Page 15 of Leather & Lies

“No,” Jackson’s voice drops to a register where promises become treats. “But harm could certainly be arranged.”

The words carry weight far beyond their simple meaning. Walsh clenches his fists at his side, but he’s not dumb enough to pick a fight with Jackson Hawkins. He presses his lips together then spins on his heel, storming out of the diner.

Jackson doesn’t remove his hand from my back until we’re seated in our corner booth again. I’m tempted to pull out my phone and fidget, until Jackson slides his hand up to the nape of my neck and gently massages the skin there. He doesn’t ask me any questions about Walsh, doesn’t say anything, in fact, just quietly works the muscles in my neck until I relax against him.

He grunts, then gently scratches my scalp before removing his hand just in time for Emma to bring our plates.

We eat in silence, but Jackson’s thigh presses into mine—it should feel controlling, suffocating, like it had when we walked in. Instead, it’s comforting, as if he’s put his body between me and everything that might harm me.

The drive home is just as silent, charged with everything we aren’t saying. Jackson keeps one hand on my thigh, just above my knee. Each brush of his thumb against my denim-clad skin makes my breath catch. I stare straight ahead, pretending not to notice how his fingers creep higher with every mile.

By the time we pass the Miller place, his hand has inched halfway up my thigh. The expensive denim suddenly feels too tight, too warm. His thumb traces lazy circles that send sparks of electricity straight to my core. I shift in my seat, trying to ease the ache building between my legs.

“Sit still.” His voice is gravel and sin, but his hand slides higher. Just shy of where I need him. When I bite my lip to keepfrom whimpering, his fingers tighten. “Or don’t. Keep squirming for me, hellcat.”

The last five miles are torture. He never quite touches me where I want, just keeps up that maddening pattern with his thumb while his fingers tease the inseam of my jeans. By the time he pulls up to the house, I’m ready to combust.

He kills the engine, then hops out of the truck.

I open my door with trembling fingers, but before I can step away from the truck, he’s there. He spins me to face him, caging me against the frame with his body. One hand fists in my hair as he claims my mouth, the kiss brutal and possessive. His thigh shoves between my legs, the hard muscle pressing exactly where I need it.

“This is mine.” He forces my hips to rock against his thigh, orchestrating my pleasure like he does everything else in his kingdom. “No matter what Walsh—or anyone else—thinks.” His teeth brand my throat, claiming territory already conquered. “Say it, hellcat. Tell me who owns this body.”

“Fuck you,” I gasp, the words torn between defiance and desperate plea, independence warring with need that burns me alive.

He pulls away from me suddenly, then rips open my shirt, sending the buttons flying. I squeak with surprise, and my hands fly up to cover my chest, but he’s already shoving the fabric down my arm, revealing the marks on my bicep that are turning yellow and green.

Gently, more gently than I’d ever imagined possible from this cruel monster of a man, he runs his fingers over them. “I don’t tolerate threats,” he snarls. “Not to you, not to fucking anyone that’s mine to protect.”

My eyes shoot to his, cold as winter in the mountains, and I remember the rumors about him and Victoria Reeves.

“He’s not a threat. Just an old man who’s desperate and broke,” I say, pulling up the remnants of my shirt to cover myself, shivering against the cool fall breeze.

Jackson’s eyes return to my face, not straying once to my breasts as I pull the fabric tight over them. He searches my eyes, then visibly relaxes, leaning back over me with one hand on the frame of the truck, the other gently playing with the collar of my now ruined shirt.

“When you were desperate and broke,” he asks, voice frighteningly gentle, “did you put your hands on someone half your size who couldn’t fight back?”

“I’m still desperate and broke.” I’m mesmerized by the darkness swirling in his eyes.

“And yet you don’t prey on the vulnerable.” His thumb traces my lower lip like he’s memorizing its shape. “Some men deserve to be broken, hellcat. And I’m just the monster to do the job.”

He cups my cheek, the calluses rough against my skin, and I wonder if there’s more to this than his need to protect his possessions, jealousy that someone else dared play with his toy. Slowly, as we stand there, staring at each other, the mood softens, like the brightness of the sun coming out after a sudden storm.

Finally, he backs away, giving me space to breathe, and I could swear his suntanned cheeks tinge with pink when he attempts to straighten my shirt, as if he could undo the damage caused by his fury a few moments before.

“Go change,” he says softly. “Before the sight of those bruises drives me to violence I’ll regret.”

“Jackson—”

“Fucking go,” he snaps.

I go.

6

Jackson

The wallof screens bathes my office in a cold blue glow, each monitor displaying a different angle of my stables. Hundreds of thousands of dollars of surveillance equipment, and every camera is fixed on one woman, as they have been for the past six years. My hellcat. My obsession. Every day I wait to fuck her, the anticipation builds for the both of us.

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