" God, he’s moving. Slow, deep strokes. So fucking slow. Unbearably slow. “Damn it, Blake, fuck me,” I beg. “Mmmm,” is all he says, and the lazy tempo continues. My body screams for relief. Every square inch of skin is tight and prickly, and the pressure between my legs is one hard thrust away from detonating. But Blake is determined to torture me. His hips move at a snail’s pace, his expression not unlike the way he looks on the ice—sharp focus and a predatory gleam. "

― Sarina Bowen , Good Boy (WAGs, #1)