Page 19 of Leather & Lies

The cotton slides away from my neck. His eyes darken at the marks beneath. “My office. Now.”

“No.” I step back, professional mask perfectly in place. “You want to discuss proper training techniques? Fine. But I’m not leaving until you understand exactly what your people are doing wrong with this horse.”

For three beautiful seconds, I think I’ve won. Then his fingers wrap around my arm, and everything goes sideways.

He doesn’t drag me to his office. The tack room is closer.

The door slams behind us, leather and hay dust filling my lungs. He shoves me against the wall, one hand pinning my wrists above my head. “You want to explain yourself?”

“The feeding schedule is wrong. The exercise program is wrong.” My voice stays steady even as my body betrays me. “‘I’m doing my job.”

His free hand slides up my throat, thumb pressing against the marks he left yesterday. “You undermined my authority in front of my men.” His fingers flex against my throat.

“I saved your fifty-thousand-dollar investment where it needed saving.” I meet his gaze without flinching. “You want a trainer? Let me train.” I press against his grip. “You want a submissive? Choose which matters more.”

“Both,” he growls against my bruised lips, the word vibrating through my bones. “I want both. Everything you are belongs to me.”

His kiss crashes against me—all punishment and possession, and I don’t care because I’ve been craving this, his mouth against mine, affirmation that he wants me as much as I want him, that I’m not the only one trapped in this maelstrom of desire. I bite back, our eternal battle of wills drawing blood and surrender in equal measure.

And god help me, my body responds even as my mind rebels. He doesn’t stop kissing me, just strokes across my lips with his tongue, then plunders me, as if he owns me, claiming my mouth with the same fury and violence with which he claims everything else in his life.

His hand slides from my throat to the wall beside my head, reaching for the training crop hanging there. The leather whispers against wood as he takes it down. The sound sends heat pooling low in my belly despite my fury.

“Strip.” His voice carries that edge that brooks no argument. When I hesitate, the crop cracks against the wall beside my head. “Now.”

My fingers tremble as I unbutton my shirt. Each piece of clothing hits the floor until I’m naked in the cool air, holding onto my anger like armor. The soft swell of my belly draws his heated gaze.

“Hands up.” He takes down a set of training reins, wraps the leather around my wrists, and secures them to a hook above my head. The position leaves me stretched and exposed. Vulnerable. “For every change you made without my permission, you’ll count a stroke.”

The first strike lands across my breasts, sharp and cruel. I grit my teeth against the pain, against the unwanted pleasure building beneath it.

“Count.” The crop traces where he hit. “Or we start over.”

“One.” The word comes out steady. Defiant.

He works his way down my body methodically, each strike calculated to push me higher while denying release. By five, I’m shaking. By ten, I’m wet and aching, fighting back moans.

“Look how your body begs for correction.” His fingers slide between my legs, discovering the evidence my pride can’t hide. “My perfect little hypocrite—fighting me with words while surrendering with everything else.”

I try to press against his hand, desperate for friction, for relief, but he withdraws. The crop traces up my inner thigh, a whispered threat.

“Please—” The word escapes before I can stop it.

“Please what?” He presses the leather against my clit, letting me feel what I could have. “Please let you come? Please forgive your insubordination?”

“Please.” I don’t even know what I’m asking for, what I need.

He steps back, leaving me trembling and unfulfilled. “No.”

The training reins loosen. I stumble as my arms come down, muscles protesting. Before I can recover, he spins me to face the wall, kicks my legs apart.

“You want to make changes on my ranch?” His voice is cruel silk in my ear. “Fine. But you’ll learn there are consequences.”

His belt buckle clinks behind me. I brace against the wall, thinking he’ll finally give me what I need, the oblivion ofhaving pleasure forced upon me. But when I shiver against the cold concrete, something changes. His massive frame shifts, deliberately blocking the draft, and the hand that was bruising my hip gentles unexpectedly. The contrast makes my breath catch—this dangerous man who terrorizes everyone else, suddenly careful with me.

His fingers slide between my legs, finding me embarrassingly wet, but there’s something different in his touch now.

“Tell me why you’re being punished.” His voice is still hard, but his hands betray him—they tremble slightly as they map my skin, like he’s not quite sure how to be gentle but is trying anyway. Just for me.

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