Page 4 of Leather & Lies

“A year of your life. Your submission. Your obedience.”Training my horses, living in my house, sharing my bed.Each requirement lands like a blow, but she doesn’t crumple. Of course she doesn’t. I’ve watched her take kicks from thousand-pound stallions without flinching. “Give me that, and I’ll give you back your legacy. Refuse?” I ease back just enough to let her turn and face me. “And you’ll watch it burn.”

The fury in her eyes is familiar—I saw it three months ago when she caught me studying her at the Cattlemen's Ball, just before her father passed. She’d been wearing blue silk that night instead of dusty denim, but that defiant lift of her chin was the same. I’d imagined backing her against the coat check counter,hiking up that elegant dress, and showing her exactly what that defiance did to me.

“You’re insane,” she breathes, but there’s a tremor in her voice that wasn’t there before. “I would never?—”

“You already are.” I catch her wrist as she moves to shove past me, using her momentum to spin her back against the table. The motion knocks several documents to the floor—her father’s sins scattered at our feet.

She thrashes, frantic, a wild thing caught in my trap.

“I’ve learned a lot from watching you over the years,” I murmur against her ear. “About breaking strong-willed creatures. About knowing when to push—” I tighten my grip on her wrist. “And when to ease back.” I gentle my hold, stroking my thumb over her thundering pulse.

“You’re the devil,” she snarls.

“No.” I smile, letting her see the predator beneath the polish. “I’m a businessman. And you, Shiloh Foster, are a debt I intend to collect. One way or another.”

“You can’t—” Her voice breaks.

Shiloh’s nails dig into my forearm as I slide my hand up her throat, feeling her pulse race beneath my palm. “Your father’s pride cost him everything,” I murmur against her ear. “But you’re smarter than he was. You understand what’s at stake here.” My grip tightens slightly on the sides of her neck. “And right now? Your pride is the only thing standing between you and salvation.”

“My pride is all I have left.” Her voice is breathy as she fights her arousal.

“You’ll give me that, too.”

Her head falls back against my shoulder, exposing more of her throat to my hand. Just like that filly I watched her train last spring, fighting the bit even as she yielded to pressure.

I press my advantage, my free hand sliding lower. “Come on, little hellcat. Show me those claws.” I grind my palm against her through her jeans until she shudders. “Fight me like you fought that stallion at the Henderson auction. The one everyone said was too dangerous to salvage.”

I’ve watched her date—boys who couldn’t give her what she wants, what she needs—listened to her as she cried in her shower, frustrated and unsatisfied. Shiloh Foster is desperate to submit, and I’m going to prove it to her.

“Please don’t,” she whimpers, but her hips betray her, seeking my touch. Her gasp of shame when she realizes what her body is doing is the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard.

“Your body gives you away, Shiloh. The way you’re breathing. The flush on your skin.” I press closer, so my hard cock presses into her back through the layers of her clothes, showing her exactly what she does to me. “You want this as much as you hate it.”

The button to her jeans gives way under my fingers. I slide them down her soft stomach and delve into her panties until I reach her wet heat. “Beg me all you want, but we both know how this ends.”

When I work my fingers inside her, she’s impossibly tight, soaking wet despite her fury—or because of it. I’ve imagined this moment in a hundred different ways, but nothing compares to the reality of her trembling against me, fighting pleasure as stubbornly as she’s fighting my takeover of her ranch.

I establish a fast rhythm, my fingers curling inside her as my palm grinds against her clit. “Your father was a fool, Shiloh. But you? You’re something else entirely.” I press closer, letting her feel what she does to me. “Tell me, do you fight everything that makes you weak? Or just the things that make you wet?”

Every gasp, every shudder is mine now, not just something I observe from afar. I keep my grip firm on her throat but nolonger threatening. Like gentling a wild mare, knowing when to ease the pressure.

And then, with calculated cruelty, I withdraw my hand completely. She cries out at the sudden emptiness—a raw, broken sound that echoes through the conference room.

Her eyes snap open, dazed and unfocused. For one suspended moment, she doesn’t understand what’s happening, her body still chasing the release I’ve just stolen from her.

“No—” she gasps, the word half-plea, half-protest. She tries to straighten, to turn and face me, but her legs tremble too badly to fully support her weight.

I step back and bring my fingers to my lips, making eye contact as I taste her, a primal gesture of possession that makes her eyes widen in shock. Her face flushes crimson as the reality of her position crashes down on her—leaning over my conference table, jeans undone, trembling with need she never meant to reveal, as I relish the evidence of her desire.

“Satisfaction is earned, Shiloh.” I savor her taste on my fingers. “And you haven’t earned anything yet.”

The devastation on her face is magnificent—that perfect moment when humiliation and desire crash together, leaving wreckage in their wake.

“Asshole,” she whispers, the word catching in her throat.

“You have two days.” I tug on my cuffs with deliberate calm.

When she finally straightens and fixes her clothing, her expression is blank, shuttered. But I know better. For years I’ve studied every microexpression that crosses her face. The slight quiver in her lower lip, the way her hands keep making and unmaking tight fists—she’s rattled to her core.

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