Page 25 of Leather & Lies

I flee before he can see how badly I’m shaking, before he can smell the arousal that soaks my thighs. But even as I climb the stairs to my borrowed room, I know everything has changed.

He sees me. All of me. And god help me, I’m starting to see him, too.

10

Jackson

Coals glow redbeneath the grate as I arrange the steaks for a half a dozen live-in ranch hands, and the dozen who live in town. Each steak is from the ranch, cut and seasoned with the same exacting standards I demand of everything in my domain.

Beyond my property, the setting sun paints the mountains in deep golds and violets, a view I’ve paid for in blood and sweat. Worth it, especially on evenings like this when the air carries just enough chill to make the heat of the grill welcome against my skin.

A week since I’ve brought Shiloh to my bed. A week of having her sleep beside me while I maintain enough control to not take her again. The waiting has become its own form of exquisite torture—one I inflict on us both. I want her desperate, aching, ready to surrender. And I’ve felt her trembling beneath my hands each night, felt how close she is to begging me to end this torment.

Movement in the kitchen window catches my eye. Shiloh stands at the counter, her sun-lightened hair falling loose around her shoulders as she arranges vegetables on a cutting board. My chest tightens at the sight—her in my space, movingwith that easy grace that first caught my attention years ago. But something about the scene feels wrong.

I leave Miguel to watch the grill and stride toward the house, my boots thudding softly on the flagstone path. Shiloh doesn’t look up as I enter through the rear mudroom, her focus entirely on the knife in her hands as she slices tomatoes.

“What are you doing?” I keep my voice neutral, though the sight of her preparing food for my men sends an unexpected surge of possessiveness through my blood.

She glances up, wariness flickering in her eyes before she masks it. “Making a salad.” Her chin lifts slightly. “Even cowboys need greens once in a while.”

I move behind her, close enough to feel her heat without touching. Her body tenses, but she doesn’t step away. Progress. I reach around her to take the knife, my fingers brushing hers in the process. The contact sends heat surging through my veins.

“I didn’t bring you here to serve my men, hellcat.” I set the knife aside, turning her to face me, deliberately pressing her back against the counter. The length of my body cages her, close enough that she’ll feel the evidence of how much I want her. “That’s not your place.”

Her breath catches, pupils dilating as I lean closer. Confusion crosses her features, followed by that spark of defiance I’ve grown addicted to—and beneath it, an unmistakable hunger that matches my own. “Then what exactly is my place, Jackson? Since you’ve made it abundantly clear I’m not leaving.”

“Your place,” I say, voice dropping to the register that always makes her shiver, “is wherever I want you.” I trace my thumb along her lower lip, feeling her breath catch as I press just hard enough to feel the soft inner flesh. “In my bed. Under my hands. On your knees.” I lean closer, my lips brushing her ear. “And right now, I want you beside me where everyone can see exactly who you belong to. Keep me company while I feed these men.”

Her pulse jumps wildly at the base of her throat, and I have to physically restrain myself from marking her right there in the kitchen.

She follows me back outside without argument, her cheeks flushed with anger or desire—or both. I position her near the grill, then change my mind and tug her close enough that my hand can rest at the small of her back. As the men gather around the picnic tables Miguel set up earlier, the casual possessiveness of the gesture isn’t lost on any of them.

Good. Let them see. Let them understand who she belongs to.

This weekly cookout is one of the few traditions I’ve maintained since the early days. Miguel approaches, handing me a beer.

“Don’t think I ever told you, Shiloh,” Miguel says, nodding toward the grill, “but the boss here gave me one hell of a shock my first week working this land.”

Shiloh raises an eyebrow, her attention caught despite herself. “How’s that?”

Miguel chuckles, taking a pull from his bottle. “Shows up at the bunkhouse after that whole mess with old Patterson?—”

“After Patterson conveniently found himself unable to meet certain obligations,” I interject, my tone making it clear that topic isn’t up for discussion.

Miguel clears his throat. “Anyway, here’s this boy who’d clawed his way up from nothing, already had a reputation for flipping failed ranches, but still wearing those first-purchase boots he wouldn’t replace?—”

“They were broken in,” I say, turning a steak. “Worth more than sentimentality.”

“Worth shit for Montana winters,” Miguel counters. “Point is, he announces he’s cooking for the whole crew. We figured itwas some power play, show the new boss throwing his weight around.”

“Wasn’t just a power play,” I admit, surprising myself. “Got the place for a steal, but it cleaned me out. Couldn’t afford a cook yet and wasn’t about to let anyone blame shoddy work on me not being able to provide.”

“But he could’ve ordered pizza,” Miguel tells Shiloh. “Instead, he’s out there with his second-hand grill he hauled from the last ranch he flipped, cooking steaks he’d personally butchered.”

“While living in the foreman’s cabin,” I add, remembering those lean first months. “The house was falling apart. Needed a complete renovation.”

“And the next morning you were still out there digging post holes with us,” Miguel adds. Affection grows in my chest for this man who’d served in place of an older brother. He might have his doubts about how I treat Shiloh, but he’s helping in his own way.

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