouth.
Heat exploded in my spine. My hips jerked but her hands were already there, pressing me back down, setting the pace at her command.
Languid. Torturous. Intentional. She was in complete control and we both knew it.
She hollowed her cheeks and sucked deeper, her leisurely rhythm maddening. Her fingers curled around my base, twisting as her mouth worked me over, and I couldn’t hold back the groan that tore from my chest. I braced one trembling hand on her head, not to guide her but to anchor myself. She didn’t stop. She didn’t flinch.
Fuck, she is magnificent.
When her eyes flicked up again, locking on mine, it nearly undid me. I saw the challenge there. Her eyes screamed, "Do you still think you’re in charge?"
I didn’t. Not anymore.
“Sloane,” I gasped, fingers tightening in her hair, my body pulled tight like a bowstring. “You – fuck – you feel like heaven.”
Her tongue flicked along the underside, her pace unrelenting now, deliberate and devastating. She didn’t let up. And I knewshe was punishing me by owning me with pleasure. By reminding me exactly who the hell I belonged to.
And, gods, I let her. Because she did own me. She always had.
When I finally came, it was with her name ragged on my lips, my vision blurring as my body folded around the storm of her.
And even then, even in the release, there was something unspoken between us: Sloane held the reins of whatever fragile thing was left of us.
Chapter 29
Angie was taken in, but it wasn’t long before her family’s wealth and influence came into play. Just one of the many perks of having a filthy rich dad who came from old money.
Within a day, she posted bail and was free.
I envisioned her striding out of the jail with a smug expression plastered on her face. I feared she would be a true agent of chaos after her brief incarceration, and it did not take her long to turn my fears into reality.
I was in the backyard with Rufus, who was finally showing signs of recovery, his limp disappearing as he trotted around the yard. Charlie had done a good job.
Sloane came to the back door with an envelope in her hand.
Moving toward her I asked, “What is it?”
She was pale and I saw the envelope was addressed to her in neat handwriting. She looked into my eyes and there was the shadow of fear upon her face. She handed it to me without a word.
I opened it to find a short note inside; far too short to contain all of the hatred and jealousy Angie had festering within her. But the message was clear:
He is mine, Sloane. He always was and he always will be. You'll pay for stealing him.
My throat tightened. I wanted to destroy the paper in my hands, throw it into a fire and watch it burn. But something about this note? It felt like an omen. Angie was planning something dark, something sinister.
Sloane’s eyes were cold. A look of quiet resolve settled over her face. “She’s not going to stop, is she?”
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “She isn't.”
We didn’t talk about it further. There was nothing left to say.
I called Detective Harlan, who arrived wearing an N95 mask that barely hid the weariness etched into his face. The tension in the air was thick, not just from Angie’s escalation, but from the suffocating reality settling over the world as the pandemic began to sink its claws in.
He took the note as evidence with gloved hands, nodded solemnly, and assured us that the paperwork for new warrants was being processed.
“Once the judge sees this, it’ll be clear this woman is a threat and issue a permanent TPO,” he said, voice muffled by the mask. “It’s only a matter of time."
I wanted to believe him, but I couldn’t shake the sense that time was the one thing we were running out of.
