Page 43 of Whisper

Heat flares like I’ve been struck by a live wire.

His eyes narrow with the satisfaction of a man who just detonated a charge and liked the explosion. “Yeah, that turns you the fuck on,” he murmurs, moving in closer. “I hit on one of your filthy little fantasies.”

I try to speak, but nothing comes out. Not a single word.

“Now that’s a first,” he growls. “Professor Motor Mouth, rendered speechless by the thought of choking on my cock.”

God.

He’s in my head.

He’s inside the fantasy I’ve never said out loud.

The Roman gladiator. The conqueror. The brute who doesn’t ask—he takes. Puts me on my knees and feeds me every inch of him because he can. Because I want him to.

Cooper brushes my hair off my face with an almost gentle touch. But his next words are anything but soft.

“If you thought round one was the end of it, sweetheart—” his voice drops, dark and rough, “—you’ve got something else to think about. I’m not done. I’m going to tear you apart. Ruin you. Again. And again. You’re going to come on my face, on my cock, on my fingers. Until you can’t even remember how to form a single goddamn word.”

He kisses me, but it’s not a kiss.

It’s a claim. All tongue and hunger, heat and control.

When he finally pulls back, his breath fans hot against my lips. “And when you’re finally spent—when you’re limp and wrecked and twitching—I want you to look me in the eye and tell me exactly what went through that brilliant little linguist brain of yours when I told you I was going to fuck your mouth.”

His fingers slide between my thighs, and I jerk at the sudden jolt of pleasure. He chuckles darkly as his fingers begin to move.

It’s not gentle. It’s not teasing. It’s pressure—blunt, precise, claiming.

My hips buck instinctively, breath catching hard in my chest.

He watches me. Silent. Sharp. That infuriatingly smug grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Speechless again.”

His fingers work deeper, parting me. Finding exactly where I need him and pressing, stroking, pushing me toward the edge like he owns my body.

Like he already knows how it breaks.

My spine bows off the bed. Hands scrabble for something—anything—to hold on to.

I can’t. I can’t stop it. It’s too much. Too fast.

My thighs tremble, clenching around his wrist as a sob of pleasure rips from my throat.

“That’s it,” he growls, fingers relentless. “Come for me. Soak my hand, Eliza.”

And I do.

Hard.

Shaking.

Lips parted around a sound I don’t even recognize as my own.

Before I can recover, he grabs my hips. Flips me onto my stomach like I weigh nothing.

My cheek hits the mattress. A heartbeat later?—