The atmosphere in the bathroom had become suffocating, thick with the scent of damp skin, expensive Scotch, and the palpable, frantic energy radiating from Sabrina. The initial spark of defiance had burned down into a desperate, exhausting struggle.
She was no longer the composed academic; she was a woman possessed, her hair disheveled and her lips glistening from the moisture of her own effort.
She was working with a feverish, almost manic intensity. Her tongue traced the deep, hard grooves of his obliques, her mouth moving rhythmically over his stomach, trying to find a nerve, a weakness, a single crack in his granite-like composure.
She was pouring every ounce of her will into the sensation, her breath coming in ragged, hot gasps against his skin.
And every time she thought she had him, every time she felt his muscles twitch in a way that suggested a breakthrough, Mike would shatter the illusion with a single, devastating word.
