Coach’s Favorite Sinner — Bonus Chapter

An exclusive bonus scene by Aurora North

This bonus scene takes place after the events of Coach’s Favorite Sinner. Contains spoilers and explicit content. Reader discretion advised.

Private Session

Jordan’s gym closed at eight on Thursdays.

By 8:15, the last client had toweled off and walked out, and Jordan stood alone in the facility she’d built from scratch — a converted warehouse on the east side of town, exposed brick and high ceilings and equipment she’d selected piece by piece. Her name was on the door. Her programming was on the whiteboards. Her second career was taking shape in this space, and it looked nothing like the institutional beige of Caldwell’s athletics building, and she loved it.

She was wiping down the bench press when the side door opened.

Sloane walked in wearing compression leggings and a sports bra and nothing else, her bag over one shoulder, her dark curly hair loose and wild. The tattoo sleeve on her left arm caught the overhead fluorescents — roses through barbed wire, the ink Jordan had traced with her tongue more times than she could count. Her stomach was bare, the muscles of her obliques shifting with each step, and the sports bra was the black one, the one that did things to the line of her shoulders that should have been illegal.

“I’m here for my appointment,” she said.

Jordan set the disinfectant spray on the rack. Leaned against the squat cage. Crossed her arms. Let her gaze travel the length of Sloane’s body — slowly, deliberately, with the thorough attention of a coach assessing an athlete and a woman admiring her lover, both at once. She started at Sloane’s sneakers and worked her way up: the lean calves, the compression leggings that might as well have been painted on, the strip of bare stomach, the sports bra, the collarbones, the jaw, the mouth.

“You don’t have an appointment.”

“Then I’m here for a private session.” Sloane dropped her bag on the floor. Walked to center floor. “Isn’t that what you advertise? Personalized athlete development?”

“For paying clients.”

“I’ll pay.” Sloane’s smile was the sharp, dangerous one. “What’s your rate for after-hours?”

Jordan pushed off the squat cage. Walked toward her with the measured, unhurried stride that still made Sloane’s breathing change. Pavlovian. Conditioned.

“For you?” Jordan stopped two feet away. Close enough to smell her — cocoa butter and sweat and the faint, warm musk of arousal that was already present. “The rate is whatever I decide it is.”

Jordan reached out. Hooked one finger under the strap of Sloane’s sports bra. Pulled — not hard, just enough to bring Sloane one step closer.

“Drills first,” Jordan said. Her voice dropped into the register. “Then we’ll discuss payment.”

She made her work. Not the way she’d made her work at Caldwell. This was play dressed as training, desire structured as exercise, an elaborate game they’d invented together.

“Defensive slides. Full court. Stay low.”

Sloane slid. Left to right, right to left, hips below her knees, quads burning. Jordan walked beside her, clipboard in hand because the clipboard was part of the game. She was watching. Tracking the flex of Sloane’s thighs, the sweat sheening across her stomach, the way the sports bra rode up with each lateral movement.

“Lower,” Jordan said. The voice. The register.

Sloane went lower. Her jaw clenched. Her legs trembled. She held it.

“Good girl.”

The words dropped into the gym like a stone into still water. Sloane’s stride faltered — a micro-break in form. Her lips parted. Her eyes darkened. Her hips shifted forward, an involuntary roll seeking friction that wasn’t there.

Jordan smiled. “Again. Full court.”

By the fourth set, she was shaking and drenched and looking at Jordan with an expression that was equal parts fury and desire and the specific, addictive hunger of a person who’d been conditioned to associate Jordan’s coaching voice with her own arousal.

“So what’s the verdict, Coach? Am I performing to standard?”

The word Coach hit different now. It wasn’t a title — it was a key. In private, she called her Coach, and the word opened a door they both wanted to walk through.

Jordan stood over her. “Get up.”

