Page 12 of Leather & Lies

Not a request. An order.

My fingers tremble slightly as I unzip the bag, revealing a butter-soft chambray shirt. The tailored jeans probably cost more than I make in a week of training. A matching lingerie set in black lace completes the outfit—his current obsession with making sure I wear his kind of luxury even under my working clothes.

I trace the delicate lace, remembering how willingly I’d surrendered last night—kneeling naked beside him, accepting each morsel from his fingers like communion. The bliss of that submission haunts me still. Heat floods my core at the memory of his fingertips brushing my lips, and I curse myself for craving his control even as I rebel against it.

My worn boots sit by the door, the only piece of my old life he hasn’t replaced yet. Their familiar leather carries memories of early mornings in the training ring, of Daddy teaching me to gentle rather than break, of a life where I answered to no one but myself.

My phone lights up with a text.

Jackson

Car leaves in twenty minutes. Don’t make me come get you.

Jackson waits by his truck, a statue carved from impatience and barely leashed power. His worn black cowboy hat shades eyes that track my approach with predatory focus, cataloging every detail of the outfit he’d chosen. His expression shifts from annoyance to satisfaction as he notes how the tailored clothes emphasize curves I usually try to hide.

He opens the passenger door but catches my arm before I can climb in. “The rules for today.”

Of course there are rules, goddamn him.

“You stay within arm’s reach.” His thumb traces my pulse, measuring the rebellion in each beat. “You let me handle the talking. And you remember exactly who you belong to.” His grip tightens fractionally. “Understood?”

“Are you fucking kidding me? I’ve lived in this town my entire life.” I lift my chin, meeting that ice-blue stare, my jaw as tight as his. “I’ll talk to my friends if I like.”

Jackson stares down at me for a long moment, so long I worry I’ve pushed him too far. Then he nods. “Stay close, and don’t fucking forget who you belong to.”

“Anything else?” I smart-ass before I can stop myself.

“Don’t test me, little hellcat.” His voice drops lower, carrying that edge of command that makes heat pool low in my belly. “Not when the entire town is watching to see exactly how I’ve tamed you.”

The hour-long drive into town gives me too much time to think. Jackson keeps one hand on my thigh when he isn’t shifting. Every touch is possessive, reminding me of my place. But there’s something else in his grip, too—something almost protective when he squeezes my knee as we pass the turnoff to my ranch. We share a fence line, but with thousands of acres between us, it still takes time to drive between the two properties.

“First stop is Garrett’s.” Jackson says finally, breaking the charged silence as we enter town. “Those soles won’t make it through another winter.”

I glance down at my worn boots. They need resoling, sure, but they’re broken in perfectly for working horses. “I was planning to get them fixed next month.”

“No.” His hand tightens on my thigh. “You need proper boots.”

Garrett’s Western Wear occupies the same brick storefront it has since before I was born. The brass bell above the doorchimes as Jackson guides me inside, his hand possessive at the small of my back. The familiar scent of leather and saddle soap wraps around me, but something feels different. The way old Mr. Garrett’s eyes widen slightly. How his son Tommy straightens behind the counter. The way the air itself seems to still when Jackson Hawkins walks in.

“Mr. Hawkins.” Tommy moves from behind the counter with the careful attention of someone approaching a predator. “What can we do for you today?”

Jackson’s hand is warm through my shirt as he pulls me subtly closer. “Miss Foster needs new boots. An off-the-shelf set of work boots for today, and custom traditionals and stockmans.”

The words are simple, but they carry weight. Everyone in three counties has to know I’m living at his ranch now. They know what that means for our relationship. Cowboys gossip worse than anyone else. Tommy’s eyes flick between us, understanding dawning in his expression.

I start to protest the expense, but Jackson’s hand settles on my shoulder, silencing me.

Tommy gestures toward the fitting area. “If you’ll have a seat, Miss Foster, I’ll get the measuring tools.”

Through the front window, I catch a glimpse of Morgan Drake coming out of the coffee shop across the street. She pauses, her expression unreadable as she takes in the scene through the glass. Our eyes meet for a moment before Jackson’s fingers tighten at my waist. I shake my head once—the last thing I need is for my best friend to get mixed up in this mess. She’s got enough on her plate.

“Sit,” Jackson said, interrupting my silent communication with Morgan. Once again, an order, not a request.

I sit.

Tommy kneels before me with the measuring tools, but his usual easy manner has vanished. Carefully, he takes measurements, his dry, trembling fingers spanning my feet and ankle. Every movement is careful, deliberate, as if he can feel Jackson’s gaze burning into him.

Finally, he leans back on his heels and breathes a sigh of relief, as if he’s grateful for the distance between us. Jackson’s shoulders fall, as if he, too, can relax now that another man’s hands aren’t on me.

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