Page 21 of Leather & Lies

“Jackson,” she gasps. Her eyes are wide open. I give her a moment to adjust, fighting every instinct to move, to claim her, to fuck her until we both forget anything but this conflagration burning between us.

Slowly, she relaxes, and when she runs her hands up my sides, then wraps her arms around my shoulders, I bury my face in her neck and inhale her sweet scent, before snapping my hips back and setting a punishing pace. Every stroke is possession, every touch a brand of ownership.

God, I’ve waited for this for so long—not just the weeks of her captivity, but years of stalking her, watching her, tightening the trap.

“Mine,” I growl against her throat, where yesterday’s marks are darkening. “My ranch. My rules.”

“Your ranch.” She arches, taking me deeper, ever defiant, her fingers claw against my skin, leaving marks on my neck. “But I know what the fuck I’m doing with your horses. You have to fucking trust me, Jackson.”

I thrust again, shoving her up against the wall, and she cries out, her grip tightening.

“Yes,” she gasps. “Oh my god, yes.” I fuck her hard until she cries out my name, clenching and fluttering around me as she climaxes. It’s too much—no, it’s not enough. I want to throw her to the ground and take her for hours, prove to both of us who’s really in charge. Instead, I come inside her, murmuring her name against the delicate skin of her throat, painting her insides with my come.

Fuck. No condom.

Reluctantly, I pull out of her, both of us breathing hard. I suspect she’s as stunned by the explosive force of our coupling as I am.

“Goddamn you,” I swear at her, running a hand up her back, her skin hot beneath mine. “I didn’t mean?—”

I don’t owe her an explanation for anything, especially not an explanation that included the fact that I’d meant to take her in a bed, had been heightening the tension for the last few days so the payoff would be worth it for both of us.

Goddamn her for making me wish I were a better man.

Shiloh says nothing. She dresses with efficient movements, tucking that professional mask back into place. Only the marks on her neck and the slight tremor in her hands betray what happened here.

“I’m negative,” she murmurs. “It’s been a long time since I’ve—” She stops abruptly. “And I’ve got an IUD. The Friesian needs attention.” Her voice is perfectly steady as she reties her bandana. “Unless you plan to sabotage your own investment?”

She doesn’t ask me ifI’mclean, doesn’t say anything else. She’s gone before I can respond, the door closing with quiet finality. Through the window, I watch her walk to the stalls. Back straight. Head high. Every inch a professional.

I walk outside of the office to find Miguel explaining Shiloh’s methods to the ranch hands. The Friesian’s ears are forward, head lowered—textbook signs of trust-building.

“Implement all of her recommendations.” I don’t look at Miguel as I give the order. “Effective immediately.”

I dismiss him with a gesture, attention fixed on the app on my phone I use to monitor her. She’s in the round pen now, that fluid grace on display as she works with a difficult mare. Every movement precise. Professional. Perfect.

My phone buzzes—another report on her father’s debts. Three more creditors crawling out of the woodwork, each one a new chain to bind her to me.

On screen, the mare follows her like a dream, responding to cues so subtle they’re almost invisible. My hellcat. My obsession. My most valuable possession, whether she admits it or not.

I touch the screen where her image moves, the gesture almost gentle. Almost reverent.

I’ll own every piece of her. Her body. Her submission. Her expertise. Everything she is or will be.

And I’ll be damned if I let her forget who she belongs to.

9

Shiloh

The ceiling fan’sshadows dance across unfamiliar crown molding, each rotation matching the throb between my thighs where Jackson left his marks earlier that day. His guest room is too quiet, too perfect—like everything else in his controlled world. No creaking floorboards, no whistling wind through worn window frames. Just the whisper of expensive air conditioning and the weight of knowing he’s down the hall.

I can feel him there, a predator’s presence that makes my skin prickle even through walls and distance.

He hadn’t come looking for me when I failed to go to his bed tonight. I stroke my fingers over the bruises on my neck, my hips. He’d fucked me hard earlier, then let me walk out of the tack room as if nothing had happened, and somehow, that hurt more than the contract itself.

My phone glows through its cracked screen. 2:37 AM. No new messages from my contacts, from Walsh, about Daddy’s other debts, the ones Jackson doesn’t know about. Yet. My fingers itch to check my email again, but it won’t change anything. The walls of this gilded cage press in, each red light on the security cameras a reminder of my captivity. Of my choice to be here.

When I swing my legs over the edge of the bed, the bruise on my hip throbs. Beneath my oversized T-shirt, my skin remembers everywhere he touched, claimed, marked as his. Heat floods my cheeks—shame tangled with something darker, hungrier. Something I don’t want to name.

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