Sloane stood. Her legs were unsteady. Jordan’s hand shot out and gripped her hip, steadying her. The same hip. The same grip. The same hollow above the bone where Jordan’s thumb had pressed on the first morning of conditioning at Caldwell.

“Bench press. 115. Let’s see if your form has slipped.”

Sloane lay back on the bench. Settled her grip. Looked up. Jordan stood behind the bar. The exact position from the first week at Caldwell. Now it was deliberate. Chosen.

Sloane pressed the bar up. Her eyes were on Jordan’s face. The underside of her jaw. Her throat. The V of her polo — fully dressed while Sloane was in a sports bra and leggings, sweating, pinned beneath a loaded bar. Its own kind of power dynamic.

“Focus,” Jordan said.

“Hard to,” Sloane said, “with you right there.”

Jordan leaned down past the bar. Close enough that her breath moved the hair at Sloane’s temple. “Then earn the distraction.”

On the sixth rep, Sloane’s arms trembled. Jordan caught the bar. Racked it. Leaned down until their faces were inches apart.

“Good form,” she whispered. “I think you’ve earned something.”

She walked around the bench. Her hand settled on Sloane’s stomach. Palm flat, fingers spread, pressing into warm, damp skin below her navel.

“Don’t move,” Jordan said.

Her hand slid lower. Under the waistband of Sloane’s leggings. Under the underwear beneath them — thin, already damp. Jordan’s fingers slid between Sloane’s legs and found her soaked. Not wet — drenched. The kind of arousal that didn’t come from a single touch but from sustained anticipation. Jordan’s fingers parted her easily, sliding through slick heat, and the sound — quiet, obscene, undeniable — filled the space between them.

Sloane’s hips bucked off the bench.

“I said don’t move.”

Sloane gripped the edge of the bench. White-knuckled. Locked her body. Jordan circled her clit with precise, maddening rhythm — counterclockwise, steady, with a firmer press on the upstroke that made Sloane’s breath fracture every time.

“You look so good like this,” Jordan murmured. Standing above her, one hand between Sloane’s legs, watching her fight to stay still. “Working for it. Holding position because I told you to. You always were my best student.”

“Jordan — if you don’t — I need—”

“Tell me what you need.” The coaching voice.

“Inside me. Please — I need you inside me.”

Jordan slid two fingers into her. Deep, curling, knuckles pressed forward, fingertips finding the ridged, swollen spot on the front wall that made Sloane’s vision go white. Sloane clenched around her immediately — tight, slick, her inner walls gripping Jordan’s fingers with a rhythmic pulse.

Jordan fucked her with a steady, relentless rhythm. Her thumb stayed on Sloane’s clit — circling, pressing, maintaining the dual stimulation. Inside and outside. Penetration and pressure.

“So good,” Jordan said. The praise fell from her lips like a metronome. “You’re so good. You feel incredible. Hold it for me.”

Sloane was trembling. Full-body tremors. Her back arched off the bench.

“I can’t — Jordan — I’m going to—”

“Not yet.” Jordan slowed her fingers. Easing off the edge, pulling Sloane back from the peak. “Hold it.”

“I can’t—”

“You can. You’ve held harder positions than this. Thirty more seconds.”

Jordan held her at the plateau. Fingers moving slowly, thumb barely brushing her clit. Sloane was panting, hands gripping the bench so hard the metal creaked. Her lips forming fragments, Jordan’s name repeated like a mantra losing coherence.

“Come for me,” Jordan said. “Now.”

She pressed her thumb hard against Sloane’s clit and curled her fingers deep and Sloane detonated.

Her back arched completely off the bench — only her shoulders and heels touching. Her thighs clamped around Jordan’s wrist. The sound she made started low and climbed — a long, shattered moan that cracked into a cry that echoed off the warehouse ceiling, filling the empty gym.

Jordan felt every pulse. The rhythmic clench around her fingers, the wetness flooding her hand. She stayed with her — didn’t pull out, didn’t stop the gentle circles on her oversensitive clit — extending the orgasm until Sloane’s body went boneless and her sounds softened to whimpers.

