Page 27 of Leather & Lies

I move behind her, close enough that she’ll feel my arousal pressing against her. My hands settle on her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh hard enough to bruise. She stiffens, but doesn’t pull away.

“A goddamn week,” I murmur against her ear, letting her feel the edge of my teeth. “A goddamn week I’ve had you in my bed, and you still pretend you don’t want this.” My hand slides up to curl around her throat—not squeezing, just resting there as a reminder of my control. “You’re such a beautiful fucking liar. I’ve heard you touch yourself in the shower, relieving the ache when you thought I wasn’t around.” I’d watched her through my cameras, but she’d never know that.

Her breathing quickens, her pulse racing beneath my fingers. The scent of her arousal mingles with woodsmoke, driving me half mad with the need to bend her over right here.

Instead, I release her and step back. “You should get some rest,” I say, surprising myself with the suggestion. “It’s been a long day.”

The sudden withdrawal of contact makes her sway slightly. She studies me in the firelight, clearly searching for the trap in my words. When she finds none, something unsettlingly close to gratitude flickers in her eyes, warring with the frustrated desire I’ve deliberately stoked.

“Goodnight, Jackson.” Her voice is husky, betraying how affected she is.

I watch her walk toward the house, her steps unsteady in a way that has nothing to do with exhaustion. My cock throbspainfully, demanding I follow her, pin her to the nearest surface, and finally take what I’ve been denied these past days. The urge to assert complete control claws at my chest with physical pain.

But I remain by the fire, every muscle rigid with the effort of restraint. The waiting is part of my control—of her, of myself. I will have her begging before I finally claim her completely.

And yet something about tonight has shifted the ground beneath us. Letting her see those pieces of my past. Allowing my men to speak freely about our history. Giving her space now, when every instinct screams to take, to possess, to own. These aren’t the actions of a man maintaining absolute control. They are the actions of a man who?—

I cut the thought off before it can fully form. Whatever this is becoming between us, it isn’t softness. Can’t be. I’ve spent too many years building walls around everything I value to start creating doors now, just because one stubborn woman has gotten under my skin.

The memory of her expression when Miguel sought her professional opinion, the way she relaxed beside me as the evening wore on, the hunger in her eyes when I touched her throat—these images refuse to fade as I stare into the dying embers. I want her surrender, yes. But I find myself wanting her trust even more.

I look down at my hands, at the calluses built from years of ranch work despite my wealth. These same hands have gripped her throat, marked her skin, forced her submission. They’ve also prepared her food, steadied her when she stumbled, traced the curve of her cheek in unguarded moments. And soon, they’ll claim every inch of her body, take what I’ve been denying us both.

I adjust my aching cock as the fire died, leaving only embers in the dark.

Until then, we both suffer.

11

Shiloh

I wake with a start,momentarily disoriented by the weight of Jackson’s arm around my waist. My body has curled into his while sleeping, seeking his warmth like he’s safety rather than danger.

The realization sends ice through my veins. This is how it happens—this slow erosion of resistance. This gradual acceptance of captivity. Stockholm syndrome wrapped in five-hundred-thread-count sheets.

I carefully extract myself from his grip, padding to the bathroom on silent feet. The woman in the mirror is a stranger—cheeks flushed, lips swollen, eyes bright despite everything. She looks happy.

I grip the counter until my knuckles whiten. No. I won’t become that woman, grateful for scraps of affection from her captor. I won’t forget what brought me here.

But when I slip back into bed and his arm automatically reclaims me, I can’t stop myself from relaxing into his embrace. Just until morning, I tell myself. Yet the lie tastes bitter, even in my own mind.

Hours later,the sun streams through the kitchen windows as I drink the coffee that waits for me every morning when I come downstairs. Jackson has been watching me for the past ten minutes, his eyes tracking my movements with that predatory focus that still sends shivers down my spine.

“I need to ask you something,” I say, keeping my voice steady.

His eyebrow lifts slightly. “Ask.”

“Morgan Drake invited me to lunch today. At noon. I’d like to go.” The words come out more boldly than I feel.

Jackson’s jaw tightens, and I brace for his refusal. But then he surprises me.

“I’ll drive you.”

It’s not a request, and it’s certainly not freedom, but it’s something. My heart races at the prospect of seeing familiar faces, breathing air that isn’t tinged with his presence.

“Thank you,” I say, the words feeling strange on my tongue. Thanking him for a basic freedom I once took for granted.

“Be ready in an hour.” He watches me, his gaze intense and hot, as I walk back up the stairs to get ready.

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