Jordan withdrew slowly. Brought her hand to her mouth and licked her fingers clean while Sloane lay on the bench with her eyes closed and her chest heaving. The taste — salt and heat and the specific, irreplaceable flavor of Sloane — was the taste she’d been addicted to since the first time.

“Best private session I’ve ever had,” Sloane said.

“We’re not done.”

Sloane opened her eyes. Jordan was unbuttoning her polo. Sports bra next. She was bare from the waist up, standing beside the bench in her track pants. Her nipples were hard — not from the temperature but from the hour she’d just spent with her hand between Sloane’s legs.

“Your turn to perform,” Jordan said.

She straddled the bench. Sat facing Sloane, knees interlocking. Sloane kissed her deep, thorough, aggressive. Her hands found Jordan’s breasts — cupped them, palms calloused, thumbing both nipples simultaneously. Jordan’s composure cracked. A sound escaped — involuntary, sharp.

Sloane pushed her backward. Jordan lay flat on the narrow bench. Sloane’s mouth traveling down her stomach.

“Remember the first time I was on top of you on this bench?” Sloane said against Jordan’s hip bone. “Six AM. Caldwell. You told me to focus and I couldn’t because all I could think about was what you’d taste like.”

She pulled Jordan’s underwear down. Settled between her legs on the narrow bench — awkward, impractical, neither of them caring.

“I’ve been thinking about it ever since,” Sloane said. And put her mouth on her.

The first stroke was slow. A long, flat pass of her tongue from Jordan’s entrance to her clit, tasting everything. Jordan’s head dropped back. Her hand found Sloane’s hair and gripped. Holding on.

Sloane licked her with instinct and aggression and focus so total it bordered on religious. When she flattened her tongue against Jordan’s clit, Jordan gasped. When she pointed it with targeted precision, Jordan’s thighs clamped around her ears. When she sucked — gentle suction, lips sealed, tongue moving in tight circles inside the seal — Jordan made a sound that was raw and broken and filled the warehouse.

“Sloane — god — right there — don’t stop—”

Sloane didn’t stop. She increased the pressure and slid two fingers inside Jordan — deep, curling forward, finding the spot she knew by heart. She fucked her with her fingers and her mouth simultaneously, building with relentless acceleration. The bench creaked beneath them.

Jordan came with a cry that filled the warehouse. Full voice, full volume. Her body seized — inner walls clamping around Sloane’s fingers, thighs locking around Sloane’s head, back arching off the bench. The orgasm was long, sustained, each wave pulling another sound from Jordan’s throat.

Sloane eased her down. Softened her mouth, slowed her fingers, pressed a last lingering kiss to Jordan’s inner thigh. Then climbed up.

She lay on top of Jordan on the narrow bench. Both barely fit. Jordan’s arms wrapped around her.

“So,” Sloane said against her collarbone. “Same time next Thursday?”

Jordan laughed. The full laugh — the one Sloane had earned, the one that only existed because of her.

“Same time every Thursday. Consider it a standing appointment.”

Sloane lifted her head. Kissed her — soft, warm, tasting like both of them.

“Best coach I ever had.”

“Best sinner I ever saved.”

“You didn’t save me. You chose me. There’s a difference.”

Jordan looked at her. At those dark eyes, that scarred eyebrow, the tattoo on her wrist that said still here. At the woman who’d walked into her office as a problem to be solved and stayed as the answer to a question she hadn’t known she was asking.

“Yeah,” Jordan said. “There is.”

They lay on the bench until the overhead lights timed out and the gym went dark, and in the darkness they found each other by touch and by sound and by the specific, irreplaceable knowledge of a body you’d chosen and been chosen by, and they stayed until the morning came.

Loved this scene? Get the full book now.

Back to Coach’s Favorite Sinner